Confessions of A Sturgis Virgin

Confessions of a Sturgis Virgin

LIKE A STURGEON

Brian Catterson

She was stunning, the sort of girl you’d see in a Playboy centerfold, and damn near as naked. Tall, blonde, tan, statuesque—and did I mention nearly naked?-wearing nothing more than two pasties over her nipples, a g-string and a pair of very, very high heels. Oh, and a dog collar, the leash of which was clutched by the sort of man-mountain who could get away with parading a nearly naked playmate down Main Street. Even if I’d had my lens uncapped (and yes, perv’s, I mean that literally), I’m not sure I’d have had the moxie to snap her photo, though others with longer lenses no doubt did.

The fact that this sighting occurred within minutes of my arrival on Main Street boded well for my first visit to Sturgis-after Daytona, the “other” major biker rally in these United States.

The fact that it also proved to be the pinnacle of my Bike Week babe sightings was only a little disheartening...

Why do some half-million bikers-most fully clothed, thankfully-make the pilgrimage to this tiny town in rural South Dakota each and every August?

God only knows, but they’ve been coming here since 1938, so they must have their reasons.

For sure, a big part of the draw is the riding, because the Black Hills boast some of the best motorcycle roads in the country. The scenery isn’t half-bad, either, whether it’s manmade (Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse), natural (the Badlands, Devil’s Tower) or a combination thereof (strippers are a prime attraction, too). The area’s beauty hasn’t been lost on Hollywood, as Dances With Wolves was filmed in Spearfish Canyon, and director Kevin Costner now owns a huge casino in Deadwood. Daytona’s main attraction, by contrast, is sunshine at a time when much of the country is snowed in-though I’ve long suspected that bikini-clad Spring Breakers might have something to do with it. Allegedly there’s racing at Daytona, but as the France family knows all too well, few bikers ever set foot inside the Speedway.

Sturgis has racing, too, though it’s solely of the dirt variety, with both a short-track and a half-mile in town and another halfmile in nearby Rapid City that hosted a round of the AMA Grand National Championship on Tuesday night. But like most of the bikers in town for the rally, we never made it to the races.

For Bruce Fischer, our neighborhood Harley mechanic/sprint-car team owner, this was his 24th trip to Sturgis, riding his “Bagger From Hell” the 1500 miles from Southern California. With a quarter-century of rally-going under his belt, Bruce knows where all the bodies are buried, so to speak, so served as our unofficial tour guide. He does Sturgis in style, too: A few years ago, he helped his buddy Jim (friends call him “Chubbs”) buy a house that sits right across the street from the half-mile, “just a six-minute walk from Main Street.” And so the “Chubbs’ Bros” spend two weeks there each summer, relaxing on the expansive porch with a Jack in one hand, a Bud in the other and a bowl of elk chili in their lap. Now that’s livin’! The rest of the year, the house sits vacant, like much of Sturgis; in fact, I once rode a BMW through town out of season and was dismayed to find Main

Street boarded and shut. The only reminder was a sign boasting discount rally T-shirts in the lobby of the Best Western.

That certainly wasn't the case this week, because Main Street was literally throbbing with motorcycles. Bikes lined both curbs and the centerline, leaving two alleys through which cruisers con tinually, uh, cruised. Harley-Davidson was the most common brand (firm grasp of the obvious, Catterson...), our impromptu survey showing 88 Hogs out of a possible 100. Precious few of those had any sort of mufflers, incidentally, and more than a few were customized, as the chopper craze continues to sweep America. Everyone who's anyone in the custom-bike business was present and accounted for, the line to meet the Orange County Choppers goons stretch ing around the block of the gas station in which they set up camp for the week. Vendors lined literally every inch of the sidewalks in the vicinity of Main Street, hawking food, drinks, 1-shirts and other biker staples, and the bars were in full swing, blues and classic-rock bands ("Freebird!") the most popular form of entertainment.

O~j son to the scene at the Buffalo Chip Campground, venue for the week's major rock concerts. I caught `lOs throwbacks REO Speedwagon and Heart there on Wednesday night, and it was like a scene from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, with drunk en bikers raising dust plumes as they slalomed through the tens of thousands of spectators, more often than not with a scantily-clad babe on back. Clearly amused by the scene, Heart guitarist Nancy Wilson (still a babe at 50-plus, incidentally) walked up to the microphone and said, "This one's for every one in black leather." Which-naked girl riding the mechanical bull aside-was pretty much everyone. As Paul Dean joked, "All rugged individualists must dress alike."

That more than anything is what gets me about Sturgis, and about bikers in general. Why do so many people spend so much time and money and effort to make their bikes (and their tattoos?) unique, and then pull on the same uniform of black Harley T-shirt, Levi's and Doc Martens? And why would so many... if not pretty, at least attractive women get off on parad ing around half-naked in front of them?

The obvious answer is because the vast majority aren't real bikers; they're just playing dress-up. "With all the costumes, it reminds me of Halloween," I remarked to Keith May one night on Main Street. To which-noting the breasts-for-beads ritual being played out in front of us-he replied, "Nah, it's Mardi Gras... Mardi Gras with motorcycles."

Truer words were never spoken.

Reflecting on that, it occurred to me that like Mardi Gras and New Orleans, the best time to visit Sturgis might be when the party isn't in full swing-at least then you could enjoy the Black Hills without having to sit in never-ending traffic jams. But then again, that wouldn't really be experiencing Sturgis, would it? I used to think all those German and Japanese tourists visit ing Death Valley in the heat of summer were nuts, but now I'm starting to get it... -Brian Catterson