They’re Everywhere; They’re Everywhere!

I made a mistake yesterday. I took my visiting grandson to Hill City.

Let me hasten to explain that going to Hill City is not ordinarily a mistake. It’s a pleasant and lively town with several don’t-miss tourist attractions, including the 1880 Train and one of the best places to eat in the Black Hills. The Black Hills Institute, the objective of our visit yesterday, has an incredible display of fossils and dinosaur skeletons and is a perfect place to take a grandkid.

It wasn’t our destination that was in error. It was our timing. It’s Rally Week—that time every August when the more xenophobic residents of the Black Hills either leave town or else stock up on groceries and stay off the roads. The bikers are here. And there. And everywhere.

Let me hasten to explain again that I have nothing against motorcyclists per se. Half a dozen of my closest friends are bikers—or at least people who ride motorcycles. (Why, by the way, do you suppose people who ride motorcycles are called "bikers" while people who ride bicycles are called "cyclists?")

What I have a problem with is crowds. My reaction to the bikers is the same one I would have if they were all cowboys or quilters or Congressmen—all of which some of the bikers undoubtedly are. I’m sure they are great people. There are just too dang many of them in one place.

During World War II, the British had a saying about the American soldiers in England: the only thing wrong with the Yanks was that they were "overpaid, oversexed, and over here." That’s the way I feel about all the visitors this week. The only thing wrong with the bikers is that they’re out in force, out to party, and out here.