A Slice of American Pie: Part 9
Biker Babe Does Sturgis

It’s finally happened. I feel it. I’ve found the groove and the rhythm. I think I’m a Biker Babe. Riding with a pack from the Sturgis Rally, it is a special-order day, complete with fresh mountain air, warm sunshine, clear blue skies, the Black Hills of South Dakota covered with pines and motorcycles. Hundreds and hundreds of motorcycles. Nay, thousands of motorcycles.

What began as a race 64 years ago, the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally has become the best known and the largest motorcycle event in the world. Someone said they estimate the crowds by weighing the garbage, based on the calculation that each person generates 4.5 pounds of garbage daily. But give or take a few thousand, the ten day event attracts about 750,000 people. That’s equal to the entire population of South Dakota. Or imagine four million people on motorcycles coming to New Zealand for a week. Like a hive of bees swarming around the nest, there is a constant drone of engines moving in and out of Sturgis, a town of about 4,000 people.

Here we were, just two more little bees with our eyes bugged out. Our senses were already jaded after riding over 1100 kilometres (661 miles) that day through the corn fields of Iowa and on into the prairies and land of mythical proportions. Dances with Wolves was filmed here along with Little House on the Prairie.

Indian reservations of different nations dot the unique landscape. Saddle weary, tired and cold, we finally saw on the horizon the Harley Davidson dealership in Rapid City. It was dwarfed behind a sea of motorcycles and vendors in the parking lot. Choppers, tattoos, prescription goggles (bifocal or progressives available), food, beer, chrome, boot shining, pin striping, t-shirts and leather, leather, and more leather covered every surface. We dipped the toe of our riding boots into the Sturgis extravaganza.

Paul was like the cowardly Lion in the red poppy fields. I could see the mesmerizing drugs beginning to take effect as he wandered from one stall to another, content to lie down and stay forever. No wonder there is so much flesh exposed by the females. It is a desperate attempt to compete with this motorcycle mania.

I winched him away as the day gave way to night and we headed into our nightlife of the rally. The Whispering Pines Camp Ground was another half hour into the mountains. The drone of passing motorcycles went on for hours as we snuggled into our sleeping bags.

“Is it morning yet?” I asked as I emerged from the depths of the summer sleeping bag clad in three shirts, two pairs of pants and long socks. A frost greeted us. An artic air mass was stalled over the area, sending temperatures to new record lows. It was time for a very hot shower and to head into Sturgis at last, passing through pristine countryside. I kept an eye out for deer, an ever present danger to bikers.

The daily tabloid published through the week of the rally included the death toll, as on holiday travel weekends. It peaked at nine. One came to terms with a deer at night. The rally racing claimed a rider.

Another 25 year old woman remained in fair condition, having apparently fallen asleep and rode down a 50 foot ravine Sunday night. Monday she made contact with her cell phone but they couldn’t trace her. She finally crawled up the canyon on Wednesday.

Sturgis. The word quickens the blood of any true biker. They have gathered from the four corners of America and beyond in all shapes and sizes. We ride the bike of choice, with Harleys far outnumbering other models however there have been stories of Yamaha’s hanging from a tree, burning! We probably looked like computer geeks with our helmets and jackets on. Not being required by State law, there weren’t many helmets to be seen, but there were bikes everyplace. They lined the streets and were also parked in two solid rows down the middle not only in Sturgis but in many outlying towns. Rows and rows of chrome and exotic paint jobs, limited only by imagination and budget.

A person’s philosophy, religious beliefs and personal gripes were incorporated into the designs or embellished with attachments. Live to ride. Ride free. Patriotism ran high. A lot of Harley riders are veterans and, though maybe not in favor of the war in Iraq, they are fiercely loyal to their Commander in Chief (the President) and the soldiers.

So what does one do on a motorcycle rally? You ride motorcycles, shop, party and ride motorcycles some more. There was an idiosyncrasy I detected. A large number of bikes were trailered into this motorcycle utopia. Why would one drive a truck or van instead of the bike? I queried one woman at the sink next to mine one morning. “We came so far. It was a question of time. It’s my husband’s dream to ride out here some year.” I also noted that her toiletry bag was bigger than my whole luggage allotment. Maybe it has something to do with keeping the women happy. Am I missing something? Should I be protesting?

Not that anyone would notice one more shouting person. That leads me to comment on the night life where the biker’s reputation really suffers. Sturgis is known for its wild times and debauchery. We never witnessed it. Though tantalizing, we were also cautioned that most of the exposed flesh would have been better left to imagination. We also missed the women wrestling in coleslaw and midgets in two feet of baked beans.

Those are all just excuses to be here, riding on the back of the motorcycle, content to the bottom of my boots. How did this happen? Maybe I sniffed some of the poppyfields and am under the Harley spell as well. A Biker Babe at Sturgis with the road stretching before us and a day that promises to never end.