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A Chance Encounter with Some of the Faithful

With my wife along one Saturday evening in August I found myself on four wheels instead of two. On any given Idaho summer day I would almost always prefer to be on a motorcycle, but since the birth of our daughter my wife has succumbed to maternal instinct and now chooses to refrain from road bikes. I respect her choice, and of course she respects and supports mine, which is to ride whenever and wherever I can.

On this occasion I was putting fuel into my SUV when a quartet of Harleys roared into the gas station. These were not "rat bikes" but seriously new, shiny, well equipped high-dollar hogs, mounted by stereotypical rough-looking and hairy dudes- one of them with his equally rough-looking though not-so-hairy "old lady". They dismounted as I pumped my gas, and I greeted them with a nod and a friendly howdy. I was surprised to have my greeting reciprocated by British and Australian accents! Imagine that. As it happens, the first three gentlemen (and lady) flew into Dallas from London, rented their rides and then scooted over to L.A. to pick up their friend, the Aussie. They were, of course, on a pilgrimage to Sturgis, South Dakota
for The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Originally known as the Black Hills Classic, the annual gathering of the great unwashed that draws many hundreds of thousands of motorcyclists (mostly on Harley Davidson motorcycles) to South Dakota each August for a week of partying, posing, parading, peering and for many weekend wanna-be's, pretending.

The rally, or just plain "Sturgis" as most of the faithful refer to it, has been an annual rite among American bikers for decades, and just about every Harley rider I've ever known has either been there, or wants to go. Like a Muslim's dedication to a pilgrimage to Mecca, Harley riders seem to be drawn to the gathering. Perhaps it's a deep seated desire for validation among peers. Or maybe it's just a desire to spend a few days or more in the company of several thousand fellow enthusiasts. Regardless, with over half a million riders in attendance every year, Sturgis draws bikers like poop draws flies.

While pumping my gas I struck up a conversation with these travelers. My beard and braided pony-tail evidently signaled to them that I was one of The Brethren. They asked what I rode, and when I told them I ride a BMW they were sincerely and openly shocked, and perhaps a bit confused. The Aussie even held up two fingers in a cross, as if to ward off a vampire

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