The next day we make the requisite stop at Mount Rushmore—four granite presidents staring into perpetuity, equal parts engineering marvel and highly contested heritage site—before tackling the Wildlife Loop in Custer State Park. Navigating its hairpin turns with few guardrails, I fix my gaze on the centerline and will myself not to overcorrect.
Later we pause to admire a herd of bison, freshly corralled after the annual Buffalo Roundup, and I make the mistake of approaching their pen with my helmet still on. When one “fluffy cow” charges the fence, I peel out faster than Evel Knievel clearing the Snake River Canyon.
Not every close call involves death-defying drop-offs and enraged bison. In Spearfish, Yu hesitates over a set of cow grates and dumps her bike at low velocity. We rush to her side. Bent frame, bruised ego, but no broken bones. If that’s the worst that happens, we’re lucky.
By the time we collapse into bed at the historic Hotel Alex Johnson in Rapid City, 12 hours later, my haunches ache and my throttle hand is locked in a Lego-man grip. Physically, I feel like Wile E. Coyote after a steamroller incident. But mentally? I’m on top of the world.
Riding feels like flying. The kind where your body becomes the vessel itself. The engine rumbles between your legs, the road streams beneath you, the curves beckon you onward. Walking into a diner with a helmet tucked under your arm, you feel the heads turning and relish the double takes when they realize you’re a woman. Gearing up is like stepping into a suit of armor. Not invincible, but undeniably capable.
Maybe that’s why, in a moment when the country feels eggshell brittle, riding has become such an essential outlet for me—a way to turn my rage into forward motion. When so much feels beyond my control, this is something I can steady with my own two hands.
On our final night we stop at Wall Drug, the 95-year-old roadside institution known for its free ice water and towering jackalope, before checking in to Badlands Frontier Cabins, right as the sun melts into the prairie. We toast the trip over sirloin and huckleberry bourbon smashes at Salty Steer. I’m keeping pace at 72 miles per hour (the top speed on my 350-cc bike), riding on gravel without hesitation, and moving with the confidence of someone who finally hit her stride.
I came to South Dakota chasing a legend. I leave understanding why this legend persists. The open road isn’t just about escape but how to lean with the wind.
This article appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
