WHERE HALF A MILLION BIKERS COME TO PARTY
Harry is the world’s biggest dick. No, not figuratively as in “ass hole,” but literally as in “two-meter-high standing Pekker”. Cocks aside, Harry is really a nice dude with a friendly disposition to all who pass by. He’s just another massive guy that happens to clad himself in an inflatable penis outfit, complete with a set of two giant balls to keep him company. Not anything out of the ordinary in this crazy, unreal place. Standing on a busy street corner, he hands out small purple penis necklaces to whoever cares to drop by. I stop by for a quick chat with Harry, take a lovely photo of him and his wife, get the odd-looking freebee, and move on. In this shrine to in-your-face individuality, and like-or-not freedom of expression, Harry’s unorthodox costume hardly makes a ripple.
Muslims go to Mecca. Hindus have the Ganges River. Hasidic Jews pilgrim to Mt. Meron for a nightly feast. The Vatican is where Catholic Christians look for inspiration. And bikers? Harley worshipers? V-Twin aficionados? Where do they go to pray?
Somewhere on the American prairie
Three months had passed since my casual meeting with Harry, and the street corner is now empty. So is the whole town. As a matter of fact, the entire prairie is deserted, a barren, wind-swept pale shade of its former self. There’s no soul in sight, save for a lone Coyote or a wandering Bison. When I check the weather app around mid-November, it says -130 Centigrade with a wind-chill factor of minus 20.
It is hard to imagine it was only a few short months ago that I sweltered under blistering sun and the deafening rumble of half-a-million Harleys and Harley-likes (also known as “Hardleys”) motorbikes. This lone place on the far southwestern corner of South Dakota is called Sturgis. And if you never heard this name before, you’ve never been a true biker. For if you were, than during two weeks in August, this remote outpost in the middle of f***ing nowhere would be your center of the universe.
Far, faraway land
Bikers need no introduction. For the rest of humanity, however, Sturgis is a small town of 7,000 inhabitants. It was founded in 1878 and named after Samuel D. Sturgis, a Union general during the Civil War. Located about an hour’s drive northwest of slightly less obscure Rapid City (population 75,000), Sturgis is also close to South Dakota’s Black Hills and Mt. Rushmore National Monument (more on that in a future post). For bikers, the above means nothing. Started in 1938 by a group of Indian Motorcycle riders and growing almost yearly since, Sturgis is one thing, and one thing only: Bike Rally.
More precisely, the biggest, loudest, most colorful annual two-wheel event in the world. For 10 days, beginning on the first Friday of every August, this tiny enclave is overrun by a hoard of up to 800,000 motorcycle enthusiasts from all corners of the globe.
Being the CMO of a motorcycle accessory company has its few perks. After 5 years of service and two-and-half years of the pandemic, I decided the time was right to cross Sturgis out of my bucket list. Our US team has a permanent booth location and, more importantly (and harder to get), a permanent place to stay, so it was only natural I would join them – a task I would discover is easier said than done.
Getting there is half the fun (NOT)
With an air ticket at hand and a suitcase full of marketing materials, I boarded a United flight to Newark with a connection to Chicago and then to Rapid City. All-in-all, a 17-hour trip that was supposed to have landed me in South Dakota at 10am on a sunny Friday morning. The journey to Newark was uneventful, but everything went south from then on. I should have figured out things were not right judging by the chaotic airport and the numerous foldable beds in each corridor. The usually tidy terminal had an ambiance of a field hospital after a major earthquake.
I didn’t know then, but a major summer thunderstorm the day before had messed up air traffic all along the eastern half of the American continent. I noticed that my connection flight was rescheduled to take off almost two hours later than planned, making my connection to Rapid City impossible.
Skip the following paragraphs if you couldn’t care about the events that followed, and go straight to “restart.”
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Stormy commuting
As United’s highest frequent traveler status member, I went confidently to the nearby lounge to inquire. The clerk explained that there was little he could do but offer another connection from Chicago through Denver to Rapid. Having no real other option, I agreed. Too bad the flight to Chicago was further delayed, making me miss the new route by a few short minutes. Again, I went to the United desk, where another friendly agent put me on a later flight leaving for Denver in an hour, and then a different connection to Rapid getting out at 12pm. The flight to Denver left an hour and a half later than planned in what was starting to become a pattern.
Landing, now in Denver, and having missed my connection to Rapid, I was duly notified the next flight at 16:00 was full. The only other option was 19:00. They did agree to put me on “standby” for the afternoon flight, and as the hour approached, I was happy to find out one of the passengers didn’t show up. The place was MINE. “Woohoo!” I cried like Homer Simpson in ecstasy as I boarded the small plane and was escorted to the only vacant seat.
It took only seconds of relaxation before the air steward, baffled and embarrassed, asked me to leave. I must have flown hundreds of times and have experienced almost everything air travel has to throw at you. Being bumped off a plane wasn’t one of them. I was so shocked I didn’t even protest. I just took my bag and went outside. The agent at the gate explained that the no-show eventually arrived, and he had higher status than mine. I found myself grounded again.
Tornado Warning
Starring livid at the closed gate, I was offered sympathy, 7,500 MileagePlus points, and a Business-Class upgrade on the next flight. “It is what it is,” said my inner voice, “no point getting angry over things you cannot control.” Having nothing better to do till the 7pm flight, I dragged my heavy feet to the nearest lounge, ordered a pint of some local beer, and crashed on one of the sofas. It wasn’t long before an ominous voice blared through the PA. It was two of the last words you’d want to hear in an airport – “Tornado Warning”.
WTF!?!
This is Denver in August, hundreds of miles away from the infamous Tornado Alley, and it’s not even twister season! The world must be getting mad!
Earth aside, though, what do I do now? Being the risk-averse person I am, I chose the logical thing to do and ran to the nearest glass window – camera at hand – to try and capture a funnel. No dice. Exasperated by the growing list of failures, I resorted to apathy, accepting the fact this “wasn’t my day,” and slumped back on the sofa, waiting for the 19:00 flight.
Just when I thought I was out
Sitting comfortably in the front row of the last plane of this never-ending commute, I thought back on the ridiculousness of it all. The chaos, the missed flights, the change in route, the highs and the lows of this never-ending day. At a certain point, I noticed my plane wasn’t moving.
A gentle voice from the cockpit announced that the crew had exceeded their FAA-allowed time on the plane and that they were waiting for a replacement crew to arrive from Chicago. “Just a few more minutes,” promised the voice. We took off at 21:30.
Rapid ghost town
Rapid City airport isn’t large by any standard. Not even Kirgizstan’s. Landing at 22:30, the place was a deserted ghost town. Tired passengers waited near the single baggage carousal that spewed a few suitcases. Naturally, mine wasn’t one of them. Looking around for a baggage claim counter, I met a wandering American Airline employee (literally the only living soul on the entire premise) that told me there wasn’t any baggage counter in Rapid City airport. “Try to knock on the door next to the carousel,” he advised, “perhaps a United employee will open, and you can ask him what gives?”
So, I knocked. And then again, and then some more. I checked the airline app, which said the baggage had arrived on a previous flight. In an ironic twist, unlike me, my luggage wasn’t kicked out of the 16:00 flight.
At 23:15, a red-eyed United employee opened the door and escorted me inside the unloading deck to a pile of suitcases – leftovers from previous flights. Mine wasn’t one of them. “When my shift is over, I’ll run by the office to check if there’s anything there,” said the visibly tired employee. I was angry at not being able to be mad at him. Like me, he was a miserable pile.
After midnight
Midnight came, and with it, so did my suitcase. Yes, it was locked in the office. I quickly grabbed it before my luck changed again. Went through the abandoned car rental desk (they did leave the keys in an envelope, as I asked them to) and found my rental waiting in the dark parking lot. I went inside, paired my phone, buckled up, inserted the address into the navigation app, and realized I had an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of me.
Driving way over the speed limit and fighting hard to stay awake, I winded up at the hotel reception at 1:45am – full 36 hours and five flights (ok, let’s make that four-and-a-half flights) after leaving home. I was now at Sturgis, close to 16hrs late. My impossible journey was finally coming to an end. Not bothering to open the suitcase or even brush my teeth, I fell dead on the bed and passed into a dreamless slumber.
Restart
I wake up the following day to a beautiful summer morning. Picking out the window of my motel room, I see the Great Plains of South Dakota stretch all the way to the horizon, broken only by some distant hills and big blue skies. This could have been just another pastoral day if not for the distant, distinctive exhaust note of large displacement, big V-Twin motorcycles.
I get dressed, consume a plastic-tasting breakfast served on a cheap non-recyclable plastic plate, and move on to the parking lot for the short drive to the main Sturgis event. The drive to the center of Sturgis is a transformative journey into the Planet of the “Hogs.”
For those not enamored with Harley Davidson culture, “Hogs” means Harleys. You’d think the nickname has something to do with the size or sound of the motorcycle (or perhaps the size or sound of their riders). The true origin of the nickname, however, is rooted in – of all things – racing. Racing? Harley?
I must admit this revelation made as much sense to me as sending a real hog to compete in Formula 1. But hey, who am I to argue tradition with a bunch of “Hells Angles”.
Almost there
Back to the highway, it is filled with Hogs. Hundreds of them. Mostly ridden by couples, mostly with the ladies in the back. Hog fans, as I will soon learn, are a traditional bunch. An interstate dominated by two-wheelers is not something you get to see very often. Flanked on both sides are massive camping grounds complete with tents, sanitation, and lots of motorcycle parking areas. It is 10am, and most riders are still reeling from last night’s hangover. The hogs are parked in neat endless rows.
All in all, more than half a million motorcycles will participate in this year’s rally. With a year-round population of 7,000, Sturgis can hardly accommodate a small fraction. The seasonal camping grounds stretch in all directions as far as the eye can see.
I arrive at Sturgis center to find it emptier than I expected. All for the better, as finding a parking lot was still a challenging endeavor. Mornings are slow as Sturgis really begins to live up sometime after lunch. I take advantage of the slower traffic to tour around before meeting the rest of the crew stationed in the Cardo tent on the main road to the town’s center. This is where I meet Big Dick from the beginning of the post and Doug.
Doug and his dog.
Looking as mean as a cop that pulled you over for doing 160, this big white Pitbull stares at me with a look that says, “are you my dinner”? His owner looks no better. Together, the five-legged tag team occupies a rare parking space on the busy main street. I say five-legged on account of Doug missing one of his. “Lost it to a Vietcong ambush in ‘Nam.” He says in a rusty voice that has surely been through more Bourbons than one would care to count. He asks me where I’m from. I answer, “Tel Aviv, Israel.”
His composure changes instantly. “Welcome to Sturgis!” he yells in the most friendly demeanor he could master. “I love Israel! You Israelis love Trump and know the elections were stolen by the #$@% Democrats!…” He then goes to list an endless string of conspiracy theories and alternative truths that would make anyone but the staunchest Trump fan cringe. I try to keep my composure the best I can.
Mind your politics
All in all, Sturgis is very Republican. Blue T-shirts with Biden and Harris and a byline that reads “Dumb & Dumber” are for sale everywhere. The Confederate flag – an absolute “no-no” in New York and California is not a rare sight either. It’s not that everyone here is an extreme “Make America Great Again” (a.k.a. MAGA) fan; it’s just that progressive-minded persons would be wise to keep their views to themselves. You may not understand this right off the bat, given the diversity and creativity of the many customized bikes on display, never-the-less when it comes to politics, Sturgis is very white and very conservative. They would most likely have had a “F*** you, Greta!” T-shirt sold next to the Biden/Harris one, had they had any idea who the f*** Greta Thunberg was. In this bastion of ‘Murica! Anything outside the contiguous 48 states is either unimportant or communist!
Back to charming Doug & Dog. Having completed his list of abject grievances to the Biden administration, he laughs with a big hearty smile and tells me his story. He lives alone with his big Harley three-wheel trike and his young 10-month-old Pitbull (the aptly-named Roadie) in Florida. Each year he rides the long 3000km route (each way) to Sturgis and back with his dog perched on top of a small bike trailer Doug uses as storage. The dog loves riding with Doug – show me a dog who wouldn’t – and had already covered more than 11,000 miles (close to 20,000km) with him. Both are as friendly and accommodating as one can imagine. And not just Doug (and his dog); everyone in Sturgis is.
Pealing the image away
Underneath the bad-boy veneer, the folks at Sturgis are all about smiles and friendship. Yes, the old book of clichés says V-Twin bikers should be all Hell’s Angels misfits on the lookout for mayhem and destruction. Forget that! This really is about socializing with fellow riders from around the country. Bars on Main street are open early and close up late. Rock music playback struggles to keep up with the constant rumble of sawed-off exhausts. Shiny bikes of all shapes, colors, and sizes (Large, Extra Large, and XXL) cruise slowly from one intersection to the other. Some are beautiful, others are bizarre, and few are true works of art.
Stand for five minutes on an average day, and you could see anything from a bright yellow Harley powered by a “small-block” Corvette V8 engine to an Indian bagger with long horns as handlebars and a giant commuter train headlight stuck to the front. 30″ front wheel white “Bagger” with 1″ ground clearance? You got it! El-Mariachi-inspired bike with a beautifully engraved copper frame? There she goes! The creativity is endless. The absolute devotion to art would feel at home at any modern art museum. MOMA curators should come to Sturgis – if only they would have the guts (and some would say – the nerve) to leave Manhattan and venture all the way to South Dakota.
At the Cardo stand
The rumble of large bore engines never seizes – a backdrop of monotonous deep & loud burble that accompanies you wherever you go. I head towards the Cardo stand on the corner of I90 & 6th street. Our team has already set up the tent and opened shop inside the premises of “Rumble On” – the pre-owned bike trading company. The corner booth is strategically located right at the main throughway to the town center.
We take shifts in helping out existing and future customers, solve customer support issues and provide on-premises assistance and guidance to whoever drops by. Later that day, we would open the taps, invite our key V-Twin influencers and social media magnets, and host a Cardo party with complimentary beers and loud music.As the party slowly grinds to a stop, I take a short stroll down the road to see some of the more prominent compounds of the major motorcycle manufacturers and modifiers. One of them is from Bavaria.
Meeting the Hardlys
The BMW area is a bit of an oxymoron. The world-renown German manufacturer is famous for high-tech adventure and sports motorcycles, not old-fashioned V-Twin “Hardleys”. Still, large American-style cruisers are too big of a business for the elitists in Munich to ignore. They have devised a beast of a motorcycle called the R18. This chromed monster is powered by a massive 1,800cc two-cylinder boxer engine. The result is not exactly a copy of the genuine Harley and the Indian articles but rather an interpretation of the Harley concept. I must say that although I’m no fan of Harley copycats, this one looks good.
In the center of the BMW stand, perched on top of an elevated stage, stands a one-off made by the Long Beach artist Roland Sands. Roland hosted us in his beautiful studio several months back when we did the US launch of our top-of-the-line Packtalk Edge. His unique touch provides the big Bimmer with something no Hardley ever had – A cool factor.
The real thing
But change is not an exclusive German business. The classic Harley crowd, which grew on “Easy Rider” and Hell’s Angles myth, is getting older and fewer. As Baby Boomers are edging toward their 80s, many simply become too old to ride. Younger audiences prefer more modern and capable Adventure motorcycles (the equivalent two-wheel version of the SUV). This is excellent news to KTM & BMW but not to Harley Davidson, whose sales have been declining in recent years. Something had to be done, as evident at the mega compound of the Milwaukee-based manufacturer.
Below the sea of good-ol’ American flags and patriotic billboards lie tradition-shattering lineup of Harleys. Next to the usual heavy rigs stand a new lineup that has finally made the jump to the 21st century. Water-cooled, double-overhead-cam-shafts, four-valve-per-cylinder engine that revs to 9,500rpm may not sound special to riders of Japanese or European brands, but to Harley, this is nothing short of a complete revolution. A total departure from tradition and a venture to the unknown. Speaking of journeys, there’s a brand-new 1,250cc adventure bike called Pan America. In a funny twist of irony, while the engineers in Germany were working hard to copy Harley cruisers and produced the BMW R18. Harley engineers were, at the same time, creating an impersonator of BMW’s blockbuster – The GS1,250. Now go figure.
Back to Main street
Late afternoon and Sturgis is bustling with bike traffic. On the main street, a team of long beard riders dressed in overalls ride through a see of V-Twins on small Kymco scooters. Nice joke, guys! Others take their hobby more seriously with creations of true excess. V8 bikes, huge 30 & 32″ wheels, “choppers” equipped with two-meter-long front axles, giant handlebars, low-riding colorful “baggers”, you name it.
I stop near a few parked bikes to take a closer look. It doesn’t take long for the owners to notice and checkout on the guy from the Middle East eying their beloved hogs. Heck! What could possibly go wrong? Stereotypes aside, all the bikers I meet are only too happy to converse with a total stranger. The shared love for motorcycles overcame any barrier. Each and every one of the proud owners has a story to tell. One rode all the way from Maine on a “rigid” (a bike with no rear suspension – not for the faint-hearted), another came from Louisiana on a chopper with the tiniest handlebars. He says he’s stirring it with his body. He must have a point there. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made the 2,500km journey in one piece.
In full swing
It’s getting late now, and time to have a snack and head to some bars. I rejoin the team and head with them to Main street, where the party is now in full swing. There are rock bars, hard rock bars, heavy metal bars, and trash metal bars. No hip-hop joints. I would have said Sturgis is no place for the likes of Snoop Dogg, but apparently, he did perform in the nearby Buffalo Chips just before COVID. Go figure.
We do our bar hopping drink in one, see a live performance in the next, chat with a group of bikers in the third, and have another drink in the fourth. There’s an urban legend saying the cops at Sturgis don’t jail you for drunk riding. It is said you get a $500 fine, which you have to pay in cash, and that’s that. I was going to check that myth for myself when my body signaled, “Game Over”. Being over 50 and 9 time zones away eventually caught up with me. I bid the cardo team and a few newly found friends fair well and drove slowly (at least that’s what I remembered) back to the hotel. No cop stopped me, so I kept the five-hundred Bucks to myself.
Final words
To be in Sturgis is to take any preconception you may ever had about big bad Harleys and throw it in the dumpster. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a friendlier collection of individuals anywhere else on the map. Being a V-Twin aficionado is about something bigger than bar brawls and drunk riding. It’s about belonging to a large community of people who share the same passion – each one in his/her own unique way. Sure, it’s not for everyone. It’s an excessive, loud, crass, in-your-face mega gathering of a different dimension.
But, like a good bucket list, it leaves you with a taste for more. For it is the people that make Sturgis what it is. They are a wonderful breed of enthusiasts who are only happy to make your acquaintance and, for a short while, be your best buddies. That is, of course, as long as you keep your progressive views to yourself!
