We’re Going to Mount Rushmore!
While my Bike Week in Daytona was spent inside a single dark bar, Bike Week in Sturgis, South Dakota was the complete opposite. We were outside every moment of every day for an entire week.
We stayed at a place called the Buffalo Chip Campground. Larry and I slept outside on the ground in a dusty sleeping bag next to our broken pup tent. Other than one nighttime storm that sent us frantically crawling under cover and hoping we didn’t suffocate, we slept until the sun got too hot to allow for sleep any longer. And passing out at night was the easiest it’s ever been – I just had to make sure I was somewhere in the vicinity of the blob of tent.
Our campground was stellar in only one way: it was the biggest biker party in the entire state, maybe the entire country. And we never had to leave the campground. Music started sometime in the late morning and went until well past midnight – not boomboxes and karaoke, but enormous stages with rock bands playing non-stop morning till night, every night.
And throughout the campground were vendors selling beer, gear, food, tattoos, and anything a biker might want during a seven-day stay in South Dakota. I don’t remember eating, though I’m sure I did. I drank morning, noon and night.
I don’t remember ever being without a beer in my hand, with one notable exception. One day, I rolled over in the dust when Larry said, “We gotta fuckin’ go! Let’s go!” He was usually up before me but on this day, it was barely daylight and he was already clamoring to move.
“I don’t wanna fuckin’ go anywhere,” I slurred, barely opening my eyes.
“We’re going to Mount Rushmore!” he said. “The bikes are already lining up! Let’s go!”
Mount Rushmore, I thought. I will never, ever have this chance again.
“Okay,” I said. I rolled over and thrust out my arm to pull my cigarettes from under my helmet. I lit one, left it hanging out of my mouth while I pulled on my boots, and stood up.
The world spun. Dry-mouthed and filthy, I stumbled toward the port-o-johns that were scattered throughout the campground.
This, by far, was the worst thing about the Buffalo Chip Campground.
There were no cleaning crews at the campground, and bikers weren’t known for their careful urination and defecation. Those port-o-johns were the most disgusting things I have ever encountered in my entire life, and that includes the wet market I visited 30 years later in China.
Somehow I emerged without incident and Larry tossed me a Diet Coke. He was already revving the engine. Sleeping bodies on the ground didn’t even flinch; engines roared day and night.
I hopped on the back and fastened my helmet.
The ride to Mount Rushmore was spectacular – gorgeous, winding roads that went on forever. I’d never seen so much of the west and I loved it. The ride back, too, was breathtaking.
I wasn’t as enamored with the destination. Seeing Mount Rushmore was a disappointment. I’d been so excited to walk on the four presidents’ heads, touch the statues I’d seen in the pictures – but that’s not how it’s done. The visitor center sits quite far from the presidents, and there is no climbing allowed – even if we could have figured out how to get over there. It looked like the pictures from my history books, which didn’t impress me.
Reality regularly let me down.
Fortunately we were back in time for lunch and more beer, and substantially more partying.