I spent 10 days early this month at the 2006 Sturgis motorcycle rally. Returning home with pages of poorly written notes, I spent the last week trying to make some sense of what I experienced. I know the story’s too long (although I most likely left some critical stuff out) but unfortunately the honorable editor of the Shinbone was asleep and I didn’t want to disturb him. So, suffer through this meandering and tangled mess with me if you choose to do so…
With eyes closed and shaved head bobbing to the internal beat of a twin piston drum, Carlos strained a toothy grin through his overflowing black beard and raised his arms up like he was still cruising on his candy blue chopper. “When I’m riding the shovel, man, it’s like I’m on peyote or something.”
Carlos told a surprisingly common story. Mid-50’s, soon to retire as an assembly-line worker from one of the big three, he had visited Sturgis annually for the last 12 years. He recalled when the smooth blacktop road winding down the hills from Nemo to Sturgis was nothing but gravel and occasionally filled with ankle-deep mud. He admitted that in the early days he may have taken those sharp turns a bit too fast, at the least nearly losing control, at the most nearly losing his life. Now, in his older and wiser years, he was a bit more cautious on the turns and carried bags full of leathers, goggles and spare tools to avert most tragedy.
The primary reason he found all these modern precautions necessary was the fact he rode a shovel and loved it. His was a model manufactured by S&S, meticulously based on the engine Harley Davidson ceased producing in the mid-80’s. His bike harked back to the time when riders needed to be accomplished mechanics as well as mere enthusiasts. It leaked oil like a sieve, regularly needed jump starting and often lost significant parts along the road. But to Carlos, such dirty problems were inevitably part of the fun and could be washed away with his concept of hanging on to “old school” values, a phrase he often used and one I eventually became even more familiar with.
During our time together, I often wondered what he really meant by “old school”. Sometimes he seemed to describe a simple traditionalist view. Other times, he suggested it was more personal, something only he could enjoy, a view from an old road that others could not see. But he recognized when others appreciated the same concept. And he could tell when somebody didn’t really give a damn about anything.
Along the way across South Dakota, he stopped every 70-100 miles to gas up and adjust his bike. (I followed him in a Chevy 3500 dually, pulling a 30 foot fifth wheel loaded to the gills with spare parts, tools and camping gear.) At one point, while resting at White River, a rider who had been behind Carlos’ shovel on the road laughed at the fine mist of oil now covering his headlight. The shovel sprayed everyone who was riding in the rear. As a mild peace offering, the back rider offered Carlos some clean earplugs. Many riders used them to drown out the unrelenting noise of their overpowered engines. Carlos shrugged off the present, saying, “No, man, I need to hear shit falling off my shovel!”
Carlos wore goggles but refused to clutter his pride with a windshield. His handlebars were illegal, a good 18 inches in length and they rose well above his armpits. When the road ahead was clear, he raised them up to their full height and sped along like a schooner in full sail. But he kept a special wrench handy to quickly lower the angle whenever he felt as though he might attract too much attention from the local police. He had an unusual knack for drawing attention and he advised me to maintain the speed limit carefully while crossing the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. He’d had trouble there before.
Wire-thin, about 150 pounds and short, Carlos was bald with a long black beard which often spread side to side, combed into two long points by the force of the wind. He had dirty hands with nails that were constantly caked with grease. Dark skinned, he had a tattoo of an eagle on his bare left shoulder, wings spread wide, open mouthed and head down, blood dripping into a red pool below yellow claws. Probably unlike everyone else he met, I stupidly didn’t ask what that tattoo signified. Most likely, I assumed it was an expression of his own spirit.
He used his black eyes well. When he spoke to someone with goggles off, he focused and pointed his eyes directly yet in an almost hollow manner. He gave the impression of a nonchalant coolness but he was constantly aware of his surroundings and one never had to worry about what Carlos was saying or to whom he was speaking.
And he knew full well how his appearance affected other people.
Many times he confided that “because of the way I look” he had been harassed or misunderstood. He implied that people treated him differently because of his rough appearance. Whether of his own design or not, he often used this excuse when crap happened to him. Yet, he was proud of his look and purposefully portrayed himself as a tough biker. He readily said he hadn’t cut his beard in 13 years although he shaved his head every week.
His “look” often proved beneficial, he said. Sometimes, when he needed help with his bike, his appearance allowed him through some otherwise closed doors. He described how familiar he was with members of the Local 81 and other underground figures who welcomed him simply because of his fashion. They knew, he said, that he was wild just by looking at him.
Other times, he grumbled about how people reacted to him. Sometimes he would be upset by giving off the wrong impression. He told how wannabe bikers had often asked to take his picture while he sat on his bike at some roadside stop. Sure, he’d say, who gives a shit? Then, after one such event, he found that a mischievous friend had tied a small pink flamingo to the back of his bike without telling him.
Somewhere some tourista had a damn vacation photo of wild biker Carlos which implied something less than the manly undertone he worked so hard to present. That really pissed him off and, as a result, few pink flamingos escape the wrath of Carlos to this day.
Our long ride across the Badlands to the Black Hills was just a warm up for the rally. At each stop along the way Carlos quickly gulped down a Coors Light before burning out back on the highway.
“When we get to Sturgis,” he cheerfully told me with a wink, “we’ll really drink some beer, smoke some dope, and party like rock stars. I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.”
Notes on The Bars: The obnoxious versus the serious.
Now, I gotta tell ya, this topic of bars was foremost on my list of things to uncover in South Dakota. I am a thirsty veteran of many long and tiring campaigns around the globe and I love to compare the distinct qualities of different watering holes. I happily satisfied this humble pursuit in and around Sturgis with little effort.
I won’t just list them all for you. That would be too easy. Instead, I will say there are some 20 or so notable establishments from Sturgis, Deadwood/Lead, on down the track to the muted faces of stone west of Rapid City. Each has its own peculiarities.
The largest ones in Sturgis are like ocean liners, with dark nooks and hidden lookouts where a naïve sailor can easily get lost. Some, like in Lead, reek more of our 19th century gold mining history than of Cuban cigar smoke and stale brew. Some places, like the Loud American, batter the average customer with obnoxious music and occasionally unattractive bartenders. Some serve absolutely nothing but overpriced beer. But a good time can be had in nearly every one and during bike week, especially when it rains, there’s not an empty seat in the house.
(Word to the wise consumer, mountains make their own weather. In spite of any official predictions, when you see a thundercloud forming up over the hill to the north of Main Street, run, I say, run for the nearest bar stool. With a half million butts all vying for the same protected spot, you do not want to be slow on this, trust me. Besides, it is during these dangerous, dark times when the most attractive bartenders will do the craziest things to keep everyone entertained, so you must hurry to get a good view of the next tequila belly shot contestant … it’s like this all around the world.)
There is a curious aspect of the rally that I discovered in the bar scene, however. At one point, I remarked to an early temporary companion that I didn’t really feel all that welcome in many of the bars, many of the patrons didn’t quickly engage me and I couldn’t put my finger on why. My companion replied that it had something to do with the way I looked (a running theme during my time with Carlos, as well).
Up until that time, I had been strutting around in my typical South Pacific apparel, a pair of cargo shorts and trusty old Teva Pterodactyl slippers. I wore a dirty khaki shirt, long-sleeves rolled up, topped with what can be kindly described as a sailor’s bucket cap, blue with the subtle yet charmingly emblazoned red logo “Omaha Zoo” (a gift from my mother-in-law).
Yeah, my attire was about as far as you can get from leather and chains, I suppose.
I maintained this clueless look in spite of the fact that even on the hellish road through the Badlands, Carlos and I had laughed at the wannabes who entered the Wagon Wheel bar in Interior wearing normal holiday gear, only to proudly exit looking like they’d just stepped into a festive production of The Wild Bunch.
So, giving in, I purchased some t-shirts (3 for $25) and a rally cap, brought out my old Levis, black belt, and even splurged on a $40 leather riding vest with cool Indian nickel buttons. In short time, I found myself laughing at how well I was accepted. Suddenly, I was asked regularly where I came from and what was I riding. (I haven’t been on a bike in years.)
It’s sorta sad, really. There’s supposed to be a profound biker attitude, a Sturgis staple of individualism and independence from stereotypes. Maybe that was true at one time, but I think that’s all myth now. Appearances are much more important today. Rather than be a rebel, everyone wants to be a member of the club and in order to be that they have to wear the proper colors and look alike.
Not surprising, I guess, nobody wants to look like the eccentric geek that I usually appear to be. (I notice The Wife agrees with that summation all too easily.)
Anyway, back to the point, for your pleasure I will nominate my favorite bar in Sturgis: The Dungeon.
One of the few that I actually returned to more than once, The Dungeon is my kinda serious place. It’s dark, it’s deep and it’s creepy. The music is often annoying and the blaring, scratchy old box speakers hang from the walls at eye level. The bartenders watch you suspiciously when you enter but follow you as a you search for an opening and seem to instinctively know what you want, delivering your ice-cold order rapidly. A few snappily dressed morons will gather at picnic tables, trying to carry on friendly conversations over the din, thankfully muted by even more irritating rock and roll. At the somber and smoky bar, no fool acts so foolish. Alone, they silently decipher cryptically autographed dollar bills festooned on the spider-webbed ceiling and dirty walls (“MEMPHIS J SEE YOU NEXT RALLY ’97”) while some spotty examples of dried, salted, pickled goodies stand quietly at the ready behind the bar.
In a word, The Dungeon is perfect, a place that I could easily get accustomed to.
Notes on The Cars: Why ride?
While the bar scene may be easily interpreted, the statistics on bike ownership are confusing and I’ve read a few different opinions. But, generally speaking, I’ve read that over 20 million folks in America ride motorcycles. Of that total, about 80 percent are men and 20 percent are women.
It seems that percentage of women riders is steadily increasing. One rainy day in Keystone, watching the endless parade of bikers while sipping a bottled beer on the boardwalk, even I could see the truth in that. I spotted quite a few rogue women bikers. Just based on my observations, most of those women weren’t the dainty types often seen riding on the back “bitch seat” with the boyfriend. The gals I saw were mostly hardcore, lone riders more apt to have a tattoo and sporting conservative t-shirts and black chaps rather than bikinis or halter tops, the gung-ho assertive types that I would definitely play shy around.
Cheers to all of them!
Back to the stats, the total number of bikers is still a small fraction of those driving autos. I doubt anyone is surprised by that. Cars are safer in almost every respect. While riding protected in an auto, gravel roads are generally not dangerous and flying bugs are usually not painful. Still, the number of bikers grows every day.
If Sturgis, the mother of all rallies, is any indication, then something like 95 percent of all bikers must also be Caucasian. I suppose a tepid comment is necessary on that solitary observation.
I’ve read that at least one of the more well-known biker clubs enjoys a “whites only” membership policy. I don’t know if that’s true but it reminds me of other organizations which I’ve momentarily considered enlistment, groups that often precede their association with a “faith in God” or some such words.
Strange … threats of illegality, over-indulgence and daredevil danger won’t send me packing. But the slightest hint of racial or religious bigotry scares the hell out of me and turns me away, shaking my guilty head in disgust.
Well, I did meet a few people of color in Sturgis, but not many.
Of course, I saw every kind of bike that one can imagine on Main Street. I saw trumped up show bikes, Boss Hoss V-8’s, $60k Arlen Ness dazzlers, serious art works in leather and chrome, and the rattiest old rusted Virago in the world.
But it wasn’t the fantastic display of motorcycles that really caught my curious attention. I found the answers to the question “Why?” were most intriguing. Over the course of a week, I listened to those answers and was reminded of a time when I was 15 years old.
At a childhood friend’s house outside of Denver, I was once invited to ride what was then considered a dirt bike, a Honda 90 cc or thereabouts. I remember the rush, the thrill of jetting along at an undeterminably fast speed on an old dirt road. I recall my attempt to become one with the machine and the road, feet and hands and legs all trying to coordinate the operation in a sometimes confounding but almost lyrical symmetry. On the bike, I felt things I didn’t normally feel and saw things I didn’t normally see. For a very short time, I was hooked and addicted to that thrill.
Not long after that short ride, I worked to save $500 and bought my first car, a white ’66 Ford Fairlane Custom 500, four door, 248 straight six, three on the tree. That car brought me into the stable, predicable adult world, ending my childhood motorcycle dream. I never considered owning a bike again until I saw Sturgis in 2006 where all of that long-forgotten memory came back to me.
The pure delight of bike riding is attractive, alluring and even sexy. Riding a bike alone is a full blown, heart-thumping blast, it oddly satisfies one’s search to overcome the lost regrets of youth and, thinking about it now, I realize what Carlos was showing me.
But he was wrong on one thing. I had seen it before.
The Wars: A picture of the enemy.
Like the steep uphill grade on Highway 44 from Rapid City to the Black Hills National Forrest, attendance at the Rally has climbed steadily over the years. I’ve read that the original races of the Black Hills Motorcycle Classic were held on 2 days in August, 1938, organized by the Jackpine Gypsies Motorcycle Club and one J.C. “Pappy” Hoel. By 1965, it grew to a 3 day event with an audience in the thousands. By 1975, it became a 7 day party and in 1976 more than 100 “tourists” were arrested for disorderly deeds near the city park in a single 36-hour period.
Sturgis residents, fed up with rowdy hooligans annually trashing their city, tried to end the rally in 1982. A circulated petition read:
"We, the people of Meade County and the City of Sturgis, do not want the annual Motorcycle Classic in Sturgis next year or in the future."
According to the SturgisRallyDaily.com, citizens narrowly allowed the rally to continue by an 846-758 vote in the November elections that year.
After that, the dam busted and the crowd quickly ballooned to 100k. The rallies of the next decade would regularly see a quarter of a million showing up for the fun.
As with any rally of this size, human tragedy increased proportionally. In 1990, 11 of the happy participants lost their life in various accidents and drunken mishaps during the event.
By 2005, the Sturgis city council estimated that vendors and attractions enjoyed well over half a million money-spending visitors, many stretching out their stay for 10 days or more.
(I admit I am still a bit confused about the timeline. Even though the rally originated in 1938, the 2006 rally is billed as the 66th Annual. Apparently, the rally wasn’t held for a year or two during WWII due to gas rationing. But, I’ve been perplexed about this kind of yearly accounting ever since someone told me the year 2000 really signified the end of a millennium, not the beginning of a new one. Ahh, shit, I dunno …)
Anyway, half a million bikers now invade this territory annually. Even after my week of fun, I’ve still never met anyone who really lives in Sturgis. I heard that most of them retreat to sunnier shores while the rally is engaged, renting out their lawns and houses to the highest bidder. Clearly, the locals gave in and checked out and there’s no shortage of renters during the rally.
Gangs, clubs, whatever you want to call them, have been part of the scenery since the 80’s. The well-known incorporated clubs own large amounts of property in the area. Sometimes they do cause trouble, as in this year when a pair of reported Hells Angels associates took to shooting a few reported Outlaws in Custer State Park. But their wars are comparatively well organized. Typically, innocent bystanders can dodge the gang bullets.
The most stubborn war is waged among the general crowd on Main Street and in between the pop up tents and trailers tethered to the several larger campgrounds around the city. The real shit goes down there every day during the festival and it frustrates the hardcore, oil-drenched old schoolers like Carlos to no end.
On my fist day in Sturgis, before the rally began, I was met by a mildly angry mob of Native Americans protesting near the Police Station. They were mildly angry that a developer had a set up a tourist camp and a shooting range at, on, or near (I’m not too sure which) Bear Butte, a sacred site to the Sioux tribes. They chanted some stuff and waved some placards but, in my estimation, only succeeded in completely clogging up the already congested traffic near One Eyed Jack’s.
That scene is partly why some like to get there early, to at least temporarily avoid the maddening crowd of bike week.
Also, the Rally encourages a lot of new riders to come to the party. Experienced guys like Carlos don’t like to meet rookie riders on the winding Black Hills roads. (“Look at the size of that dude’s ride, man! He might as well drive a car!”) The rookies can be detected from quite a distance. They don’t appear comfortable, their arms are at odd angles, they drive too fast and they stick out their feet at the most inappropriate moments.
When bike weeks reaches its peak, Carlos and his old school friends settle down in camp to get stoned and drunk, partying safely among themselves until the danger of rookies riding stock Harleys on Needles Highway has passed. To Carlos, naïve riders and wannabes are like plastic pink flamingos, untrue to his old school concepts, and worthy of his quick dismissal.
I found Main Street Sturgis a bad place to decipher this code. It was just too jam-packed and it was sometimes impossible to determine where the endless chain of bikes stopped and where it all began. I am not the type of person to be fond of pushing my way down a sidewalk, anyway. At its worst, it reminded me of a swarming back alley in Seoul where, admittedly hungover from a hard night with the Korean Experience in the early 80’s, I quite literally freaked out when a bubbling sea of dark haired humanity separated momentarily to entertain me with the front row view of a huge hog’s head pulled up by a long fork from a steaming vat of spicy street soup.
Oh, that was a day to remember and it’s often a highlight of recurring nightmares.
Yeah, there where hordes of rent-a-cops on Main Street but I sensed that some consider the Sturgis city council more of a speed bump on the fast road to fun than anything else. The directors want the rally to be a family-friendly event. They don’t want parents embarrassed by tasteless public shenanigans.
Everyone knows what that means. More baby strollers, cotton candy vendors and puppet shows, enforced politically correct advertising and no nudity on the sidewalks.
Well, while rowdy hell-raising may not have been the primary strategy of old Pappy’s design, I doubt he would approve of a permanent cease fire, either. The Sturgis Rally has a reputation and I don’t think it’s as a typical family vacation destination. Something’s got to give, eventually. In the future, I expect much of the day will be given to the milder folks and the few families who choose to take their children to Sturgis. I hope the night will remain adults only, as it should be. In the meantime, while downtown was fun, I found much of the wilder and borderline illegal activities (hmmm …) had migrated to the larger campgrounds in the hills just outside the city.
Summary:
When I signed up for my adventure to the Black Hills of South Dakota six months ago, I told myself I would never really understand America until I saw Sturgis. Before I experienced it, I fantasized that the drawing power of the Sturgis Rally might have something to do with organized and purposeful American decadence, the anything-goes subculture which prompts spontaneous public nudity, over-indulgence in the drug of choice and 80 mph burnouts on Main Street. All the over the top things, the exaggerated urges of Americana that we don’t see everyday.
That’s what I had been led to believe. But, with the help of guys like Carlos, I quickly learned these rabid symptoms do not define the disease itself.
As expected, I did find a grand microcosm of what’s good and what’s bad, the beauty and the ugliness, the clean and the filthy. Sturgis, as a place which is really neither good nor bad, turns out to be a golden spot on earth but in many ways like everywhere else in America, only overstated. In the crowded hills and roadways, for at least 10 days a year, you will find a noisy display of the modern American thought boiled down into one commercial blurb: If five guys once found it wildly entertaining, just think how much fun can be had by half a million.
And I learned a bit more about the disease. It is pained by the desire for absolute freedom which lurks deep within the American spirit. It is all about going in one’s own direction without fear and without concern for any obstacle. For some, it’s make believe, a time to act like they really give a damn or that they are a member of an elite group. For others, it is a feverish celebration of who they truly are.
But in the end, as Carlos said in his own way, it’s all about the ride, man.
Cheers,
Mb
