Cycle News - Archive Issues - 2000's

, By HENNY RAy CHICANERY ABRAMS The Lure of Sturgis he woman walking toward me is topless. Except for tiny heart-shaped, flesh-colored pasties that cover the forbidden parts, they are there for all to see. Not that you'd want to see them. Time has not been their friend. They have the weathered look of an old barn, red and dappled by age and neglect and maybe, just maybe, I'm staring a little longer than I should. But I'm convinced she wants me to, as does her husband, who proudly squires his not-so-young lovely down the bustling sidewalk of Main Street, showing her off as proudly as a prized heifer. Pose for a photo? Not a problem. They got stopped more often than an Arab in an airport security line. And all around, the sun is shining, the potato-potato sound of slow-moving Harleys fills the air, the smell of grilled turkey legs and Indian tacos assaults the senses. This is not a dream. This is Sturgis. It is said that there are only two things you have to do - die and pay taxes. To that, add a third - Sturgis. The official name of this year's weeklong celebration of exquisite motorcycle riding roads and aberrant behavior was the 65th Annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. "Sturgis" is all you need to say. It's iconic and unique. Forget Laconia. Especially forget Daytona - it's a swamp with increasingly irrelevant races and roads with as much character as a planter's wart. The 90 percent of motorcyclists with the good sense to avoid the Speedway spend their days going nowhere and their nights cruising the few blocks of the sclerotic Main Street. Aside from coming up with the $300-a-night tab to sleep in an overpriced chain crap hole, the right turn onto A IA South will be their most taxing maneuver of the week. Any motorcyclist who thinks he's seen it all hasn't unless he's been to Sturgis. First and foremost, it's about the riding, which is different from the trailering. The schism that exists between the riders and the trailer trash was best stated in one of the official T-shirts, "Nice trailer pussy," a sentiment left open to interpretation by shoddy punctuation. Ask anyone what they're riding and they'll tell you a Harley - at least 90 percent - then quickly add, 'I\nd I rode it here." Harley-Davidson sanctions a contest that's called the Ride In Show. Riding in eliminates the nouveau poseurs with the choppers whose front end resides in a different zip code from the 14-inch wide T Harley Owners Group (H.O.G.), a group with a membership of over 900,000 worldwide that somehow feels like a small family. It helps that Willie G. is seemingly everywhere, signing T-shirts and admiring his creations gone amok. As were Karen and Bill Davidson, both descendants of the greatest motor company in the history of the internal-combustion engine. If you're in Sturgis, choppers are for posing, motorcycles are for riding. And why not? The variety of roads within 100 miles of Sturgis is spectacular. Drive east and you'll run into Badlands National Park. Riding its 244 ,000 acres means navigating a mixture of prehistoric rock formations and the largest protected mixed-grass prairie in the United States. The booklet you're handed upon entering tells you that the "Badlands National Park contains the world's richest Oligocene epoch fossil beds, dating 23 to 35 million years old. Scientists can study the evolution of mammal species such as the horse, sheep, rhinoceros and pig in the Badlands fonmations." The greater concentration of roads is to the west and south of Sturgis. The best of them is the Iron Mountain Road, a series of switchbacks, granite pinnacles, tunnels, pigtail bridges, and elevation changes that make Space Mountain seem like a goat path. Come around a blind corner, head through a tunnel, and there in the distance is Mount Rushmore. By the time you're done gawking, it's time to hook a quick left for a descent down the hill. Add a slick surface - the day I went, it was raining lightly and the skill level of piloting a two-up dresser makes what Valentino Rossi does look like a parlor game. Iron Mountain Road cuts into the east of Custer National Park, a place where wildlife of two wheels and four legs exist mostly in harmony. It isn't often you see a pack of wild burros watch nonchalandy as a stream of Harleys motors by. Even less frequent is the sight of a buffalo stopping traffic to cross the road, but it happens. And it's best not to loiter. Whether they're rural myths or not, stories exist of buffaloes taking exception to Harleys and stomping them back into their composite parts. That's just the beginning. There's Deadwood, where you might channel the ghost of AI Swearingen holding profane court at the Gem. No part of his banter can be replicated without more dashes than a Morse Code translation of Ulysses. There's the Spearfish Canyon Road, where you might see a squid on a sportbike get stuffed up the inside by a middleaged guy on a Harley with three 500cc World Championships, or his son, the 2000 500cc World Champion, no doubt lamenting the lack of run-off and thinking of ways to make it safer. The irony is that the majority of riders ride at or under the posted speed limits, even on the Interstate. And the overwhelming majority don't wear helmets, enforcing the maxim that those who don't wear helmets have nothing to protect. Here I am, forced by law to strap into my Korean rental, while in the lane next to me a fat guy on a Fat Boy is cruising at 65 in a wife beater, cut-offs, and Tevas. What's wrong with this picture? That's a question you're likely to ask repeatedly. There's simply too much to see, too much to do, too many roads to ride, too many demos to try, to fully experience the week in a week. Days are spent riding, nights are spent relaxing. Those who want to be seen cruise Main Street like unwanted hookers. Better to park and watch or partake in one of the many hospitable establishments. Some of the better ones, like the Full Throttle Saloon, on the eastern side of Sturgis, offer full-service debauchery day and night. Orgasm contests, wet T-shirt contests, bull riding, drinking, lots of drinking, and Angieland, where you can stick your head through a gigantic mock-up of her golden triangle. The line fonms to the left and moves quite quickly, I must say. Former 250cc GP Champion Roland Sands was there, showing off immaculate creations in the Seminole Hard Rock Cafe compound just off Main Street. Terry Vance brought his Scream in' Eagle dragrace team and a new semi filled with pipes and parts for the cruising set. Vance's riders Andrew Hines and G.T. Tonglet staged exhibition runs at the AHDRA meeting on the edge of town, riding the Screamin' Eagle Destroyer VRods down the eighth-mile track after the top-fuelers had gagged those of us stupid enough to inhale their fumes. That's the paradox of Sturgis. Rational behavior and the true enjoyment of riding a motorcycle rules the day; irrational behavior after parking your motorcycle rules the night. Words don't do Sturgis justice. If you ride a motorcycle, you should go. It's that simple. And if you see the lady with the pasties, try not to stare. It won't be hard. Ahem... eN rear tire. It isn't officially a Harley event, but it is vivid testament to the brilliance of their CYCLE NEWS • AUGUST 24,2005 87

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