The journey to Hill City was through some deliciously beautiful countryside of the Black Hills, through such famous towns as Lead, Silver City and Deadwood. We traveled, again, through high-walled canyons and majestic rock formations. However, this was the beginning of Sturgis Week. Sturgis is a rival to Daytona and an American equivalent of the Isle of Man week. Bikes swarmed around us like bees around an unwanted visitor to their hive. They traveled in groups, anything from 2 – 20 and sported the same black leather uniforms and lack of helmets. Deadwood, made famous by the stagecoach, was full of posse after posse of bike rider. One car park alone, only contained bikes and there must have been 200 of them, chrome and leather highly polished, lined up. Some were three wheelers, some were enclosed, some were choppers but all were ridden with pride.
One of the signposts we passed was called Crazy Woman Creek Road. I guess we can all nominate someone who should live there and, if we are honest, should expect the male version to be at least twice as long.
This was second to Frisco as our most expensive stay and in truth, there were some glorious facilities at the site including two pools, horse-riding, horse shoe pit, cook tent, water cushion and slide and more. I have a personal problem with sites like this as I feel that I have to get my money’s worth by using each and everyone of them. I guess it is linked to my frugal upbringing. I can remember, in the after Christmas sale, my mother buying a crate of Christmas puddings and we dutifully ate one each Sunday with our lunch until they ran out just before the next Christmas, when we had rice pudding.
We chose the site because it was the closest to Mount Rushmore and it offered a shuttle to the monument; a mixed blessing as I will explain a little later. The site was full of bandana-wearing bikers and gleaming motorbikes were an accessory to each pitch. At the bottom end were bikes and tents whilst at the top end were RV’s with garages for their bikes. All were part of the annual pilgrimage to Sturgis. I read that the population of South Dakota is 700,000 and that an additional 500,000 visitors, many of them bikers, come to visit.
I chatted with two couples opposite who owned Kawasakis. They told me that the Japanese bikes were becoming more acceptable in the States although, every American’s dream was to own a Harley. Their bikes were 1500cc big and they were quick to say that the 2 litre bike had arrived.
Jules, Dan and I did use some of the facilities; we went on a trail ride. My horse was a gentle brown stallion called Pat. He rode, sandwiched between his other two identical brothers. Initially, fearful; my last ride had been on a horse too difficult for me to control, Pat soon showed me that he could tolerate my rusty riding skills. We rode in a line through woodland and, being at the end of the line, I ate every one else’ dust. After one and a half hours, I returned back the others a little bow-legged.
That evening we took the shuttle to see the Rushmore Monument. We left a little after 7, in the rain and didn’t return till after 10pm. It was a mistake. Undoubtedly the monument is inspirational in its creation, but an hour in the museum and with the monument would have sufficed. What we got was a jingoistic presentation of the country led, sermon-like, by one of the Park Rangers. I do admire the patriotism exhibited by the Americans but I found the presentations obsessively chauvinistic.
One of the signposts we passed was called Crazy Woman Creek Road. I guess we can all nominate someone who should live there and, if we are honest, should expect the male version to be at least twice as long.
This was second to Frisco as our most expensive stay and in truth, there were some glorious facilities at the site including two pools, horse-riding, horse shoe pit, cook tent, water cushion and slide and more. I have a personal problem with sites like this as I feel that I have to get my money’s worth by using each and everyone of them. I guess it is linked to my frugal upbringing. I can remember, in the after Christmas sale, my mother buying a crate of Christmas puddings and we dutifully ate one each Sunday with our lunch until they ran out just before the next Christmas, when we had rice pudding.
We chose the site because it was the closest to Mount Rushmore and it offered a shuttle to the monument; a mixed blessing as I will explain a little later. The site was full of bandana-wearing bikers and gleaming motorbikes were an accessory to each pitch. At the bottom end were bikes and tents whilst at the top end were RV’s with garages for their bikes. All were part of the annual pilgrimage to Sturgis. I read that the population of South Dakota is 700,000 and that an additional 500,000 visitors, many of them bikers, come to visit.
I chatted with two couples opposite who owned Kawasakis. They told me that the Japanese bikes were becoming more acceptable in the States although, every American’s dream was to own a Harley. Their bikes were 1500cc big and they were quick to say that the 2 litre bike had arrived.
Jules, Dan and I did use some of the facilities; we went on a trail ride. My horse was a gentle brown stallion called Pat. He rode, sandwiched between his other two identical brothers. Initially, fearful; my last ride had been on a horse too difficult for me to control, Pat soon showed me that he could tolerate my rusty riding skills. We rode in a line through woodland and, being at the end of the line, I ate every one else’ dust. After one and a half hours, I returned back the others a little bow-legged.
That evening we took the shuttle to see the Rushmore Monument. We left a little after 7, in the rain and didn’t return till after 10pm. It was a mistake. Undoubtedly the monument is inspirational in its creation, but an hour in the museum and with the monument would have sufficed. What we got was a jingoistic presentation of the country led, sermon-like, by one of the Park Rangers. I do admire the patriotism exhibited by the Americans but I found the presentations obsessively chauvinistic.
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