Hello Captain Obvious.

He works for one of the vendors during the rally, changing oil and performing other maintenance and repairs on motorcycles. The tent that’s strapped to his bike is his home, as he travels the country working the big rallies like Daytona and Laconia to earn enough money for his minimalist lifestyle. He casually dropped the fact that he rode 10,000 miles in less than two weeks in Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge (HHMC).

How It Started

The first Challenge in 2010 was more like a race, because there was $500,000 in gold waiting for the first person to cross the finish line in Homer, Alaska, after departing from Key West, Florida. The 9,000-mile route went through 62 mountain ranges, 33 Indian reservations, 26 National Forests, 8 deserts, 6 National Parks and 4 swamps.

The routes are always a tightly kept secret. They give you an 8½ x 11-inch laminated sheet of paper at the beginning of the Challenge with turn-by-turn directions to the first checkpoint. The checkpoints are approximately 2,500 miles apart. They use a fleet tracker to monitor your whereabouts and make sure you stay on the course and don’t exceed the speed limit too much.

They try to keep the route off interstate highways. When you start doing the math on an average speed of 45-50 miles per hour, it doesn’t leave much time for breaks, including sleep. I recently interviewed a couple, Jimmy Milas and Junie Rose, who competed in the challenged 14 times combined (nine for Junie and five for Jimmy).

Junie entered the first challenge in 2010 and has an interesting story about her journey with some of the other riders she traveled and bonded with. You can read the story here. She is now the Director of Rider Relations for the HHMC.

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Sturgis Wind: “What drew you to the Challenge the first time? What made you want to do it?”

Jimmy: “A friend of mine talked about it, and then I met a fella on a ferry, going to Newfoundland. We chatted for a bit, talked a little bit about the criteria, and that’s when I decided I wanted to do it. That was in 2015, and I rode 2016 my first time.”

Junie: “For me, it was a kind of a romance story about life and death. I was in chemo, in March of 2010 when I read about Hoka Hey. I was fighting my second round of cancer - breast cancer. And a guy sitting next to me – I told him ‘they’re going to do a motorcycle ride from Key West, Florida to Homer, Alaska, and the prize is a half a million dollars in Alaskan gold.’ And he said, ‘you should go do that.’ I said, ‘I should.’ And my young child just came into the room and said I should.

I said, ‘Hey Doc, You think I’ll be strong enough by June to ride a motorcycle to Alaska?’ And he said, ‘Go live your life. Don’t let this cancer slow you down.’ And he gave me $100. So I thought I’ve either got to do this ride or I’ve got to give this man his money back. So I told my caregiver who drove me back and forth to chemo about it, and his band had a benefit for me.

And they raised enough money for me to enter the Hoka Hey. So I went. I rode down to Florida. I had no hair. I had one breast. I was skinny as could be. But I just wanted to get to Alaska on my motorcycle, and so that’s where it all started for me, and then I just couldn’t get enough after the first one, I didn’t make it to Alaska the first time, but I did eventually make it to Alaska. For me, it was just, I didn’t need the prize money. I loved the challenge of getting out there and figuring this out. You know, the very first year, there wasn’t even a mileage. They didn’t tell you it was going to be 10 miles or 20 miles. You just had to find the roads.

So it was pretty tough. You know, there was somebody that made it up there and got the half a million dollars. And then the second year we rode 48 states and two provinces, and that was crazy. There was a hurricane that blew in that year, and every year there’s something, it seems like that’s unique to it, but the Hoka Hey was originally started by a guy named Jim Red Cloud, who was the grandson of the chief of the Lakota people, on Pine Ridge. And his vision was to bring awareness to the United States and Canada about the plight of the Lakota people, because there’s 40,000 people living on that Indian reservation, and 33% of them at the time did not even have running water.”

Sturgis Winds: “Oh, man.”

Junie: “So, for that to be right here in the United States. You know, it was something he wanted to bring awareness to. And the whole challenge idea of, here are some directions that morning, that’s the first you get to see of them. No plotting, no planning. You have no idea what to dress for, where you’re going, and off you go. It, it was exhilarating.”

Here’s a story about another rider who was drawn to Alaska:

Food, Showers, Sleeping - You’re On Your Own

Jimmy: “Junie’s a real fan of stopping along the way if she sees a Flying J, get some laundry done, and have a shower. But myself, I keep going until I’m finished. I did get an opportunity to have a shower on the '26 Hoka Hey because the dealership in Rhode Island - they had one shower there and they opened it to all the Hoka Hey riders who wanted to shower.”

The couple only rode together once in the Challenge. Junie likes to take her time and soak in every moment, whereas Jimmy likes to get to the end as soon as possible. They’ll set up a tent to sleep in if it’s wet, or if there are mosquitos, otherwise they sleep on the ground next to their bikes.

Junie: “Sometimes the weather is just beautiful, even at night, and you can just lay down beside your motorcycle and use your tank bag as a pillow. When I first started doing Hoka Hey, I had a tent, because I, for one as a woman, I always wanted to be able to hide. I didn’t want people knowing that I was a woman by myself sleeping, so I always had a tent. It’s good for keeping you out of the weather or the bugs. But I also used to try and find places like churches that were out in the middle of nowhere, or post offices, because every town has a post office. A lot of times you can get behind the post office, and nobody even knows you’re back there.”

Jimmy: “Myself, I like gas stations, because I can have a coffee in the morning and brush my teeth. Yeah, it’s the coffee. Those are the most important, so a gas station is good for me. I can always brush my teeth with a bottle of water.”

Sturgis Wind: “What about food? Do you just buy fast food?”

Jimmy: “Yeah, you’re doing that but mostly gas station food. You know some guys will stock up at the beginning, but it quickly runs out.”

Junie: “Depends what you want to eat. I like to carry things like peanut butter, crackers, and granola bars, and stuff like that. Because you can buy a whole box of those for the price that you pay for one in a travel center. I have a cooler bag, but not iced or anything. It’s just basically to keep them dry. But, you know, fresh fruit. I like to find fruit, bananas, things like that in the gas stations. Not just roller dogs and breakfast burritos.”

Jimmy: “And myself, I go after the chicken. Oh yeah! If they got fried chicken, I’m on it.”

Junie did not ride in 2026. As Director of Rider Relations she stayed at headquarters and fielded phone calls. She also helped design the 2026 ride. Sometimes it goes from point A to point B. Other times it’s big loop that ends up back at the same place. 2026 was unique.

Junie: “They were expecting a third checkpoint, which a lot of times we do. We go around 2,500 miles, to three different checkpoints and then the finish line. Some of them, like with the Homer Alaska, Key West one, we went from one end to the other. But there’s some that we’ve done in circles where you end up back at the starting line. But this was the first time we had ever sent them in two different directions and had that middle checkpoint because they were all expecting something - and it never was revealed.”

Sturgis Wind: “As you were doing these rides, did you ever feel like giving up?

Jimmy: “Only this year. Yeah, this year was pretty tough. Again I’m actually serious about that. Just this year, was the only one that I ever felt like giving up.”

Sturgis Wind: “What happened?”

Jimmy: “I was a really hard ride. The heat was unbearable at times. The speed limit was low at times, quite low, and because it was busy areas. So stop and go, slow down, accelerate, stop and go, you know what I mean? There was 15-mile stretches or 20-mile stretches like that.”

Junie: “I never felt like giving up. I had obstacles that were always in front of me, but I felt like, you know, they were just hurdles. But as long as there was still somebody out there and Beth (Beth Durham, Co-Founder and Chief of Operations) wasn’t just waiting for me, I usually tried to pursue the finish line regardless of circumstances.

Danger and Perseverance

Junie’s talk about obstacles is pretty casual, but she twice hit deer, and had to replace her motor once.

Sturgis Wind: “Did you ever have to do any repairs on the road?”

Jimmy: “Yeah.”

Junie: “Lots of times.”

Jimmy: “Both of us. Engine rebuilds and an engine replacement for Junie.”

Junie: “The list goes on. I hit two deer out there in different events. Yeah, I’ve had lots of unexpected stuff. A stater will go out or something like that. But you know, you look at things like your brakes and your tires and those kind of things and make sure all that stuff is good. But maybe you don’t pay enough attention to the engine itself.”

Jimmy: “Oil changes, right? Generally you get them at the pit stops if they’re not too busy. Depends on if you want to keep moving. Do your own along the way at O’Reilly’s or AutoZone, or something like that.”

Sturgis Wind: “Junie, tell me more about hitting two deer.”

Junie: “It was pretty good. I mean, enough that I was able to straighten the fender out and keep going, but it did stop me for that evening and we had to take the fender off both times. I had to take the front fender off and work it out. The first time it was a lot bigger deer, and he kind of broadsided me. But neither time I went down, so I never got hurt and the bike got damaged, but it didn’t get nearly as bad as if it hit the ground. Both times was late at night. They’re out there when we shouldn’t be. I was trying to make up some time because the bike had broken down before he hit me.

I had some work done on the bike, so I was thinking, okay, I’m rested. I can ride overnight and it must have been about 12:30 when he hit me and then the second one I was going to stop. I was headed for my stop and this little one ran out in front of me and got caught up in everything, so we really had to straightened stuff out there, but I was able to keep going both times.”

Sturgis Wind: “And you replaced the motor as well on this ride?

Junie: “I did I have a cousin who was such a sweetheart, because it was gone. Otherwise, I’d have been done. We were riding from the west coast to the east coast. I think the finish line was at Wolf’s Run, and after I got that engine replaced and I took off and I did eventually make it to New York.”

Sturgis Wind: “So do you know beforehand where the finish line is?”

Junie: “You do know the start and the finish. The rest of it is kind of up for grabs. But we try to keep it pretty hush-hush because we really don’t want people interfering with the riders. Everybody wants publicity and all that kind of stuff but safety for our riders is number one.”

Sturgis Wind: “Do you do anything to prepare physically, mentally?”

Junie: “Personally, physically, honestly probably no. Mentally, I think I do. I get myself ready to kind of be out there. I love to listen to music while I’m riding. Some people want total silence. They want to just concentrate on the directions. But I love to have some good music playing, and just really enjoying the ride.”

Sturgis Wind: “What was the worst weather you had?”

Jimmy: “Hurricane Debbie for me. Yeah, I guess it would be, or Wyoming. Wyoming was pretty bad. 50 mile-an-hour, and 60-mile-an-hour side winds. But with rain, and then in '24 we started the route from Daytona to Key West and Hurricane Debbie was sliding by.”

Sturgis Wind: “What was the scariest thing that happened to you?”

Junie: “I guess that would probably be that Wyoming wind.”

Jimmy: “But crashing happened so quickly, you don’t really have time to think about it. You go into shock afterwards, but I guess, I really don’t know. But as far as scary goes, it’s the weather. Heavy winds, heavy rains, you can’t see where you’re going.”

Sturgis Wind: “Did you ever get hit by hail?”

Jimmy: “Yeah, more than once.”

Junie: “It hurts.”

Sturgis Wind: “They had some in Sturgis this year, but I wasn’t where it was that day. But, people showed me on their phones what it looked like. There was a lot.”

Junie: “I’ve experienced hail going through Yellowstone several times. When you get up on those higher passes, it’s kind of common.”

Sturgis Wind: What’s the best natural beauty you encountered on these rides?”

Junie: “Utah.”

Jimmy: “The most natural beauty for me, I’d have to say, is Junie Rose.”

Sturgis Wind: “Good answer!”

Jimmy: “I’m a mountain type of a guy being from Canada and all the Rockies. I like the mountains, everywhere I go. But I wasn’t kidding with my first answer either.”

This is another magic box tale, as told by a lifelong friend. When we met in 1989 at the Easyriders Rodeo in Chillicothe Ohio, he reminded me of the biker in the famous Ghostrider painting by David Mann, right down to his motorcycle.

We were from the same city, but had never met until the Chillocothe rodeo, four hours from home. I’ll just call him Alaska, because he talked a lot about his plan to ride 4,000 miles to that northern state that is separated from the lower 48 by Canada.

The Tow Rope Story

Before he tells the magic box story, it’s always prefaced by the story of why he carries a tow rope on long trips. We rode to Sturgis in a group for the 50th anniversary in 1990, but Alaska kept going after the rally, all the way to California then back across the southern states, meeting up with us on Labor Day weekend in Chillicothe for another Easyriders rodeo.

While travelling through Arizona the extreme heat snapped the primary belt on his custom-built chopper. Most Harleys have a primary chain from the motor to the transmission, inside a case swimming with fluid. Primary belts don’t turn inside fluid so they don’t need to be encased, although it’s a good idea, for safety.

With spinning machinery that close to your shifting foot, a frayed pant leg or stray shoe lace could rip your foot off.

The case should be ventilated though, to prevent turning it into an oven and melting the rubber belt when you’re riding across Arizona in the summer and it’s 110 degrees. This was news to Alaska, being from a region where the riding season is often interrupted by three months of snow. I’ll let him take over:

They tied a rope to the back of the Beetle. Alaska held the rope in his left hand and steered with his right. The driver was taking it easy and being really careful and they went about six miles. They pulled up to a main road that they needed to cross.

Alaska explained that he was from way up north, his primary belt was broken, and he was just trying to get to the bike shop to get it fixed. The cop asked Tommy Chong for his title and insurance. When he opened the glove box some drug paraphernalia for smoking marijuana fell out.

Alaska thought they were done, but he pleaded his case and begged for sympathy. The cop finally let them go, perhaps seeing the humor in the entire fiasco. Alaska made it to the bike shop, had a new belt installed, got a lesson in primary case ventilation, and showed up in Chillicothe with the primary case inspection cover tucked away in his saddlebag and another crazy story to add to his résumé. Seven years later he was packed for the 4,000-mile Alaska adventure with another rider he had met recently who insisted on making the trip with him.

Alaska Bound

The Alaska highway was constructed during Word War II to connect the United States to Alaska through Canada. It runs across the top of British Columbia and cuts across the Yukon. There’s not much up there. On a motorcycle it’s wise to fill up the tank every time you see a gas station if you don’t want run out of gas. When Alaska rode to his namesake there were about five wire mesh deck bridges to cross - purposely constructed so the snow falls through in the winter. He describes the experience:

The last one was the longest, causing him to seriously consider turning around and throwing in the towel. But he made it.

“Middle Of Nowhere”

One day they’re somewhere between Anchorage and Fairbanks, “far from civilization” and Alaska’s chopper quits. Out comes the tow rope. This time the rope is tied to his riding buddy’s Harley instead of the back bumper of a 1960s hippy-mobile. He towed him to the next gas station about 20 minutes down the road. Out come the tools and off comes the seat. After a few minutes of wire tracing and testing he determines that his magic box is indeed toast.

He sat there stranded, dooming and glooming and contemplating his next move. Suddenly a van with an enclosed trailer pulls in, followed by a pickup truck towing a flatbed trailer with three Harley Davidson motorcycles - two side by side and then one behind them on the left.

Alaska sees that setup and quickly walks over, thinking his bike will fit on the right side of the rear bike. His excitement turned to disappointment as the bike had a sidecar, which took up the rest of the space in the trailer.

The stranded bikers strike up a conversation with the travelers. Alaska talks about his dream trip he’d been planning for years and how he’s broken down. One of the drivers tells his story. He just retired from the military after 20 years in Alaska. He packed up everything he owned, including his new Harley Davidson motorcycles, and was moving to Idaho.

“What’s wrong with your bike?” the stranger asks.

“My magic box is fried,” replies Alaska.

“Start taking it apart,” he says.

The retired soldier opens the enclosed trailer and starts pulling everything out while Alaska starts disconnecting the magic box. Apparently, the traveler had replaced the stock parts on the new Harleys with Screaming Eagle accessories to enhance performance. The bike parts were the first to go into the trailer so everything had to come out to reach them.

He comes out of the trailer holding a brand new magic box in his hand.

“Try this,” he says, handing the voltage regulator to Alaska. “You look nervous. I’m going to go and grab us some beer.”

Alaska was nervous.

What are the odds of someone pulling in here, exactly when I need them to, and having the spare part I need, that’s practically brand new, and then taking the time to unload an entire trailer, then reload it again after retrieving the part? he thought to himself. He has a brand new Harley and I have a custom-built chopper. So what are the odds this part actually works?

The friendly stranger returned from the gas station store with a 12-pack of beer and began passing it around to Alaska and his riding buddy, and to his son who was driving the van and moving with him. They talked some more and drank a couple of beers while Alaska hooked up the new magic box.

“I thinks it’s ready,” said Alaska.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the stranger.

Alaska nervously pushed the start button and his motorcycle roared to life. He revved it a couple of times then let it idle. The ratta-tat-tat of his V-Twin motor never sounded so good. Alaska breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“I don’t know what you were so worried about,” laughed the stranger. “I wasn’t.”

The guy reached out to shake Alaska’s hand and Alaska opened his arms wide and gave him a hug instead.

“Thank you so much,” said Alaska. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” said the stranger.

“What do you mean nothing?” said Alaska. “You saved my ass. I have to pay you at least the price of a new magic box.”

“Okay,” said the stranger, “I’ll tell you what. I would really like a T-Shirt from the Harley Davidson dealership in your hometown. When you get home, send me one.”

Alaska got his name, address, and T-shirt size then thanked him five more times. He made the 4,000-mile trip home without issue. Alaska was determined to pay the kindness forward by stopping to help stranded motorists, especially stranded motorcyclists. He continues that habit to this day. He describes the experience and what he did when he got home:

Coming Soon

Whenever you (includes me) start thinking you’re some kind of badass long distance rider, you always meet someone else who humbles you without even trying. When I share my stories about riding 1,200 miles to Sturgis every year with no windshield, rain or shine, I’m not trying to flex. I’m just telling you how I do it, and some of the things that have happened along the way.

Look at the picture above in front of the Alaska sign - a custom chopper with small leather saddlebags. They road at least 9,000 miles in total, sometimes through remote wilderness and rough roads - without GPS or cell phones.

Then there’s Jimmy and Junie. They completed the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge several times. It’s approximately 10,000 miles that must be completed in 14 days. Some do it in 10. That’s some serious riding. The rules prohibit the use of GPS, extra fuel containers, and sleeping in motels.

Nobody knows where they’re going ahead of time. They hand you an 8.5" x 11" laminated sheet of paper with turn by turn directions. The first Hoka Hey challenge went from Key West, Florida to Homer Alaska in 2016. I recently had the pleasure of interviewing this couple. Please subscribe so you don’t miss it.

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The questions above delivered in rapid succession were our mockery of other motorcyclists, who were always invited on our trips, but who never left town. The last question was made up as an ironic exclamation point to the others. Ironic because we considered ourselves bikers.

I had been riding for about ten years. I’d had a good run with no major breakdowns that required a tow truck, and no major rainstorms that lasted more than an hour. That was all about to change.

I packed my bike and set off on the 1,200-mile ride home from Sturgis. It was morning but it was dark. The sky was black with rain clouds. It wasn’t raining but if felt like the sky was ready to turn into a waterfall at any moment. I could see intermittent lightning shooting across the sky from every direction. These conditions continued for hundreds of miles as I travelled east through South Dakota on Interstate 90. No rain — just dark skies and lightning in the distance. I pulled off the highway to fill the gas tank.

There were four other riders pumping gas. They were riding Harley Davidson full dresser touring bikes. They all wore rainsuits that were dripping with water.

“Which way you headed?”, one of them asked me. I pointed east.

“We just came from there,” another one replied as they all looked at me and shook their heads. “You better suit up,” he continued. “It’s not good.”

I didn’t own a rainsuit. The wind was starting to pick up and the temperature was dropping. I pulled my leather jacket from my right saddlebag and put it on before heading for the interstate on-ramp. The dark sky continued lighting up sporadically in all directions, but didn’t let any rain out.

Then it started, light at first, then gradually getting heavier. I heard a loud crash of thunder for the first time that day. I had no windshield to block the rain. Every drop to the face felt like a whip. I used my left hand to shield my face from the bottom of my glasses to my chin, as I gripped the throttle with my right hand and looked for an overpass to duck under and make a few adjustments. The whipping continued to pound my forehead. That was bearable, unlike when it was hitting my cheeks, nose, and lips.

Without rain I passed transport trucks on my right all day long. But when the rain started I had to slow it down quite a bit to adjust for visibility. Trucks were passing me on my left. Their violent wind and spray made it very difficult to see. I rode like this for about ten minutes until I saw an overpass. I slowed down and gradually moved onto the paved shoulder as I came to a stop under the bridge.

I put my bike on its kickstand and dismounted. I opened my saddlebag and grabbed a folded cloth bandana from the top. I used it to wipe my face and hands dry, then my riding glasses and my chrome handle grips. I folded the square bandana diagonally into a large triangle then wrapped it around my face with the folded edge straight across the bridge of my nose just under my glasses, the open edges forming a V that hung down below my chin. I tied it tight behind my head, got back on the bike, and rode away.

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Breathing through my nose pushed the air upward through the top of the bandana and fogged up my glasses so I had to switch to mouth-breathing. The bandana became so wet that I was taking water into my mouth and pushing it back out with every breath. This weather continued for another couple hundred miles. I was now on Interstate 29 heading south toward Sioux City, Iowa. There was water on both sides of my glasses. The bright lights from transport trucks traveling in the opposite direction were shining into my face. The water droplets on my glasses started splitting and bending the light so I could no longer see what was ahead of me. It was time to get off the highway.

I pulled off at an exit in Sioux City that had multiple motels and stopped at the first one, under the shelter by the front door. The rain was coming down hard and shooting out of a downspout like a firehose. I got off my bike, dripping wet, and walked toward the door. The building angled out to the right of the front door and had a sliding glass window. A lady slid the window open and asked me if I had a reservation.

“No,” I replied.

“We’re full,” she said.

“Do you know if any of the other motels at this exit have any rooms?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “They’re all full. There’s a large convention in town.”

“Do you mind if I sit under here?” I asked.

“No. Go ahead,” she said.

I sat down on the ground under the shelter away from the front doors with my back against the building. What am I going to do? I thought to myself. I’m soaking wet. I’m freezing cold, and I can’t ride in this weather anymore. It’s nighttime dark now and the rain is not letting up.

I wrapped by arms around myself, shivering. After about ten minutes the window slid open and the lady said “we just had a cancellation. Do you want the room?”

“Yes,” I said as I sprung to my feet and walked into the building. I checked in and got my room key. I took a long, hot shower that felt so good. I put my leather jacket on a clothes hanger and hung it from the shower curtain rod. I put my wet clothes in the dryer in the laundry room across the hall.

I got into the bed and turned on the TV with the remote control. The local news was on. “If you were outside half an hour ago, this is what you would have seen,” said the newscast lady. The screen cut to an image of a trailer park that had been destroyed by a tornado. I WAS outside half an hour ago, I thought. I retrieved my dry clothes, set the alarm clock for 3:00 a.m., and went to sleep.

*****

The alarm woke me up at 3:00. I looked out the window. The parking lot was mostly dry with a few scattered puddles. I took another shower, got dressed, and went out to my bike. I put my clear lens glasses on and pushed the start button on the softail. I heard the very sad, weak noise of a dead battery attempting to turn the electric starter. What next? I thought to myself.

With my hands on the handlebars, the bike in first gear, and the clutch lever pulled in, I started pushing the bike and running next to it. I jumped on the seat and quickly let the clutch out in an attempt to “push start” the bike. It almost started. I tried two more times and couldn’t get it to start. A cop pulled up in a patrol car and got out.

“You need help?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’ll give you a push,” he said.

He started pushing me as I sat on the bike. I was probably going twice as fast as when I was attempting this solo. I let out the clutch and bike roared to life. I waved to the cop and headed for the interstate. I entered the highway and quickly shifted through the gears until I was in fifth gear and travelling at the posted speed limit. I was riding for about half an hour with no issues.

Why did my battery die? I thought. There must be something wrong with the charging system. Am I going to have to jump start this at every gas stop until I get home?

I was about an hour south of Sioux City and started looking for a gas exit. This will be my first test, I thought. Suddenly I heard a crackling noise coming from the bike as it lost power. There were sparks shooting out from under my seat. I coasted to a stop on the shoulder. I put the bike in neutral and pushed the start button, knowing what the result would be. Silence.

I was about 100 yards from an exit ramp so I started pushing my bike toward the ramp then up the hill. There was a gas station on the other side of the interstate so I pushed my bike across to the parking lot and put it on the kickstand next to a phone booth. I laid down on the sidewalk and went back to sleep.

I woke up at about eight o’clock in the morning with the hot sun warming my face. I bought a coffee from the gas station store. I went back to phone booth and found the number in the phonebook for the Harley dealership in Sioux City. I phoned at 9:00 as soon as they opened and they said they would send a truck to pick me up.

It was about 90 minutes before the pickup truck towing an enclosed U-haul-style trailer, with dealer graphics painted on the side, showed up. The driver secured my bike inside the trailer and I got into the passenger seat for a ride back to where I been last night.

They told me they had a bunch of scheduled jobs before they could look at my bike so I got comfortable in the waiting room and fell asleep for a couple of hours. When I woke up they were just bringing my bike into the shop. I watched the technician run his testing. He came out to talk to me.

“Your magic box is fried,” he said.

“Magic box?” I asked.

“Yeah, your voltage regulator,” as he held it out in his hand. “We need to replace it.”

“I just bought that,” I said. (It had quit on me in Sturgis and I pushed my bike down the service road behind the Dakota Spirit campground to a motorcycle repair shop. They had installed a new magic box a couple of days prior to this incident.)

“Aftermarket junk,” he said. “That’s what happens with that crap.”

Two new magic boxes. Labor. Towing. I can’t remember what it cost but it was a lot. I was on the highway heading south thinking depressing thoughts about the ugly dent in my credit card bill. I quickly cheered myself up by realizing how lucky I was to be back on the road with everything under control once again. And how I got to watch a tornado’s destruction from the comfort of a motel bed instead of being part of it. I had a couple more hours of sunshine, then the rain started again. It continued for another 400 miles.

Despite the rain, the breakdowns, and the adversity, a trip like this builds character, strength, and resolve. Not that I welcomed any of it — it’s the exact opposite. But I would have missed the fun, the excitement, the camaraderie, and the story-telling of an awesome 10-year run before this happened had I let fear stop me from leaving town.

Stayed tune for another magic box story as told by my good friend and riding partner.

When I walked back to my bike I saw something scary that had the potential to end my trip before it started. One of the shocks was hanging down underneath the Softail Custom. The shocks on a Softail are parallel to the ground, hidden underneath the bike to give it the look of a “hardtail”. The V-shaped swing arm that holds the rear wheel axel has the look of an old-style motorcycle before they put rear shocks on them – kind of like a bicycle. The shocks are attached to the swing arm at one end and the frame at the other, tucked under the bike and out of view.

I turned around and headed for home. I wasn’t about to start this trip with half my rear suspension. I put the bike on my lift and inspected the shock. Numbers 5 and 6 in the image below were missing and the thread they were on was damaged, causing the shock to hang down from the frame.

I was puzzled as to how this could’ve happened because it was good when I left and I didn’t hit any large bumps – at least none that would cause damage like that. I removed the shock, went back to sleep and set my alarm for 8:30. The Harley dealership opened at 9:00. I was waiting at the doors with shock in hand when they opened. Then I heard the words from the parts counter guy that you never want to hear when you’re trying to fix your bike during riding season, especially when you’re trying to leave on a trip.

The look of disappointment on my face caused him to rethink his answer.

“Just hang on, I might have a used one in the back,” he said. He returned with a replacement shock in his hand. “Here you go,” he said, and handed me the shock with the cup washer and locknut attached.

“How much?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Nobody’s here. Just settle up with us when you get back from your trip.”

I went home, installed the shock, and set off for Sturgis, five hours behind schedule. I was content with the delay, since it all worked out. It could’ve been much, much worse. The excitement of overcoming that obstacle in record time, the luck of the dealer having a used shock in perfect condition, and the anticipation of the week ahead with nothing to do but ride had me focused and in the zone, blowing through several gas stops before taking a bathroom and coffee break.

I ended up pulling into the Dakota Spirit campground about 25 hours after I left, with a 3-hour nap in a truckers’ lounge. I unloaded my bike, set up my tent, and crawled inside for another two-hour nap in the late morning sun. I awoke from my deep sleep to the sound of someone unzipping my tent, and a buddy sticking his head in yelling “You made it. I wasn’t sure if you were coming.” I smiled and went back to sleep.

Let’s Ride

When I got up I had a long, hot shower and changed into clean clothes. I grabbed something to eat at the campground bar while I sipped on a large coffee. A couple of friends picked up my tent with everything in it and walked it about 100 yards away, then set it down next to where they were camped. I rode over. I preferred to travel alone so I could ride as many miles as I felt like, stop when I wanted, and get back on the bike on my timeline. There was too much of what I call “hurry up and wait” when traveling with a group. But the main reason is that I only had a week off work. I didn’t have a couple of days for travel to tack on to each end of the trip.

The “I wasn’t sure if you were coming” comment was because my plans were loose and I hadn’t confirmed my intentions with the group before they left. There was no way to communicate with each other except in person. Cell phones hadn’t gone mainstream yet. We all did what we came there to do and went riding.

The next day I got smacked in the face with deja vu, only this was a repetition of reality. As I walked toward my bike after paying for gas, I saw the same shock hanging down under my bike. Upon further inspection I realized the damage was exactly the same. There was no use trying to find a replacement shock again. Something was obviously wrong that was causing damage to the shock. I zip-tied the shock to the frame so it wouldn’t hang down and hoped the other one wouldn’t meet the same fate in transit, which would be disastrous.

I’ll take it easy for the rest of the week and if I still have one shock at the end of the week I’ll ride home, I thought to myself. In the meantime, I asked a lot of people, including motorcycle mechanics, if they had any ideas about what caused this but they all came up empty. The bike didn’t feel any different with an inoperable rear shock. I enjoyed the rest of the week riding around the Black Hills with no other suspension related issues. I had another issue with the “magic box” quitting on me. This is the voltage regulator mounted to the front of the frame. There was a motorcycle shop on the Interstate service road behind the campground. I was able to push my bike there and get it diagnosed and repaired.

The magic box failure and repair caused me problems on the ride home. But I’m going to skip that for now because that’s another story in itself, which I will write about in my next post. I now fast forward to after the trip, safely home.

The Right Call Got An Instant Answer

I asked several mechanics and Harley aficionados about the shock absorber damage but nobody had an answer. The softail was a “rebuild”. The previous owner had bought an aftermarket frame and added the rest of the Harley parts to it. Although it was 90% Harley, the title had the name of the frame building company. I knew the previous owner, who had built other bikes with aftermarket frames, and sometimes aftermarket S&S motors, with no issues.

I had another friend who had built several custom motorcycles for himself, for others, and to sell. His hobby and his passion had turned into a lucrative “side hustle”. He also built complete custom order Harley wiring harnesses from scratch to sell for profit. They were very expensive to buy from the dealers. While not a licensed mechanic himself, he seemed to know more about Harleys than anybody, including the mechanics that worked for the dealerships.

Everybody who rides needs a connection like this guy. I happen to be lucky enough to know four such characters.

I called him up. He knew my bike and knew who built it. He instantly diagnosed the problem. After I provided the information, our conversation went like this:

Him: “Let me ask you this. The bolts that hold the motor to the frame, they are Allen bolts with nuts at the other end. Are the Allen heads at the top or the bottom?”

Me (stretching the spiral landline telephone cord out into the garage so I could see): “They are at the top.”

Him: “There’s your problem. They are upside down. For that year the Allen bolts go from bottom to top, and the nuts go on top. When you reverse that, one of the nuts gets in the way of the shock and destroys it as soon as you hit a bump.”

Me: “Wow, thanks. That makes total sense.”

Sure enough, the end of the motor mount bolt and nut were damaged and I could see that there wouldn’t be enough clearance to clear the nut when the shock compressed. Back to the dealer for the other shock in the pair, and a new motor mount bolt and nut. I replaced the damage nut and bolt, reversed the remaining ones, and torqued them down to spec.

I was very lucky that only one of the shocks had the clearance issue when the bolts were upside down.

We had read about Sturgis and saw the pictures in Easyriders Magazine. It looked like the place to go for motorcyclists looking for adventure. Unaware that 1990 was the 50th anniversary of the world’s largest motorcycle rally, and that this fact would spike the attendance significantly to north of 400,000 people, six riders had a 20-minute meeting to loosely plan the details of our 1,225-mile journey.

*1990 was the 50th. 2025 was the 85th. 2040 will be the 100th. Notice how the last digits of the years align with the last digits of the anniversaries? The first year of the rally was 1938. “Shouldn’t it be 1940?” you might ask. As the story goes, the Jackpine Gypsies Motorcycle Club, who started the Sturgis Rally, cancelled it from 1942 to 1945 due to gas rationing during WWII. When it resumed in 1946, the organizers included an unofficial gathering in 1937 in the anniversary tally, so 1946 became the 6th annual.

Two weeks later six riders, one passenger (my loving wife whom I had married the previous year), and another rider’s girlfriend driving a pickup truck towing a bike trailer, set off for Sturgis, South Dakota. The trailer was added in case the bikes broke down (they didn’t), but ended up towing some of the bikes when the riders wanted to take a break.

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I never took a rest in the pickup truck, nor did I take advantage of the offer to pack extra stuff and store it in the truck because I didn’t want to get used to that luxury. From early observance to eventual participation, I was always fascinated by traveling great distances on two wheels, and the challenge of carrying what you needed to sleep outdoors.

I also wanted to have everything on my bike, in case we got separated from the group. Our camping gear (tent and sleeping bag), toiletries, and clothes for 10 days, were either stuffed into the Big Bertha leather saddlebags, or strapped to the bike. It was a long time ago so I don’t remember exactly how we did it. I have a similar bike now and have zero extra room when I pack for one, for a week.

After a couple of days on the road, Interstate 90 West began a straight, steady decline to the bridge across the Missouri River at Chamberlain SD, then ascended on the other side to the homestretch - the last 230 miles through the Badlands and Rapid City to Sturgis. I remember the excitement as the motorcycle traffic increased and the other traffic decreased. The motorcycle:other vehicle ratio seemed to be about 50:1 for the last 100 miles. Riding next to fellow travelers as we slowly passed was amazing.

We could feel the anticipation in the air and see it on their weathered and sunburned faces. There were so many different motorcycles, styles, custom accessories, paint schemes, and out-of-state (and country) license plates. I would constantly match their speed for a few seconds when passing so I could examine the different machines, and their riders and passengers. The bikes were loaded with camping gear and bundles of unknown items, indicating they were not accompanied by non-motorcycle vehicles.

After we finally set up our sleeping quarters in the campground and began to ride the winding roads of the Black Hills, we noticed random tents set up in the wild, nestled in the roadside brush. This was the first of many Sturgis trips for me but the last time I would ride there in a group.

Something Was Changing

Fast forward to 1996. The homestretch motorcycle:other vehicle ratio was now even at about 1:1. I observed many motorcycles in the “other” category in the backs of pickup trucks, on trailers, and on platforms attached to RVs. I also saw lots of enclosed U-Haul style trailers decorated in black and orange with the famous Harley Davidson bar-and-shield logo. What the heck is going on? Doesn’t anyone ride anymore? I thought to myself.

Like I said in my first article on this site: “I don’t understand it. At all.”

The campground that was filled with tents and motorcycles in years past, was now overwhelmed with camping trailers, pickup trucks, and massive recreational vehicles. Once we started riding the roads of the region, things didn’t seem all that different. There were motorcycles everywhere: The interstate highway between Rapid City and Spearfish, the Black Hills around Mount Rushmore and Custer State Park, the Main Streets of Sturgis and Deadwood, the famous Wall Drug, and the parking lots of every restaurant and roadside bar within a 100-mile radius of Sturgis.

Something started creeping into conversations that had never happened before. People would look at my license plate on my motorcycle and ask.

“How far is that?”

“It’s about 1,200 miles.”

“Did you ride here?”

Honestly, I’m not trying to be a dick, but the first 10 times I heard that I must have looked geniunely confused because to me, that was the stupidest question I heard from folks just trying to be friendly.

“How else do you get a motorcycle from one place to another?” was my response.

They would usually half-chuckle at what they pretended was my attempt at humor. It actually was for the non-motorcycling community. In years past the question was bonafide stupidy. But look around. It had now become a reasonable question based on logical observance. To motorcyclists, my sarcastic response was a poke.

Take a breath. Let it go. Don’t be a dick. Let them do them and I’ll do me.

Something Changed

Now fast forward a few years again. The biker culture style had entered the mainstream. Every celebrity, pro athlete, doctor, lawyer, CEO and their brother had to have a Harley Davidson motorcycle or a custom chopper. There were waiting lists for new motorcycles. Used bikes were also in demand, driving up the cost. I had sold my Softail Custom for a hefty profit at the beginning of this frenzy after racking up thousands of miles on it, year after year.

The wave spread to Europe. A buddy made a small fortune building and flipping bikes, then selling them to the same guy who paid cash and shipped them to Germany. A motorcycle mechanic I knew, who was deadly in martial arts, quit his job at the Harley dealer and moved to the southwest to become a personal bodyguard for an unnamed celebrity. He doubled his salary to take care of his new employer’s motorcycle, and ride with him on the rare occasions when he had time to venture out on two wheels.

In August of 2002 I crossed the Missouri River on my 2000 Softail Deuce and entered the Sturgis homestretch. The 1990 motorcycle:other vehicle ratio had been flipped around to 1:50. I stayed in the passing lane for most of the remainder of the journey, as the right lane was clogged with all types of camping vehicles and pickup trucks pulling trailers loaded with motorcycles.

Some of the camper and pickup truck drivers would sound their horns and raise their fists out their windows in celebratory salutes as I passed. I ignored them and focused on the road ahead. When a number of them decided to make noise in unison I couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently, riding a motorcycle to a motorcycle rally instead of carrying it in another vehicle was akin to scoring an overtime goal in a Stanley Cup final game. I raised my left hand high in the air and gave them the one-finger biker salute. I did it a few more times. It felt good. I don’t know why I let it bother me so much. Not riding just seemed wrong.

I arrived at the now-defunct Dakota Spirit campground just east of Sturgis on the south side of the Interstate. There wasn’t a lot of tree cover there so I could usually survey the field and spot my friends by their tents and motorcycles. In this case the view was blocked by gigantic RVs and tour buses converted to rolling apartments. I rode up and down the rows and didn’t see anyone I knew so I set up my tent on a small patch of available grass.

People were sitting around in circles on lawn chairs in front of their mobile monstrosities. Many motorcycles had not yet been removed from trailers. Some remained on the trailers for the entire week I was there. Some were off the trailers and out of the pickup trucks, but they were parked in the exact same spots every time I passed by to go riding, or returned at the end of the day. They had become nothing more than shiny statues of idol worship and modern campground decor.

The campground had a bar onsite so I decided to relax there the first night and take it easy after my 1,200-mile ride. After a ride like that my face was always as red as a tomato, no matter how much 50-spf sunscreen I applied to it, and I looked like a racoon when I removed my sunglasses to display the white mask underneath. It was mostly windburn, not sunburn, that would usually fade away in a couple of days. The look was always worn as a badge of honor, a reminder that it was earned from enjoying the fun and excitement of motorcycle travel.

I got a lot of stares. Nobody in the bar had the look. Nobody in the entire campground had the look. Two guys were talking loudly with each other at the bar and smoking cigars, hoping to get noticed. They wore brand new leather “club” vests (without club patches), that were so clean they looked like they just pulled them off the rack. They had riding goggles pulled up on their forheads. There faces were as white as plastic milk jugs.

I barely resisted the tempation to ask them where they were from, how far away it was, and

If you wait it out, the prices start to drop by the day as the rally comes to a close. Most of the vendors have travelled long distances to set up shop for a couple of weeks. Once the rally is over they pack up and head home. The value of their inventory drops significantly so they slash prices. Who wants last year’s T-shirt?

You can see how much values have dropped when you see T-shirts with prices as low as $5. You quickly find out the shirts are from previous years. Since I go every year and have a huge collection of Sturgis Ts, I don’t care what year is on the shirt - as long as it’s a quality shirt with a design I like.

This year, early in the week, I picked up two nice 2026 shirts for $10 each from a vendor in a parking lot somewhere in the Black Hills National Forest. They were set aside on a separate table with a sign that read “Shirt of The Day - $10”. I was going to ask if they had a different shirt of the day for $10 each day, but I already had all I needed.

Difficult Situation for Vendors

It must be difficult for vendors to try to figure out how many shirts to buy for the rally. If they don’t bring enough, they’ll run out. They’ll still have their fixed costs, while missing out on additional revenue. If they bring too many they run the risk of going home with almost worthless inventory. The loss might cut deep into their profits.

Solution?

I don’t know whether this will work. I don’t know whether it’s feasible. I don’t know the ins and outs of the Sturgis rally T-shirt business. But I would like to share a story that might help.

My daughter was on a competitive cheerleading team as a teenager. They travelled to competitions. One of those was in Dayton, Ohio. There was a T-shirt vendor selling shirts displaying the specific competition and the date. There were about five different shirts to choose from. It seemed like every competitor was buying at least one. There was a long lineup all weekend. The only finished inventory was the five shirts on display.

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The vendor had heat transfer vinyl printing machines onsite, and boxes of plain T-shirts of various colors and sizes. Customers chose the colors, sizes, and designs, then paid for the shirts. Designs were pressed onto shirts on the spot.

The vendor left the event with no finished inventory. I assume the designs were changed out as they moved on to the next event. Could this work for motorcycle rallies? Daytona, Laconia, Sturgis, and others in between. Move from one rally to another with no leftover finished inventory. Customers could be given a ticket for their order if things backed up, so they could walk around and come back when their orders were ready. Maybe I’m missing something, since I’ve never seen this business model at a motorcycle rally.

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Another Solution

As Jack from Cycledrag alluded to in the video above, you could omit the year from the shirts and sell the unsold shirts the next year at full price. Maybe this won’t work because a lot of people want the shirt with the current year as walking billboard proof they finally made it to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.

However, it works for Ryan at the Deadwood Ice Cream Company. His shirts intentionally have no year on them so they can be sold year after year. While they aren’t rally shirts, they capture biker culture and the region’s history at the same time. Ryan had a very cool custom motorcycle built that sits in the display window of the ice cream shop during the rally.

Rich History

The bike has an aces and eights theme, which is a nod to the “Dead Man’s Hand”. Wild Bill Hickok was shot and killed on August 2, 1876, in Deadwood, Dakota Territory (now South Dakota). Hickok was playing poker at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon No. 10. Uncharacteristically, he was seated with his back to the door — normally he insisted on sitting where he could watch the entrance, but that day someone else was already in his preferred seat and he didn’t want to make a fuss about moving them.

A drifter and small-time gambler named Jack McCall walked in, approached Hickok from behind, and shot him in the back of the head at close range. Hickok died instantly. He was 39 years old.

The “Dead Man’s Hand”

At the time of his death, Hickok was reportedly holding two pairs — black aces and black eights (some accounts add a queen or jack as the kicker). This combination became known as the “Dead Man’s Hand” in Western lore.

Ryan’s ride has two revolvers attached to the back fender with the turn signal lights inside the barrels. His shirts say Deadwood South Dakota, Aces & Eights, since 1876, with an image of his motorcycle.

These are very cool shirts and mementos of a visit to the small western town. I’ve picked up a few myself over the years.

If you’re ever in Deadwood, stop by the Deadwood Ice Cream Company at 637 Main Street, have a tasty treat, and check out the souvenir shirts.

The Ace of Spades lyrics
 
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me
The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is

The Ace of Spades
The Ace of Spades

Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me
Seven or Eleven, snake eyes watching you
Double up or quit, double stake or split

The Ace of Spades
The Ace of Spades

You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools
But that's the way I like it, baby, I don't wanna live forever
And don't forget the joker

Pushing up the ante, I know you got to see me
Read 'em and weep, the dead man's hand again
I see it in your eyes, take one look and die
The only thing you see, you know it's gonna be

The Ace of Spades
The Ace of Spades

-Motörhead

Share Sturgis Wind

I just got back from the 86th Annual Motorcycle Rally in Sturgis, South Dakota, and returned to YouTubers and other influencers complaining about price gouging. I stayed six nights. The total cost of my trip was less than $500 (excluding gasoline). Gas was the only thing I didn’t pay cash for because I didn’t want to waste time going into the gas stations when I didn’t need to. I didn’t even get off my bike for the first three gas stops. Tap the card. Pump the gas. Go.

Sturgis is 1,225 miles from my house. I headed west at 5:00 a.m. EDT on Friday, August 7 and rolled into my campground at 5:00 a.m. MDT on Saturday, August 8 (26 hours later). You know the weather was perfect when other campers asked me if I washed my bike before I got to the campground (I didn’t). I was not so fortunate on the ride home. The rain started in Mitchell SD and continued sporadically for the entire trip.

I have no windshield, fairing, or tour pack on my Harley Davidson Softail Deuce. Everything I needed was either inside my Big Bertha leather saddlebags, or strapped to the sissy bar on the back seat. I brought a clean pair of socks and underwear, and a clean T-shirt for every day of the trip. I had three clean pairs of jeans, plus the pair I wore on the ride. I had at least one hot shower a day.

I rode 3,000 miles last week. I look forward to this annual trip all year. I cannot fathom putting my motorcycle on a trailer and pulling it off when I reach my destination. I don’t care if anyone else does that. I just don’t understand it. At all.

I also like sleeping in a tent on hot summer nights. The ground is always dry and hard in Sturgis. But this year it was extra hard. The water level in the creek that runs through the campground looked like it was down about six feet due to the drought. I was told the fish were dying. Before the rally they had a couple of weeks of 100-degree temperatures. A grass fire during the rally burned 450 acres up to the road to the Full Throttle Saloon.

I found a big rock to pound my tent pegs in. Three went in and three bent in half. Three out of six is the minimum I would tolerate. I’ve seen unpegged dome tents go airborne when that Sturgis wind blows through.

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You might think riding long distances and sleeping in tents is a young man’s game. I get that. But without giving away my exact age, my first Sturgis Rally was the 50th anniversary in 1990. I rode the same distance on my 1989 Softail Custom, with my new wife sitting behind me. We slept in a tent. My bike packing skills have been refined several times over the years and I now have it down to a science.

was always the motto. That’s one reason I don’t use an air mattress. I sleep on my side, and I always seem to pick a spot where a tree root grinds into my hip bone. That’s the only discomfort until I maneuver around it. This year my good friend, who rides 800 miles south, tossed me an inflated air mattress and said, “Happy Birthday - you’re too old to sleep on the ground” (It wasn’t my birthday). I didn’t have the tree root problem this year and I got some rain water in my tent for the first time. The air mattress mitigated the damage. It’s light weight, so I was able to roll it up in my tent when I packed for home. I’ll probably start using it.

“Price Gouging”

I didn’t experience it. Yes, if you want to get a motel room or an Airbnb near a town whose population balloons from 7,000 to between 1/2 and 3/4 of a million people for a special event, you’re going to pay through the nose. It’s the simple law of supply and demand. Ditto, if you drag a 40-foot motorhome into a campground and start hooking up water and electricity. I saw one video in which the creator was complaining about $8 beers and outrageous food prices on Main Street. Have you been to a concert or sporting event lately? When you’re part of a captive audience they always take advantage for food and drinks. No surprise there.

I wouldn’t call Sturgis a captive audience. There’s no fence around the city and they don’t charge admission. You have choices. Instead of buying food from one of the vendors set up for the rally, we had a meal at a local restaurant on Main Street. It didn’t cost any more than similar restaurants in other cities. Another day we ate at the Mt. Rushmore Brewing Company’s Pounding Fathers Restaurant in Custer. The price was the same as you would pay at similar restaurants everywhere.

Another day we had a meal in historic Deadwood. Same story.

Camping cost me $30 per night, breakfast included. Last year it was $27.50 and it also included dinner. The small price increase and the removal of the second meal was not a surprise. They told us last year the change was coming. Before we found this gem, we would go to Sturgis Brown High School for breakfast and load up on the all-you-can-eat, reasonably-priced breakfast. Or hit the Blessed Emmanuel Lutheran Church for a made-to-order breakfast, with no set price. They only accepted donations. We always made sure the cost of a price gouger’s breakfast went into the donation jar.

Dollar General on Lazelle Street provided cheap snacks to throw in our saddlebags. And $2 water and pop was purchased from an entrepreneur who set up shop on his nearby front lawn. If you go to Sturgis to ride your motorcycle like I do, you’re always outside the city blasting around the Black Hills looking for another adventure. Stop at a Subway for lunch and you won’t pay any more than any other Subway. But if you take a shuttle bus to Main Street every day because you go to Sturgis to get drunk, be prepared to open your wallet wide.

One year we thought it was a great idea that they offered a free shuttle service from the campgrounds northeast of town, to Main Street, in order to reduce drunk driving. We decided to take advantage of a free ride into town. To our surprise it wasn’t free. It was $35 for a 10-minute ride. We walked back to the bikes and rode into town as usual.

Concerts and Entertainment

Our favorite trick in years past was to look up the concert schedule for the Full Throttle Saloon (FTS) and decide which bands we wanted to see. We would go there in the afternoon for a beverage or two, and get our hand stamped on the way out. The stamp ensured we didn’t pay when we re-entered for the nighttime concert. Even though this was a legitimate hack, we almost felt guilty about it. They put a stop to this loophole last year by fencing off the main concert stage area from the rest of the bar. I don’t blame them at all and I’m surprised it took them so long.

We still didn’t pay though. We could see the stage, hear the music, and watch the band up close on the big screen above the stage - kind of like when you pay for mediocre seats at a concert venue. We did that for Sammy Hagar and Friends this year. I’m not a big fan of the Van Hagar stuff but I love solo Sammy and Montrose. They played Bad Motor Scooter, which is among my top five riding songs. (I’m going to post a top ten list here soon, so send me a message with some of your favorites, if you’re so inclined.)

This year was the first year we missed Jackyl since they started playing every rally at the FTS. The weatherman was calling for rain. He was right. We didn’t feel like getting wet the night before we’d be packing up the bikes to head home.

If you’re getting the impression that I’m a cheapskate that will never pay for a concert, that’s not true. I’ve paid to see the Buffalo Chip house band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, a couple of times, and Kid Rock at The Chip a couple more. My first trip to Sturgis I watched the Allman Brothers and George Thorogood at the Rapid City Civic Center. The surrounding parking lot was 100% motorcycles. It was a sight to see.

The Iron Horse Saloon in downtown Sturgis always has free concerts during the rally. I saw one of my favorite bands, Clutch, in 2023 and 2025.

People

Meeting new people from all over and swapping stories is part of the fun — like the two guys I met in the rest stop 150 miles east of Rapid City at 12:30 a.m. One was from Cincinnati and the other from Arkansas. Both had left the previous morning like I did and travelled roughly the same distance. I was starting to think I was the only one who rode like that until I met these two. We were all so close to completing the trip in one shot but we had to get off the dark interstate and rest for safety. I had a solid three hour nap on a concrete picnic table, with my rainsuit bag as a pillow. Cincinnati guy slept on a blanket on the blacktop next to his bike.

I have never seen a motorcycle kickstand fail but you would think if you were going to sleep next to your bike, you would sleep on the side opposite the kickstand, just in case. Not Cincinnati.

Arkansas slept on his bike, on the passenger seat with his back against the back rest, and his legs stretched out and crossed over the bottom of his handlebars. When I woke up he was gone. Cincinnati was still curled up in his blanket next to his bike.

We met a young lady at the gas station next to the Thunderdome who rode her Harley Davidson all the way from Toronto, Ontario — her first trip to Sturgis. She rode by herself because everybody backed out with excuses, but she was determined. Been there and done that so many times that no one’s invited any more. Her spirit reminded me of Marla Garber, also from the Toronto area, whom I met several times before her passing.

Looking Forward

Another year, another awesome Sturgis Rally experience come and gone, as I start looking forward to next year’s rally. Like any major event, you can get price gouged if you don’t know what you’re doing. My advice is to talk to as many people as possible - all the time. Most people are friendly and more than willing to share their experiences and knowledge. I think most of the people doing the complaining are the ones who turned the biggest motorcycle rally in the world into an RV convention with motorcycles as decorations.

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