The abrasive and repetitive beeping noise was followed by a droning voice announcing isolated thunderstorms with up to golfball-sized hail, 75 mile winds, and the potential for tornadoes directly on the I-90 corridor due west of us for the next 90 miles. Combine that fact with the realization that we were 30 miles--each way--from the nearest active exit. Needless to say, and using a euphemism, we East-Coasters were "maladjusted" to the situation at hand. I called my dad to give him my last wishes (despite the sincerity of my tone, he probably thought I was being a pussy) and asked what he thought we should do. He told us to get off the highway as soon as possible, so alas, we did that at a local exit which was really no more than a remote country highway most likely leading to nowhere. Luckily, (I guess?) we stumbled upon an abandoned gas station which we promptly pulled into. The storm was only getting worse and hail had begun to fall. My superficial concern was to protect the near immaculate shell of my newborn Jeep. Thus we snuck my car under the dilapidated roof of the gas station near the pumps--a situation bursting with oxymorons (safe gas pump, decrepit shelter, etc) and ideally situated for a Final Destination death scene. To our surprise, another car cruised out of the maelstrom and into the vicinity of the station, presumably surmising, as with us, that hiding under a flammable, brittle structure was superior to the option of being sucked up by a twister in the middle of the highway. The family was from nearby Kansas and seemed remarkably calm in the midst of what I assumed was an Armaggedeon-type situation. The man, unfazed, explained (in the typical laconic speech of the hybrid farmer/cowboy character which I naively assumed every man west of Chicago to be) that such hellish weather was commonplace in the plains states. Well shit, the stoic nature of the Kansan's attitude towards the storm made me feel at once like a melodramatic thespian; I smiled, and with feigned cool confidence retorted something idiotic like "Yeah, this isn't our first rodeo" or "Yeah, this is nothing compared to what we see on the East Coast." Embarrassing.
Luckily, I had about forty five minutes to let the flush dissolve from my face while the emasculated feeling of being psychologically (obviously not physically) subordinate to my Kansan comrade simmered and fomented like the ebb and flow of the storm overhead. Just as quickly as the storm had materialized in front of our faces, it dissipated, or at least continued its trek eastward, and we quickly parted ways with our refugee friends, thankful to have avoided a tornado--at for the the time being. Finally, around midnight, we cruised into Rapid City, SD, starving and exhausted from a long drive and the drain of the storm. I didn't really know what to expect from Rapid City, as I had never been to South Dakota previously and just assumed that its towns and small cities were indicative of one of two themes: farm or mine. Rapid City was neither of these. Being the second largest city in South Dakota (a laughable 65,000 residents), the city was not amidst farm land, being on the Eastern cusp of the legendary Black Hills--nor was it what I'd consider a mining or "old west" town, many of which I would pass through as we continued westward. Even though it was a saturday night, the concierge at the front desk of our "Eco-friendly" hotel option answered our question about possible dining options with a terse and unhelpful "not many." On the bright side, the concierge's vague response forced Fran and me to take a pleasant walk around the "downtown" area in search of grub. Interestingly, Rapid City is known as the City of Presidents, an epitaph which led to the creation of an art project to fill the city's sidewalks with fantastic sculptures of nearly 30 US presidents. Why in Rapid City, you ask? My candid response is that I have no idea...but who cares, the sculptures are precisely detailed and make for great photo ops. Unfortunately all have been lost in transition, but don't worry, there are thousands more to come.
Finally after visiting nearly every local restaurant in the vicinity and being welcomed by closed signs, we spotted some local fast food joint, and settled, involuntarily, for whatever they had to offer. Of course, the joint was drive through only during the witching hours of the early AM. Without a car, I decisively chose to walk up to the drive through window and stand my ground. To my dismay, I was lectured, through the speakerphone, that it was South Dakota law to only serve those in a vehicle who entered the drive through line. Stunned and frustrated, a guardian angel in the form of an F-150 noticed our debacle and was kind enough to order for us and pass on the food. Despite the inherent flaws of the Midwest and isolated areas of the Plains' states, I swear the people--regardless of their background/sex/age/life goals--are truly nicer, more sincere, and more accommodating. Such a small gesture of friendliness, such as ordering our food, (an unthinkable, time-consuming pleasantry in Boston) goes a long way and leaves a lasting impression. Impressed with the local behavior, we happily carbo loaded, promptly felt the fast-food paralysis and hit the sack, intent on taking full advantage of the depth of local sightseeing in our midst during the day before heading Northwest towards Spearfish.
