By John Woo
Sturgis Biker Reunion: Seth Kugel's summer road trip takes him to Sturgis, S.D., during an annual gathering of thousands of motorcyclists.
It turns out I've been using the phrase "in the middle of nowhere" incorrectly my whole life. I used to mean it as a put-down, but I've discovered that it's actually a good thing. And now that I've found the middle of nowhere, it turns out to be more remote than I could have imagined: on a rural mail route way outside of Philip, S.D., population 750.
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Seth Kugel
Bikers in South Dakota for the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in front of Mount Rushmore.
That is where you'll find the Triangle Ranch Bed and Breakfast, eight miles down a gravel road from a spot between two exits on Interstate 90, and if you see a soul during that bumpy stretch, you either got quite lucky or believe that cows have souls. Just rolling plains of pasture and already rolled bales of hay line the route there — beautiful, spare land, a sort of fantasy Dakota that would be hard for outsiders to imagine living in permanently and (I imagine) hard for anyone who grew up there to leave. Eventually the road leads to a house, and not any old house: a Sears prefab from the catalog, a Mission Revival model, with all its original wood and barely altered since it was completed in 1923.
I rarely find a full-on bed-and-breakfast I can afford, and this one was particularly miraculous. For most of my monthlong trip, I've been spending the night in $50 or $60 motel rooms, all of which have been perfectly acceptable, but also (and this is almost part of their charm) lonely. But I had come to South Dakota just as the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally began, bringing in something like 400,000 bikers on twice as many wheels. If you're at all familiar with the laws of supply and demand, you can imagine what happens to motel prices.
Yet when I made a reservation about two weeks in advance at Triangle Ranch, the price was still the regular $89 a night for a single. I was assigned Mathilda's room, which had twin beds, a rocking chair and a handmade China doll laid out on the beds — and exclusive access to the original, wood-paneled second-floor bathroom with claw-foot tub. The place, run by Lyndy Ireland and her rancher husband, Kenny, was built on land Ms. Ireland's great-grandfather had first settled in 1904 when he bribed a squatter with a team of horses and a carriage to clear out.
The room was still available because the gravel road approach is not very popular among bikers, Ms. Ireland told me. It's also about two hours from Sturgis — though some bikers stay even farther away — but it is only 30 minutes from the entrance to Badlands National Park ($15 for a week pass), with its stark buttes and pinnacles that look like a giant kid built a sand castle 500,000 years ago and it stuck.
In case you haven't guessed, I am not a motorcycle enthusiast; the closest I've come to riding on a Harley-Davidson is clinging on the back of sputtering moto-taxis in Latin America. I'm guessing that would impress the Sturgis crowd about as much as tales of miniature golf experience impresses the PGA leader board.
But I had come to be an outsider, to spend a few days in a culture easily more foreign to me than many foreign countries. The organized mayhem of Sturgis, once I made it through miles of two-wheeled traffic jams and found a rare four-wheel parking place, was vaguely like Mardi Gras, though, with leather and much more engine-revving. Mammoth venues like the Knuckle Saloon filled with Bud Light drinkers comparing notes on their bikes, eating beef tips and watching live bands. When I stopped by, the concert area had been converted into an Extreme Sport Fighting ring that was featuring what the announcer billed a "chick fight!" the day that I was there.
Booths throughout the town showcased every possible accessory, from helmets adorned with Viking horns to custom-designed console inserts. There were a few political signs mounted on bikes, including one belonging to a woman wearing an "I feel a sin coming on" tank top; it is unprintable here but used the same curse word to denigrate both the president and anyone who put their bikes in trailers to come to Sturgis instead of riding the open road. Still, the most common activity for us all was admiring the endless rows of bikes, from the custom specials to the simply well shined.
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