It was the second summer after my purchase of my second motorcycle, also my second Harley Davidson – a brand new 1989 Softail Custom. A few issues with my previous ride, a used 1981 Wide Glide, and my minimal mechanical adeptness at the time, convinced me not to travel too far from home. With the new bike I was now ready to go anywhere.
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.
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.”
“I own a motorcycle because I love to ride motorcycles.”
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.
If you’re going to sit around on lawn chairs talking with your friends and drinking beer all week, couldn’t you just do that at home?
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