Sturgis Virgins

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)  


Remember your first time? Vegas? Mardi Gras? Third Base? Weeks later you were still talking about it? Well, The annual Sturgis Rally in South Dakota is like that. But for a bike-lover, even better. A hippified come-as-you-are larger than Woodstock and just as friendly.

"Elk chili on the stove, beers in the cooler!" Kinder words were never heard after a full day exploring South Dakota on big-inch power-cruisers. Welcome to the Chubb's Bro's Clubhouse. A biker Shangi-La and annual home of life-long associates of our riding companion Bruce Fischer. On the large porch overlooking Sturgis Fairgrounds, Jim, Fast Rick, Greg, Sil and other Bro's gather 'round a bottomless cooler swapping new jokes and old ones.

For myself, Catterson and Cernicky, this is our first time at Sturgis and when Bruce points out "The Rally's just a short walk away." the four of us look up from chili bowls eagerly, and after an approving nod from David, follow Bruce to Main Street. This is his 25th year at The Rally and he beams with fond memories, sharing points of interest and colorful anecdotes. Wild nights at The Broken Spoke and bar fights at The Oasis.

But it's getting late and we still need to make it back to Rapid City, 45-minutes south. Despite the 40- minus windchill, I felt nary a chill chasing Cernicky at 80-plus down the interstate. The Yamaha Warrior's glowing tach and speedo a welcome comfort. Orion watching from above, the singing motor and flawless transmission providing added confidence. The nimble chassis and secure riding position as comfortable as an FZ-1. Perhaps it was the familiarity of a soft saddle and roaring pipes, or the lush paint and lavish chrome, but sparkling in the bright morning sunlight, it was definitely love at first sight.

I had avoided the V8 Boss Hoss all week. Intimidated not by its gargantuan presence, but by David's explanation of starting procedures. Watching Cernicky's tentative cornering (there's a first time for everything) only reinforced my opinion. But on our last day, headed for Wyoming's Devil's tower, my number was up. While David paid for lunch, Cernicky provided the abridged riding procedure. Two gears, plus Reverse, no clutch, etc., etc. Ignition is less than graceful, the 305-inch 344 hp motor has plans to take off before you do. Physics are the same for all bikes, however and at speed, momentum takes over allowing the rider to relax and watch the horizon unfurl before him. At least until the road curves. The clutchless shift from first to second is seamless, but when the road narrows, the shift back down can be unnerving. Getting the Boss through corners is like steering a boat through passage. The flat profile of the massive rear tire fights the rider both physically and mentally. Losing grip seems almost inevitable and after running out of road a few times, my original dislike resurfaced. The obnoxious styling was a matter of taste, but how can you ignore the heat displaced by a V8 between your legs? For me, the best motorcycles display feline qualities. The Boss is the antithesis of this philosophy. A great conversation piece for those who need a spotlight. Shaquil O'Neal, your chariot awaits.

The Triumph Rocket III was a popular ride. A surprisingly low seat-height and balanced geometry made flicking her through corners a blast. Smooth gearing transferring limitless power to a solid chassis. But its styling not everyone's cup of tea.

I'd like to comment here on the Honda 1800, but have nothing good OR bad to report. It's a Honda Shadow, only larger. Aside from the limited-edition paint, the Kawi Vulcan also suffers from anonymity. A great motor and symphonic pipe, but neither first-choice or runner-up.

The Victory also suffers from a lack of character, but not as much. Holding its own at almost every level and receiving loads of accolades. "The best Victory yet." "Handles like a dream." "Just look at the fit and finish." But trained eyes also noticed the small front wheel swallowed by a large front fender. An easy fix, but should have been caught on paper. A fine bike but still not a Harley.

And, when you fire up a Harley Fat-Boy, all those cliches are justified. The attention to detail and pride in craftmanship are on full display with no apologies necessary. Simply flawless. Like the midwest itself, photographs cannot do it justice. Nothing felt more at home on the road to Sturgis.