Bikers and Bears and Borglum, Oh My

Custer, South Dakota
Playing poker in Deadwood with the owner of the casino and a rotating cast of bikers – life doesn’t get more interesting than this. It’s Bike Week in Sturgis, South Dakota, and cyclers swarm all over the Black Hills like ants on a child’s fallen ice cream cone. A light rain is falling, and the smell of wet leather chaps almost overpowers the scent of millions of Ponderosa Pines. It’s hard to determine if that’s thunder rumbling in the distance or thousands of choppers exiting I-90. There’s an estimated 550,000 bikers in the towns of Rapid City, Deadwood, Custer, Sturgis, and the area surrounding Mt. Rushmore, and it’s funny to watch these grizzly looking men and their old ladies gawk like Japanese tourists at the sight of four massive historical figures carved into the side of a mountain. It’s spring break sponsored by Harley Davidson and Jack Daniels, and most of the girls going wild probably have grandkids.

I know I’ve been bad at keeping you, the faithful reader, current on my travels, and since my last meaty post I’ve been in Chicago, through Wisconsin, up and down Minnesota, and across South Dakota. Chicago is a great city, and I wish I had a dollar for every person I’ve met who has gushed at the mere mention of its name. I had no idea Chicago was so beloved by travelers all across the country, and after three days there I can see why. It’s a beautiful combination of New York and San Francisco – there’s fantastic architecture, a picturesque waterfront, culture at every turn, and it’s not so choked with people like the Big Apple. Millennium Park was viewed as a costly nightmare while being built, but the thousands of people enjoying the gardens, outdoor amphitheater, unique sculptures, and water features seems to indicate it was worth every over-budget cent. The oppressive heat was definitely a hindrance to being able to fully enjoy the windy city, but I saw enough to feel like I got a feel for the place.

As for pizza, my dad and I have been on a worldwide search for the best of the best ever since we ate a magical pie in Germany when I was a child. Since then, every place has to measure up (even though I’ve long since forgotten what it was that made it so great), and while theme of this trip is “The Search for Myself,” the sub-title could easily be “The Search for the Best Pizza.” So far Tacconelli’s in Philly has been the hands down champ, besting such venerable favorites as Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn and Domino’s in Manhattan (seriously, when I asked the doorman of the building where I was staying where the best pizza was, he said “Domino’s.” Thinking he meant a small mom and pop’s with the same name as the sub-par megachain, I followed his directions to end up at the bright red, white, and blue sign we all know as a symbol for mediocrity in the pizza world. I did not speak to this doorman for the rest of the trip).

Now, I’m partial to the thin crust variety, but I don’t discriminate, and if you say you’ve got the best pie I’ll give it a try. The pizza wars between Chicago and New York are legendary, each claiming they’ve got the best and most authentic variety, each serving up a version so different from each other you wonder how they can both lay claim to the same word. Chicago pizza really is a pie, taking at least half an hour to bake and served in thick, cake-like slices. I’ve had Chicago style versions on the West Coast and I’ve never been too impressed, so I wanted to make sure I had the best of the best of what Chicago had to offer. This meant a trip to Pizzeria Uno, which on a Friday night meant waiting an hour and twenty minutes for the thing to be cooked. I was staying with one of my best friends from High School, Nate, and his wife Tanya, and after calling to check how long they were running we decided to order for take out. Nate and Tanya like toppings, and while I think the true test of a pizza is how it stands up sans accoutrements, I figured they would know best, and we went with half sausage, olive, and mushroom for them - half olive, mushroom, and garlic for me. Nineteen years after ordering the damn thing, Tanya and I go to pick it up, and I grow confused when she takes a rather long time to come back to the car with our already delayed dinner. It turns out they put onions on the whole thing instead of sausage (common mistake – say both words out loud right now and see if you can tell the difference), which wouldn’t normally be the biggest of deals except for the fact that Nate has an Israeli/Palestinian hatred for onions on pizza, and to make a new pie would take another hour. The upside was that we got the pizza for free, and the downside was that we had to endure Nate bitching for the rest of the night (which is in fact actually an upside, because to watch Nate bitch is like watching Picasso paint a picture or Mario Lemieux skate through traffic – he elevates it to such an artform that by the end of the night there are pizza conspiracy theories involving Bush and Rove and the free flow of information around the world – it truly is a sight to see).

We got back to the apartment and shoveled out some slices, and I took a moment to survey what was before me. It was thick and heavy and could only be eaten with a knife and fork. The crust was flaky and buttery and would easily separate from the body of the pie. It was the exact opposite of what in my mind a pizza should be, as if I had ordered a vanilla ice cream cone and was handed a socket wrench. I tried my best not to prejudge, but goddamn it, it just wasn’t pizza. It was good and it was cheesy, and after two slices I felt like I was about to give birth to a rather large sea cow, but it just wasn’t pizza. Or maybe it really was pizza, and all my life what I’ve been calling pizza is really an imposter. Whatever it was, it didn’t best the memory of what I had eaten in Germany. It didn’t even come close. Sorry Chicago – you’ve got a great city, but give it up with the whole pizza thing. Calling it an “Italian Cheese and Grease Pie” would be more accurate.

I left Chicago on Monday and spent a couple of days exploring the scenic lake-land of Wisconsin and Minnesota. Most of Minnesota is truly an unspoiled vast wilderness, and while part of me would love to live in such splendor and isolation, I wonder if I actually could. Probably not, but it’s a great place to visit. While driving, I got very excited when I saw a sign saying “United States Hockey Hall of Fame,” because hockey is by far my favorite of all the sports. But the sign on the door saying “Closed until further notice” couldn’t have more fittingly summed up the U.S. interest in hockey. I spent some time wandering around the “Mall of America,” and was disappointed by the fact that it’s just a very large mall. It’s hardly the destination spot I had been led to believe it was by Travel Channel specials and kitschy guidebooks. Hotels in Vegas and “The Grove” in L.A. are far more interesting centers of commerce. And since people travel to the “Mall of America” from all over the country, one would think they would have a parking area that would allow overnight RV and camper parking, but they don’t. In this traveler’s opinion, the “Mall of America” is highly skipable.

Thursday saw my entry into the state of South Dakota, where the first stop was Sioux Falls. They’re supposed to have cool waterfalls, but after seeing Havasu Falls in Arizona and Niagara Falls, it’s hard to get excited about brown water falling over jagged rocks. I spent the night at a Wal-Mart in Watertown, and I set up my camp chair outside the car just like I would at a campsite so that I could sit and read in the cool evening breeze. Before long, the retired couples from the two RVs in front of me (who didn’t know each other) pulled up their chairs to form a circle and we sat and chatted about tractors and motorcycles until well past dark (or more precisely, they chatted and I nodded, because I don’t know anything about tractors and motorcycles).

South Dakota, and specifically I-90, is littered with roadside attractions – more so far in one state than I’ve seen in most of the country. The first I stopped at was the Porter Sculpture Garden in Monroe. Right off I-90, a 60 ft. metal bull head catches your eye and it’s hard not to stop. And you’ll be glad you did. I gawked at bizarre, Tim Burton-esque sculptures while walking through this huge, beautiful wheat field surrounded by rolling green hills and deep blue skies puffy with white clouds. Scattered throughout the field are skeletons, ballerinas, fish, boar, flower pots, and of course the afore mentioned bull head. It’s massive burnt orange horns contrast brilliantly with the sky, and it’s like wandering through some surreal dream while wide awake. It costs $4 per adult, paid directly to the artist, Wayne(?) Porter. I sat and talked to him for a while, and when it took an hour for Trudel to start (damn electric problem!), he kindly brought me soda, water, and grapes. He even offered me a bag of fried chicken because he made too much for his dad and Wayne himself is a vegetarian, and he was very happy to meet a fellow veg. He’s a little off, as one might suppose of a man who sculpts large metal dragons, but it’s in a kind, not creepy way.

South Dakota Roadside Attraction number two was a stop at the Corn Palace, and while it’s not actually built out of corn, the entire outside is decorated with corn, including intricate corn murals created out of halved cobs. It’s cheesy, and it was built specifically to put the town of Mitchell on the map, but it’s free, so the price is right.

Attraction number three you start seeing signs for in Minnesota. It’s Wall Drug, and either you know it or you don’t. Sadly, like several other places on this trip, I first heard about it on the first season of “Road Rules,” the now defunct version of the “Real World” set in a Winnebago. Wall Drug started out as a drug store/soda fountain/place to stop while traveling on I-90. In the ‘30s, they weren’t getting enough business, so they put out signs on the road saying “Free Ice Water for Travelers.” They were soon mobbed (shows you how little it took to pack them in during the Great Depression), and the store just grew and grew into whatever it is today. It’s a café, ice cream parlor, doughnut stand, gift shop, video arcade, roadside attraction, book store, purveyor of tack, museum, and drug store rolled into one big ball of kitsch. There are about six signs per mile for Wall Drug heading east on 90 from Minnesota until you hit Wall, South Dakota, and it’s study in genius guerilla marketing. Whether you know what it is or not, by the time you get there you’ve seen so many goddamn signs it seems like Wall Drug is such an important piece of land it’s a wonder the Israeli’s haven’t claimed it as their own.

The town of Wall was the first place I hit that was inundated by bikers, and I spent the night drinking Jack Daniels in a biker bar staffed by hot young Russian chicks. Apparently they work there on an exchange program while looking to marry an American before their work visas run out. They were oblivious to my charms, however…maybe because I haven’t showered, shaved, or changed my shorts in a week. I’m living out every five year old boy’s dream and every mother’s nightmare, and I’m simultaneously attracting wildlife while repelling humans.

Saturday I hit Deadwood, famous death site of Wild Bill Hickok who was shot during a poker game while holding Aces and Eights (known today as “Dead Man’s Hand”). The town itself is part Old West recreation, part old school poker mecca, and at this time of year, filled with bikers. I found a card room offering a free tournament at noon (you start with 500 chips and can buy in for $10 if you bust out), and I busted out 7th out of 30 or so. I hung around for the next 8 hours playing $3-$6 limit hold ‘em. South Dakota gaming laws prohibit any player from making a bet of more than $100 at any one time, so no-limit poker doesn’t exist, and consequently all yhe locals are very good at limit. I lost about $100 during my time at the table, but it was the most entertaining $100 I’ve ever lost. Whenever the table was short on players, the owner of the joint would come over and sit down to play. But he didn’t want people to lose money and leave, so any time you bet into him he’d fold his hand. Bikers constantly streamed in and out, and I really got a chance to have some good conversations. They look a little gruff, but they couldn’t have been nicer, and they tell a good story. It was a friendly game, and I was actually making some money, but as it got later the real talent started to show up to pick me clean.

I spent today roaming around the Black Hills, which are lush and green despite their name (they get their name because there are so many pine trees that from a distance, the hills look black). Roadside attraction #874 was Bear Country, USA. It's a drive through zoo containing Arctic wolves, Bison, donkeys for some reason, and of course tons and tons of bears. When you drive through each habitat, the animals are right there with your car being the only buffer, but they're so domesticated it's like seeing bears on prozac. It's worth the $13 to be able to get that close, and I was even able to sneak one small cub into the back of Trudel.

From there is was on to the faces in the mountain, and I've got to say that Mt. Rushmore is pretty damn impressive, a true testament to the vision of two men and an awesome example of man’s ability to bend nature to his will.
Travel Tip:
You’ll see signs all over saying the Borglum Museum (about Rushmore sculptor Gutzon Borglum) is the greatest thing ever created, and thirty minutes will give you a lifetime of memories. Bullshit. The audio tour is boring and poorly produced, and I fell asleep during the movie. Pick up any guide or coupon book in the area and you’ll learn all you need to know about the man. Plus, at Rushmore itself, you get to see his studio, which is far more interesting and informative. The museum is a waste of $8.

I was torn, however on the Crazy Horse Monument, due in large part to the fact that it’s no where near completion. One tribe, I’m not sure which, is carving Chief Crazy Horse into the side of a mountain, and when it’s done it will be the size of like a million Mt. Rushmores. Right now there’s only a head, and you have to pay $10 to get in the parking lot (Rushmore is $8). Crazy Horse is funded solely by donation, entrance fees, and the Indian tribes – they get no federal funding, so it’s nice to know that your money is going towards something good. And it’s cool to say you were there while it was being built, because you can’t say that about much these days. But $10 is a little steep. I guess I would recommend it because it’s nice to give something back to a people we all but destroyed, but the Jew in me can’t help but bristle at the thought of paying so much to see so little.

Oh, and I finally got pulled over. I think I’ve traveled over 15,000 miles so far, and I was just remarking to someone the other day that I was shocked it hasn’t happened yet. I thought for sure I’d get popped Texas just for looking like a hippie. So I’m driving West on 90 around Rapid City, and a cop car was sitting in the median watching bikers go by, looking for Hell’s Angels and meth dealers. I drive by going ten miles under the speed limit because it was windy, and I see a few bikers behind me pass as well. In my rear view mirror I notice the cop pull out, pass the bikers with his lights on, and pull behind me. To be honest, with all the bikers on the road, I was SHOCKED to be pulled over, and since I know I wasn’t speeding, I was very curious to find out what it was for. Turns out the tinting strip on the top of my windshield extends to far down (it should stop about the midpoint of your rearview mirror). I was issued a warning and sent on my way. I was happy the cop was quick about the whole thing, because I was drunk off my ass and if he took any longer I was going to have to pee my pants.

This post would be ten times better with pictures, but unfortunately Blogger feels otherwise. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to add them...