Driving into Sturgis from the east, 8:00 a.m., I count the bikers headed out of the Sturgis/Rapid City area for just a mile ... 51 of 'em. Figure this overall Wall-to-Rapid City stretch is 50 miles or thereabouts, that puts about 2,500 people on bikes on the road headed out in just this 50 mile stretch. And this 50 miles is just under an hour travel time. Try 12 hours of activity, say 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., and you've got 30,000 people leaving over the day's prime travel hours. And prolly 30,000 coming in for the weekend activities. Fun with numbers. Done in the head. Sometimes the fun of driving alone sucks.

****

Something about these Harley bikers over there on the other side of the Interstate, leaving the festivities ... not many of them seem to have fairings on their bikes ... fairings, those windshields and bodyshields that you find on bikes driven by say, Honda Gold Wing people. The Gold Wing is Honda's shot at unsettling the Harley as power cruiser.

The Gold Wing is driven, not ridden, by old farts who are compelled to wiggle their fingers in greeting when they pass other riders. Harleys are ridden by people who just might acknowledge you on the road as you pass, depending on their mood ... people who know what The Ride is all about ... people who take the wind full-on as a responsibility of riding. Something not to be shunted aside by full-body fairings.

****

Last night, I passed this huge saloon. The words on the roof, easily seen from the road passing by, read "Outer Limits. Cocktails. Nude Girls." Last night when I drove by coming into town, there must have been nearly 200 Harleys down there in the parking lot, people moving about, noise being made and plans planned. Now, this morning, there's just a worn-out old Ford Escort.

Anyone ever says, "What a difference a day makes," to you when you tell 'em you're thinking about doing a suicide trip ... now you got some reason to believe 'em. Give yourself another day before you pull that trigger.

****

SLAMMERS INTO STURGIS:
We live in a time when names hold no value any longer. A check with the EconoLodge on this east end of town tells you that a room, for a single person, will cost more than $109 per night (1994 dollars). Econo-what?

Maybe there is a name that stands true, though. Without me getting too hoo-rah about the company, try "Harley" on a biker. See if the word rings true.

****

Body count on biker deaths comes over the radio as you climb the Interstate hills outside Rapid City, headed toward Sturgis. Announcer's voice moves quickly. Six total? Did you catch that right? Today, they announce two dead in a head-on crash, another body found in a ditch. Last one'd been there a while, it seems. I guess dead bikers in ditches are harder to spot than dead drivers in cars.

****

STURGIS SLAMMERS:
Huge numbers of bikers cruise Lazelle, the main drag off the Interstate. The sound ... is something you become accustomed to as the day wears on, but now, when it's still fresh, you can feel the concussive effect of the multiple engines, even single engines. It slams into your body in staccato rhythm. It buzzes around in your head, numbing it. Then splitting it with an ax. It's kind of like sticking your head in a blender for a day.

The. Noise. Never. Stops.

****

Next street over is where the action is. It reminds you of Halloween in Austin, Texas. The cops trap off a six-block section of downtown there, and everyone walks up and down first one side of the street, then the other, in a very elongated rectangle, parading their costume.

Here, it seems to be six blocks also, with both sides of the street lined with Harleys parked with their ass-ends in. In the center of the street, Harleys are parked in two close rows. This leaves a narrow path on either side of the street for bikers, in a one-way circle, to parade their bikes and the women on the back; down one six-block length, make the turn, then back up the other side of the same street for six blocks. And do it again. Again.

****

Damned near every shop on this stretch of the town road has biker stuff. Clothing. Insignia. Bike parts. That kind of stuff. You talk to a store owner, and he tells you something you can't believe. So you ask a cop. He tells you the same thing. Normal town businesses operate here the year round, except for this one week. Then they turn their stores over to the bike paraphernalia sales people for the week. When the bikers leave, the regular folk go back to selling hardware and such from those same stores.

****

No man here wears shorts. Long-legged Levis is the name you walk with. No one walks around with a baseball hat stuck stupidly backwards on their head. Tattoos are a serious matter, not something you do for the hell of it. A college kid would get killed here. I feel comfortable.

****

Even after that crack about a college kid getting killed, I find everyone here being decent to everyone else. This is the thing that sticks most as a memory, later. It began with the dude at the campgrounds; then the cafe; and now, an entire mass of people who have reputations as mean, nasty, killing types are gathered up in seven days of peace and love.

****

Later, you walk over to a cop car, talk. So, all these people ... they seem to be getting along.

Yeah.

Cops are smiling. Don't seem to want to say much. But they say something about this just being the way it seems to always come down.

You walk away, thinking this is a place you could take a family to and feel perfectly safe.

****

You figure that maybe a small miracle of peace is at work here.

And then you realize that some of these people would just as soon kick your teeth deep into the back of your throat for saying they come across as peace-loving types, as others here would appreciate the words.

****

Down to the intersection, Camel cigarettes has taken over an entire section of the corner. Public relations gig. Big Camel banners. Huge tent. Bands playing rock and country at different times during the day and evening.

P.A. system tells you someone knows what they're doing here. The sound system's blaring Black Sabbath.

****

I've seen more people with one leg or one arm missing at this rally than I've seen all year. If these people are indeed road casualties as I suspect ... how do you come back to the thing that's taken a part of you forever apart?

This love of the road, or Harleys, must be greater than what you find in many marriages.

****
There's this bike, huge, terribly tricked out, soft sky blue. An Italian bike. Moto Guzzi. It's called the Jesus Bike. Got free brochures on it saying so. The owner's apparently on a mission for god, or someone.

This biker and I look at this. Biker says,

"Damned lie."

I go, "What?"

"Jesus bike," he says, "damned lie. Everybody knows Jesus rides a Harley." And walks off.

****

The bikes tell you about this Harley culture. Its individualistic nature. There is not a single Harley out on this street of tens of thousands of bikes that looks like another. Except for two sets of identical his/her bikes. This is the all-American gig. Totally different from the Japanese bikes. The bikes from across the Big Pond all look alike. You seen one Ninja 2000PUKE, you've seen 'em all.

Every Harley seems customized to fit its owner. It's as if the drive to ride refines the drive to be an individual. Gives it an outlet. A way to show it. It would not seem outrageous to suggest that these bikers choose the look of their bikes with as great a care as they do the design of the tattoos on their bodies. No. Blasphemy. You're sure they choose the look of the bike with greater care.

****

Women seem to be put on parade here by the guys they're with. Women ride on the back. Scenario ... you got a good-looking one riding passenger, the guy slows as some dude on the street with a camera raises his hand for him to stop. Bike halts. Chick leans out and smiles. Guy looks hard and mean. Dude with camera takes shot, lowers camera. Woman pulls back behind guy. Guy takes off again, maintaining hard look.

Suddenly, a clump of people gather at a corner. Some chick in what's called a body web, patches of material to cover vital spots just netted together by weavings, revealing a lot of flesh, is parading down the street carrying a sign advertising the clothing. Dudes shoot her. Some ask her to pose with them while a friend shoots the two of them. She does.

Another clump and a woman in just a small black leather vest, a black G-string, and riding chaps shows up. Riding chaps have no hip or butt covering. Or pube-area covering. The open space at the pubes is covered by the G-string triangle patch. Dudes struggle to fall into place, to follow this woman. She is the first of a number to have discovered this unique outfit. More clumps will come later as the other women emerge into public.

Another clump and a woman in a black leather face mask begins a parade down the street. The mask is reminiscent of some dominatrix outfit. Everyone's shooting the mystery.
Another clump and someone's discovered a woman with a chain-and-ball attached to her leg. No one knows what it's for. Suddenly, she ups and walks away. Dudes shoot her.
A young blonde woman is crouched on a pedestal. A huge man with at least 250 pounds of body just from the waist up alone, and all of it tattooed, including his face, asks the woman to stand so he can take her picture. It seems that that is all the woman is there for. To stand on the pedestal and have her picture taken.
It changes every second.

****

This is not a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade of sweetness and nice. This is a parade of power, both man and machine; of male and female sexuality with the sensuality stripped from it; of individuality not so much in the clothing, but in the bike. This is a mating dance, a posing and positioning for power. Flesh is open and flaunted. Men with rings in nipples. Women with butts not flashing, but as part of the display. Tattoos scream for attention.

The power of the bikes is partly in the thunderous sound, partly in the quick 5-10 foot speed chunks they take after rolling the throttle quick and hard. And there's the power everyone knows ... everyone who's been on one of these beasts. The surge and pull of a bike with these kind of engines under acceleration. Pure sex.

****

I have a bias against the Honda Gold Wing, and other bikes that would pretend to the throne. And I will tell you that when one of these quiet machines shows up, stops at the corner, then takes off with the mildest of sounds ... it's as if we're all watching a gelding, a neutered animal confused, mistakenly trying to compete for the herd. It is merciful that not many of these machines show up, and that when they do, they are gone soon.

****

This entire passion play raises major questions concerning the attempted wholesale social engineering of our society in thinking about the relations between men and women. This is a festival of sexuality, and these are people who, on the whole, seem to be at ease with the relationships they've developed; and it is at severe odds with conventional wisdom coming out of the college campus think-spots.
There is no question that there are evil people preying on the weaker ones in this biker world, but that truly happens in all ranks of our society.

The question is whether those on the outside, have any right to expect these people to conform to the more "civilized" outsider expectations of the man-women relationship.

Women ride Harleys. A good number of them. Some with men riding alongside. Some with other women. Some alone. Things are either changing, or they've always been like this. But women can rise to that privileged position of rider. But except in emergency, women will never ride with a male passenger hanging on the back.

Women also pose for photos. And seem genuinely pleased to do so. Some college profs may claim this to be the result of a lack of correct training in their rights and place in society. But this argument presumes that choosing to pose for photos (or to be Miss Sturgis 94, with red leather over-the-knee high heels and precious little else) is inherently wrong. That no matter how well informed a woman may be, she should never choose these activities.

Those who would advance this argument are advancing the notion that they have the right to structure society as they see fit, and that the individual who chooses deviance from their norms is incorrect.

And I will tell you true that making an absolute claim to what is right in society and what must be, is the basis for political action that smacks of Hitler's Germany.

****

If you've never been on a motorcycle with an overdose of power, and you've never laid into it and let that power drive you, I don't know if you can really understand what true sexuality, what the full meaning of that is all about in this day and age. If you're just depending on the touch and the mix of the flesh for your knowledge of sexuality ... without the machine, you can't know the full truth.

****

The Broken Spoke is a huge barn affair as spread out as a warehouse that is, without question, the top-dog drinking and party establishment in Sturgis. I stop in to take a look. The place is filled with hundreds and hundreds of people, drinking, talking, milling about, playing grab-ass, and men in clumps and individually, shooting pictures of women. A live band is playing. The feelings are incredibly positive. Good stuff. The sort of thing that brings smiles to my face.
It's 3:30 in the afternoon, and the sun shines hard. This place has nearly eleven hours to go.

****

Down by City Park, they've set up something called Rat's Hole. It's where they hold the judging and exhibition of the best of the bikes. I pay $5 to get in. Walk fifty yards in, and almost stumble into a small clump of people. Must be a woman involved, I figure. I'm right. Someone downed by the heat. Someone else has her legs elevated, another person's wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. I find it interesting for about 10 seconds, then walk on. An ambulance arrives as I walk away. I've got bikes to look at.

There's a clump of people over there. I check it out. Buncha' dudes, some chicks, all gathered around Miss Sturgis 94. She's about six feet tall with the red leather over-the-knee highheels. Slender. Incredibly well dev ... well, whatever. Diamond plug in her left nostril.
I look carefully, I will report on this and must get it right. Lessee, tattoos running the full length of her outer right leg (assuming the tattoos continue down her legs into the boots) ... oh, on her left leg, too. And yes, that is a tattoo covering her whole stomach ... nice work ... light, not too heavy on the ink coverage. And son of a gun ... got one tattoo right there on the small of her back. Bikini top. That ever-present G-string. The Miss Sturgis banner. That's the package.

I walk away as some old geezer gets her to pose with him. About twenty steps away, I realize I'm getting old and my memory is fading. I must make sure she is as I only now think I saw her. Since I will report on this, I must be accurate and I turn back to confirm.

I was right. Thank god the memory's not wholly trashed. I turn away and see the ambulance driving off. Not sure if the girl is on it. This disturbs my concentration and I find I must refresh my memory.

****

THE AMERICAN FLAG: You find it flapping in the wind behind a Harley cruising the highway. You find it as spandex shorts being sold at the rally. You watch a woman old enough to be a grandmother wearing the U.S. flag as a jumpsuit. You find it as a G-string patch covering the pubes of a woman wearing nothing more than a bikini top, the flag-string, and riding chaps. You find it as a star-spangled sequined dress worn by a young woman in the Broken Spoke Saloon. You find it as headgear, as a bandanna. And you remember Easy Rider. Peter Fonda and his bike. American Flag.

Those of us studying mass communication have a colleague in the profession who has spent time counting the uses of the Stars and Stripes in the mass media, like the news and such. I hate to tell her this, but the real story's in how this biker culture's taken the flag to their heart, head, butts 'n pubes.

****

A good-bye line to Sturgis comes to me as I drive on out of town.

One for all. And all for nothing.

Not sure what it means.

****

End PART I, Go to PART 1, or Move back to the Mutant page, or on to the Mojocity page.

© Copyright 1996-2009, Greg Stene

Goofin' with the bikers.

The '94 Harley Gathering in Sturgis.

from the book, Mutant at the Wheel.
part 2