The famous Western town of Deadwood is nestled in the Black Hills of South Dakota. It’s famous to me because I’m a fan of Deadwood, the TV series. I imagine wooden houses, wooden boardwalks, mud and business owners who swear an awful will populate the town. Wood is no longer the building product of choice, but Deadwood does still have a naughty Western charm to it.
The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is in its final days, and Deadwood, a short drive away from Sturgis, is geared up for it. Certain car parks are designated for motorcycles, street stores are full of Sturgis gear, including, as advertised on many of the signs, booby tassels – seeing these adverts and glittering samples on mannequins, I’m relieved that I missed the main rallies: myT-shirt would have been considered too modest.
It’s morning, but the street is already filling up with motorcycles, neatly parked along the stretch of the Main Street. They are all shiny and sporting interesting accessories. Bikers step off, and in their heavy, kind of stiff stroll, they walk over to the bikes where other bikers huddle to scope out and discuss various bike specs and snap shots.
I feel too colourful in my bright orange hiking trousers and white T-shirt, although I think that my hair is messy enough and my face and arms browned enough, albeit, my skin does not sport any tattoos. The bikers are all tough looking, in their denim, leather, bandanas, big boots, and lots of silver. I even spot a few younger bikers that have that bad-boy Jax look doing them a lot of favours – sadly, no photos of these to look at.
Most men have grown long beards and moustaches. Their eyes sparkle with adventure, and as they ride by, most smile and say hello. They look so comfortably reclined in their cushy seats, legs stretched out and arms resting on the handlebars. Suddenly, a huge roar and off they go, still smiling.
I have by now found a bench to perch on and am avidly watching the morning unfold. I’m drinking coffee…also inadequate – I should be drinking a cold brew.
I drive to Sturgis next. It’s a Sunday, the last day of the rally. Everyone is packing up and getting ready to go, all the vendors with their merchandise eagerly selling off tack at discount prices. Only the hardcore bikers are left, shattered, tired and hungover. I weave in and out of the stalls, through the bars and along the streets, watching the toughest of the tough: the rally lasts for a week – many enthusiasts come early to enjoy the adrenaline fuelled fun. Only the well-weathered and strong stay to the very end.
Tattoo parlours set up temporary shop to secure memories on bodies…without aid, I’d also forget with all that booze sloshing in my veins.
This is a playground for big girls and even bigger boys, and they play. They play hard. A radio broadcaster recites rally stats on the number of calls to police, traffic violations, felonies, deaths, and so on…
A few bikers that stop for a chat say that they are eagerly awaiting home, a quiet and sane place where sleep is to be had and liquor is saved for a more ‘appropriate’ time of day.
I camp on the edge of Bear Butte Lake, a few miles east of Sturgis. It is windy and off to the west is a lightningstorm. I have to fight the wind to set up my tent, and as I’m pushing the last peg into the ground, a man walks over to me.
“You look competent. Can you come and help me with my car?”
Car is a loose term for what the man is driving. It’s a shell, the skeleton of a car that made it all the way here from Minneapolis to the rally. The car body is there, but inside, much of the plastic and fabric that makes a car cushy and comfortable is gone. It’s just mostly rusted steel. I can see the grass through holes in the car floor as I perch inside to help affix the shift gear into place – previously, it was falling through to the ground. Not kidding.