Two Children, Mount Rushmore and 5000 Harleys

On a warm August day my family headed west to explore the sites along Interstate 90 in South Dakota. With the combination of Mount Rushmore and the "old west" town of Deadwood, we were looking forward to an eventful summer vacation. Unbeknownst to us, we got more than we bargained for.

"Hey Mom, look at the cool motorcycles," my ten-year-old son exclaimed as we passed two shiny Harley-Davidson bikes. More followed. Even more followed. It wasn't until a group of black leather-clad men with "Hells Angels New York" on their jackets zoomed by that my husband and I realized something was up. At the next gas stop we found out what. We were headed in the same direction as the thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts who visit Sturgis every year. Our quiet family vacation had suddenly been invaded by multitudes of motorcycles.

As we viewed the landscape, we also enjoyed watching the unique array of bikes and bikers as they passed us on the highway. Some had sissy bars, others had big padded seats with studded saddlebags and others sported sidecars. Handlebars were long and short. Many had stuffed animals, everything from teddy bears to Taz, strapped on the back. Some bikes had names painted on their sides or back. One boasted a roof, in case of rain. Each and every bike had its own signature that set it apart for the others. All bikes carried leather-and-bandanna-wearing riders, sporting everything from leather pants to leather bikinis. Riders were young teens to senior citizens, bleached blondes to silver gray, making their way to the biggest motorcycle party of the year.

We had difficulty finding a hotel room that first night, but we did not despair. In my naiveté I believed that these "tough" bikers would forego the usual tourist sites for the party awaiting them. I was dead wrong!

As we pulled into the town of Wall, home of the famous Wall Drug, we found the streets lined with bikes. After finding a parking space we spent two hours squeezing our family through the crowds of leather, beer bellies, beards and ponytails to visit the shops and sites. Wall's stores had been expecting their special tourists because trinkets, t-shirts and just about anything else you can imagine were imprinted Harley-Davidson. Later, as we pulled out of town, an older biker on his custom three-wheel cycle with a bandanna-wearing Snoopy strapped to the sissy bar honked and waved to our kids. We headed west to Mount Rushmore with more bikers on our tail.

Now, I've visited this national monument several times in my life, but never have I seen the site that lay before us that afternoon. The parking lot, usually half-full of mini-vans and SUV's, was overflowing with motorcycles; hundreds and hundreds of motorcycles. There were so many cycles that the park rangers were directing traffic and bikes were even parked on the surrounding lawns. Once again feeling like the last family on earth in some futuristic movie we squeezed through the crowds to view the four presidents. The monument seemed dull compared to the crowd looking up at it.

As we headed to Deadwood we were no longer surprised to find motorcycles following us. We pulled into town with the idea of visiting the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok, Deadwood's most famous characters, and perhaps catching a glimpse inside some of the old saloons. But when we went to the visitor's center for a map and directions it was the sight in the parking lot that amazed us. "Five-thousand Harleys," the representative at the visitor's center said proudly. The bikers were on a "poker run" and all had checked in. Lined side by side gleaming in the afternoon sun stood five-thousand motorcycles. We made sure to capture this Kodak moment on film.

After paying our respects to Hickok and Calamity we, along with throngs of bikers, headed downtown to visit the Midnight Star Casino owned by actor Kevin Costner. We wanted to view the many movie costumes he had on display there. Our favorite, from the movie Robin Hood, was placed high above the mantle of an enormous fireplace under which a group of bikers were gathered around a table. As we - the only people there interested in the costumes, not the beer - pushed closer for a better view, the bikers stared at us strangely. "Sorry," I said, realizing we were pushing into their space and not wanting to start a barroom brawl. A large, bearded man at the table stared up at the object of our interest. Looking back at us with a wide smile he said, "Cool costume, huh?", then returned to his mug. As we left Deadwood I couldn't help but think that Calamity and Hickok would have approved of these motorcycle renegades invading their town.

Once out of Deadwood and heading further west the motorcycles became fewer and fewer. We passed bikers coming from the west, but the run for hotels lessened and we continued on to enjoy our vacation. We came away from our South Dakota experience with much more than a history of presidents and gunslingers. We experienced an entirely different culture. We learned that bikers are not as they appear. Sure, the leather and bandannas, long beards and tattoos may look intimidating but we never had one bit of trouble with our biker companions. The bikers smiled and said hello in passing, held doors open, said "excuse me" when they bumped into us. On the road, bikers waved and honked at our children in passing. No one sneered at our van or laughed at our family vacation. The bikers were like us, on vacation and enjoying themselves.

Of all the memories we have of those few days one stands out the most, reminding us that life truly has no boundaries. While sitting at a gas station my children and I watched two young bikers come out of the adjoining restaurant. The first man walked out and hopped onto his cycle. The second followed in a small wheelchair. He lifted himself out or the chair and onto his bike, folded up the wheelchair and placed it in the attached side-car. After strapping his legs to the footholds, he and his companion rode off. "Wow!" both children said, amazed. They were right, "Wow!"