The annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally changed the community of Sturgis forever — and many locals aren’t happy
It was 20 years ago, and I was new to the Black Hills. I met a couple from Sturgis, and looking for a way to continue the conversation, I asked what they thought of the Motorcycle Rally.
I expected a few colorful stories, maybe a few memories of Rallies they especially enjoyed. Nope.
They hated it.
They were a middle-aged pair, with grown kids. When they were younger, they said Sturgis was a full-service community. If a kid needed a pair of shoes, they could buy them downtown.
There were other businesses that served the people who spent all year in Sturgis, not a few days in August. But many were gone, the building torn down with just a concrete slab to indicate where it had stood.
Those local firms made a reasonable but hardly excessive amount of money during the year, my new friends told me. The property owners could make about as much by renting space for T-shirt and souvenir stands, they said. Plus, no property taxes were assessed on buildings that no longer existed.
They went on, elaborating on the reasons they disliked — the word “hated” may have been used — for some time. Scantily clad women, some topless or totally nude, were seen riding around town.
The crowds overwhelmed the small Meade County town every summer, they said. Sturgis just wasn’t Sturgis anymore.
Over the last two decades, I have learned that couple’s experiences and feelings were shared by a lot of people in the area. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally has made their little town famous, but it changed it forever.
That’s the price the town paid.
I have no plans to attend the Rally this year. I covered it in 2006, 2007, 2008, 2010 and 2021, writing a variety of stories and meeting several people who came to western South Dakota to enjoy the gorgeous scenery, the friendly folks and the pop-up biker culture.
Many of the “bikers” I met were dentists, accountants, teachers or had other careers. They ranged in age from the 20s to the 70s, and were always in a good mood. They were relaxing, partying, riding … playing biker for a week.
I attended a few concerts, seeing Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, with special guest Stevie Nicks, on Aug. 9, 2006. British rock icon Joe Cocker was the opening act, so it was a night of tremendous music at the Glencoe Nation Campground.
On Aug. 4, 2008, I rode to the Rally on Sen. John McCain’s Straight Talk Express bus along with Sen. John Thune, then-Gov. Mike Rounds and two other reporters. McCain spoke with us on the way before we were dropped off on the edge of the Sturgis and assigned to the press bus.
McCain shared the stage with country singer Kellie Pickler and Rally favorite Kid Rock. It was the most unusual triple bill I have ever seen.
In 2010, I attended another Kid Rock concert — well, “attended” is a stretch. We left shortly after he launched his show. We were there to see the opening act, Bob Dylan. Just like the previous time I saw Dylan, when he opened for Tom Petty in Houston in 1986, he seemed disinterested, turning his back on the audience and “singing” his classic tunes in almost unintelligible manner.
That was my last Rally concert experience. I have no plans to attend another one.
As far as riding to Sturgis with a presidential candidate, I doubt that will happen, either. President Trump was invited to this year’s bikerfest, but he declined. He has been asked to attend the 2026 Rally, but I’m busy that week.
In 2021, I covered the Rally for The Daily Beast. The topic for those stories was the impact of a huge throng of people gathered together closely — very, very closely — during the pandemic. I talked to riders who came in from across the country, and unsurprisingly, was told they were not concerned.
“No one I know is vaccinated,” one biker told me.
Looking back at my Rally experiences, I recall long lines of traffic, long lines at entrances and concession stands, and crowded bars and businesses. A lot of rockers who were a few years, or decades, past their chart-topping prime were still packing in crowds. Many people were displaying a lot of flesh, some you really didn’t want to see.
Sturgis was overflowing with people. Come back in a week or so, and it was a quiet little community in the beautiful Black Hills.
Like the town my friends fondly recalled, it is a place lost forever.
Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states for four decades. He has contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Do not republish without permission.
Photo: John Tsitrian
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