Author's Note: This is a brief review of the Sturgis South bike rally in Sturgis, Mississippi...NOT the Sturgis rally held in Sturgis, Tennessee.


Part 1 – The Pilgrimage

It was the culmination of several full minutes of planning. Our bikes were clean and polished, except for Mark’s. Mark owns a Honda. No point cleaning those.

Getting to Sturgis South, for Mark, was the Pilgrimage. Once there, he could see everybody else’s Honda Shadow, compare notes on performance and buy new luggage bags. Real leather luggage bags.

I pointed out that he already had real leather luggage bags, but Mark pulled one close and opened the lid, showing me the hole that his exhaust pipe had burned into the bottom. He needed something new.

Soon the three of us…Mark, the Roo, and Miz Roo…warmed up our bikes and rolled wheels in a general Northerly direction. First stop…Neshoba County Colliseum. Mark had told several people he knew to meet him there at 9:30 AM sharp so that he could roll into Sturgis like the leader of a bad biker gang.

Speaking for myself, I had issued a standing invitation to the RoosterBoots Fan Club to gather at the same time and place. Lots of people with small minds and powerful machines soon answered the call, promising to gather at the chosen point for the trip to Sturgis. There would be Softails and Gold Wings and Sporties and trikes and all manner of other scoots. We’d have a parade half a mile long. The citizenry of Sturgis would hear us coming fifteen minutes before we arrived. The trees would shake. The ground would rumble. Small children would burst into tears for no reason.

The parking lot was empty. A solitary Hershey wrapper blew lazily across the asphalt. Miz Roo pulled up next to me and popped up her face shield. “That’s some fan club ya got there, Roo,” she said.

History will note that I responded in a civil tone.

Mark asked whether we should wait a little while for his friends to show up. “No,” I told him, “this is a sign from God, Mark. You don’t have any friends. LET’S RIDE!”

And we did, the three of us. Out of Philadelphia, we passed little towns with names like Longino, Burnside, and Stallo. We traveled without stopping, all the way to Noxapater where we paused to quench our parched throats. My skin felt dry, but sweat poured out of my helmet. I worked the fingers of my left hand to clear up the clutch cramps. I imagined that I could still hear the wind roaring by. Illusion? Fatigue? Insanity? I didn’t know. I didn’t care any more. Fifteen minutes on the road can do that to a man.

I shook the bottle vigorously and popped the cap. In a split second, my Yoohoo was empty. I wanted more, but we had places to go and a timetable to keep. I was the leader. I had the map. My gang looked to me for direction, to find them a way through the Tombigbee forest…a trail all the way to Sturgis.

Miz Roo broke the silence. “C’mon old man, the world is turning! Tick tock!” She turned to Mark and pointed at me, saying, “The old fart is daydreamin’ again. Whack him with a stick and let’s get going!”

And so, once again, the three of us burned gas and followed the thin ribbon of asphalt North. North, to Louisville, then North again on Columbus Avenue until suddenly…a sign!

“Sturgis Road”

I slammed on my brakes and planted Stray Dog into a tight left bank, just missing a pile of fresh green grass cuttings and barely making the turn. Miz Roo was less fortunate.

She was trying to adjust her glasses. Vibration had danced them around on her nose until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She popped the visor up and grabbed the frames with her left hand and then instinct took over.

The lead bike was larger than before. TOO CLOSE! Forget the glasses, tap the rear brake and press left to cut inside the Roo’s track, and then the grass clippings got under her tires and she started to drift.

She rode the drift a tad too long. The embankment on the side of the road pointed DOWN, a steep descent into a hardwood bog. Miz Roo straightened up, adding a little power but the correction was too much and she fishtailed back to the left before popping upright on a stretch of good pavement.

Mark hit his brakes in time and watched the girl ahead of him in the heart-stopping ballet. He pulled alongside her. “Are you all right?” he yelled.

She gave him a quick “thumbs up” and hit the throttle.

By which time I was already a half mile ahead of the group and feeling irritated that they couldn’t keep up. I thought about going back to check on ‘em, but then I saw their headlights in my rear view mirror.

A close encounter, to be sure, but we were focused on our goal. The gang got back into formation and pressed on North through the Tombigbee, then Northwest. Ahead lay Sturgis, and treasure!



Part 2 – Cibola!

Before long, the Tombigbee faded away. Its harsh gray road morphed into modern black asphalt. We passed houses and churches, and people waved at us. Old people, older than me!

What was this strange land? No one was throwing bottles at us, screaming “dirty hippies” or hiding their daughters. Were these people on drugs? Could I get some?

Soon we had our answer. Where the road came to a “T”, merchants were busily enticing bikers to stop and buy new exhaust systems. It was a trap. I saw it immediately. One of the oldest scams in the book, and it works like this.

First, the merchant pitches a tent or parks a giant trailer on the side of the road at a gas station. Then he makes his three teenage daughters put on bikinis and sit around in chairs beside the entrance. A giant sign is suspended over the tent,

Five Minutes in Tent
Alone with Your Choice of Girl !!
Free With Fillup
or
Pair of Rush Slip Ons.
Air Conditioned!

The girls would sit there and squirm enticingly. The pull of their siren’s song was too much for some of the lads that day. I watched as one poor wretch after another bought three point two gallons of gas and went into the tent! Oh, it was horrible. I tried to warn them.

“Fools!” I yelled. “Perdition awaits!” But they had little schooling in life and would not listen. I know not what final price they paid for that moment’s pleasure or for a pair of zip-up motorcycle boots, but NGK spark plugs were going for $4 apiece!

OK, so the air conditioned tent was one of Roo’s fantasies, but the vendor prices guaranteed any unwary soul a genuine screwing.

I stuffed my right hand deep into my front pants pocket and held on tight to my wallet. I walked around the gas station like that, using my cane to help steady a bum left hip. In retrospect, the cane also imparted a sort of up-and-down action to the right hip, and when I made eye contact with two or three women shoppers they squealed and abruptly drove off.

Mark ran up to announce that he’d found the Perfect Leather Saddle Bag, for less than $200.00! I showed him an NGK spark plug.

“Is that a good price?” he asked.

“We need to move on,” I answered.

So we mounted our machines and headed into Sturgis proper. We passed parking space after parking space, following Mark. He had been here before and knew the best places to go. It was ten thirty in the morning and the streets were starting to fill up with bikes.

Four blocks later, Sturgis lay behind us. Mark pulled into a driveway whose perimeter was outlined in yellow plastic “DO NOT CROSS” tape. Driving around the tape, he led the three of us across a meticulously cut lawn.

I figured we’d be the first biker gang ejected from Sturgis.

He drove around a second tape perimeter and we were suddenly back on the road into town, this time with me in the lead. I’d had enough. Spotting a parking space up ahead, I stopped. Mark and Miz Roo stopped, also. I backed into a space on the curb, next to a Gold Wing. Mark and Miz Roo backed up also, parking in the middle of a driveway. A few minutes later, we sorted out who was gonna park where, rearranged the bikes, and unblocked the nice people’s driveway.

Unpacking the bikes showed us that we’d brought far too much stuff. I had brought walking shoes, ice water, a hat, an umbrella, a high-strength security lock with a six foot cable, a knapsack, a toolkit, and a change of underwear, fresh socks and a towel. I was wearing a work shirt, some white pants, and a white t-shirt with my “RoosterBoots” avatar on the back.

I packed away most of that junk, took off the work shirt, grabbed the cane and settled in for some walkin’. White shirt, white pants, black belt. I caught my reflection in a shop window. I looked like Hannibal Lecter in lockdown.

We passed a place where people were handin’ out free lemonade and water. In exchange, you had to agree to have your soul saved. I turned and asked Miz Roo, “WWJD?” She gave me a puzzled look. “What Would Jesus Drive?” I explained.

“Oh,” she said, “earlier today He was drivin’ a blue and chrome 883.”

We walked on. I’m sure we passed several motorcycles and a couple of t-shirt vendors, but my memory is blurry up to the point where I stood directly in front of a scantily clad mannequin with a hypnotically modified chest line. She was wearing the left half of a bikini top. The contents of the other half were staring right at me.

I am flesh and blood. I stopped dead in my tracks, still holding onto my wallet. “Good God,” I remarked.

In the distance, I heard a familiar voice say, “Stop that, it’s disgusting!”

Miz Roo scuttled up and tried to get around me without actually looking at the graceful curves of the now-exposed hard plastic funbags. She held her right hand up against the side of her face to hide the vision. At first I thought she was being blinded by the sun. My mind had slowed to a crawl.

Eventually, she pulled me far enough down the sidewalk that I could no longer focus on the details. My head cleared. I could hear again. I could see again. I could see another old guy stopped in front of the mannequin, staring. Drooling.

Soon we ended up near the East part of Sturgis. They have a biker goods emporium there, sort of an indoor vendor mall. I negotiated for a set of four star-shaped conchos to help hold my saddlebag straps in place. Miz Roo had found the “Bad *** Helmet” counter and was trying on different chrome **** helmets in front of the mirror. And of course, they had t-shirts.

There are only two kinds of t-shirts sold at Sturgis South. The first kind tells everybody that you’ve just been to a bike show in a town they’ve never heard of (in black and pink). And then there’s the kind that only girl bikers wear, announcing to the world how much you like vibration (also in black and pink).

Mark ran up to announce that he’d found the Perfect Leather Saddle Bag, for less than $180.00! By the time I caught back up with him, he was bargaining for the Perfect Leather Chaps.

We were tired and thirsty. Across the street lay the “Ice and Fire” restaurant. It was time for food.


Part 3 – Food

There were no huge crowds waiting to get in to the “Ice and Fire”, but 11:30 is still a little early for lunch. Inside, the place had the atmosphere of a homeless shelter, except the waitress was cute. Drinks were cheap and the usual Southern style “bottomless cup” rule applied.

“Whuchoofokesgawnahave?” the waitress asked. Before we could answer, she added “Izzitallt’gether or sep’rit?”

“Sep’rit,” I said, picking up the dialect quickly. “’Ceptins I hasta pay fer th’ lady heah o’ she won’t go home w’me.” The waitress winked and nodded, knowingly.

She looked right at Miz Roo. “Whuttlitbe, hunny?” the waitress asked. I could tell what Miz Roo was thinking. Your liver on a plate of linguini. She didn’t say it, though. Instead, she turned to me and said “What are YOU having?”

“I’m not playing the ‘What’re you having’ game,” I told her.

“Then I’ll just have what everybody else is having,” she announced. That meant that she’d end up eating nothing, getting a headache, and being a pain in the *** the rest of the afternoon.

“Like hell,” I said. I looked at the waitress and asked her. “What’s the least disreputable dish you guys have?”

“Huh?”

Mark looked up from his menu. “What’s ‘disreputable’ mean?” he asked.

“Wow, Mark! Lookit that!” I said, motioning to the street. He jerked around so fast I could hear his neck pop.

I tried the waitress one more time. “If you and I were out on a date and I brought you here to eat, what would I have to buy you to make sure that you were favorably impressed?”

“Oh, Jeez!” said Miz Roo, burying her head in her arms.

“Oh, stuffed mushrooms!” said the waitress.

Miz Roo perked up. “You got stuffed mushrooms?”

So the meal went well. Two drinks, one stuffed mushroom appetizer, and a cheeseburger with fries for $20. Plus, we got to sit down. Had we been five minutes later, the place woulda been packed.

We ate and we drank and we toasted to Cheating Death. Although Miz Roo is an old hand at dirt biking, modesty prevented her from assuming credit for good reflexes during her harrowing fishtail.

“Fire and Ice” got crowded and we were done, so we walked outside to stroll around Sturgis some more. Twenty Mississippi Highway Patrol bikes were parked at the post office…in formation! I needed to snap a picture so I turned to my favorite model.

“Hey!” I tapped Miz Roo on the shoulder. “Take off some clothes and jump on the nearest bike…I got the camera ready!”

She gave me quick “thumbs up”, except she didn’t use her thumb.




Miz Roo sneakin' around a bunch of cop bikes.


Just then, four new Harley’s drove by. One of the riders turned around in his seat as he passed by and mouthed the words “ROOSTER BOOTS”, plain as day. I was so impressed with myself until I remembered that the back of my t-shirt said “Rooster Boots”, plain as day.

Still hungry, we looked around at the vendor area to see what other foods were being served. There was chicken on a stick. There was catfish on a stick. There were hot dogs on a stick. There was alligator on a stick.

They had fried jalapenos, fried potatoes, potato sticks, potato logs, and potato babies. That last food group is SO much more appealing that “tater tots”. Don’t get me started on strange foods down South. If it’s slimy and drips out of a rock, we’ll deep fat fry it and call it by a cute name. Much better that way.

Everywhere, there were funnel cakes. For people who don’t know what funnel cakes are, imagine a pancake in the shape of a giant tapeworm, deep fat fried, and then buried under a pound of powdered sugar. You get two napkins with each funnel cake. You need ten.

“Funnel Cake” is a quantum expression. You can only buy A Funnel Cake. You can’t eat A Funnel Cake…in fact, you’re lucky if you can eat a fourth of one. The powdered sugar becomes part of the quantum expression, and no amount of brushing, blowing, or shaking can make the darn stuff come off.

Mark found a way to dispose of the sugar that hadn’t occurred to me. He pulled off a chunk of funnel cake about four inches long and jabbed it into his mouth before I could warn him that it was too hot to eat.

At that PRECISE INSTANT, the sightseeing helicopter lifted into the air about a hundred yards away, causing a young mother to look over her left shoulder as she walked hand in hand with her young daughter, directly toward Mark. The little girl was no older than four, her eyes full of wonder at all the people and shiny motorcycles.

Not realizing that her mother wasn’t looking, she assumed that they were walking directly toward Mark because mommy knew him.

Mark didn’t see any of this. The hot oil trapped inside the crispy tapeworm had already denuded the top of his mouth and his eyes had flooded with tears. He held one hand in front of his face and gagged once, expelling air forcefully into his hand.

Along with the air came a copious amount of saliva and sugar, which combined to form a steaming milky goo. The little girl smiled up at Mark, then watched in horror as he spewed a white stream of hot emesis into a puddle in front of her.

Mark walked around her as she stood there, crying. “Hey, look!” he said. “That guy’s got leather saddlebags!”


Part 4 – The Vendors

Most of the vendors at Sturgis South were interchangeable. T-shirts, leather chaps, handlebar bags. T-shirts, lingerie, leather chaps. Leather chaps, get-back whips, **** memorabilia. Patches, T-shirts, **** stuff, helmets in the shape of a large breast, switchblades.

You know, gifts for the kids.

One vendor installed high-end audio systems while you wait.

One vendor sold high-end bikes.

One place offered the “Bikini Bike Wash,” but the staff consisted of two guys who’d polish your forks with a grinding wheel. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see them in a bikini.

There was the sightseeing helicopter, a sleek black Robinson. For $30 you got a five minute ride around the town of Sturgis. I passed two old ladies who had just deplaned. “Oh, my!” said one, “That was the most excitement I’ve ever had! Beatrice dropped her glasses…I just DON’T KNOW how she managed to catch ‘em!”

Miz Roo followed the pair, seething with curiosity. Turns out Beatrice caught the glasses with her teeth. Film at eleven.

There was the combination bungie jump/trampoline, which let kids feel weightless for a second or so.

There was the bull ride, surrounded by a huge inflatable trampoline (so’s only your reproductive organs get hurt).

Finally, there was the Roadhog Motorcycles Traveling Dyno Tuning Center. I told Miz Roo, “If it’s less than $80, I’ll do it!” I knew better.

Mark ran up to announce that he’d found the Perfect Leather Saddle Bag, for less than $140.00!


Hot, tired, and with my hip on fire despite the cane, we walked back to the bikes to decide what to do next.

Mark wanted to cruise the campground and get some bags installed and then ride in the “Big Bike Ride”, a multi-hundred bike parade from Sturgis to Starkville to Louisville and back. Then we’d all three ride back together!

I had other plans. I wanted to see how much a Dyna tuning would cost, and then I was going home. Mark agreed to skip the Big Ride if we wanted to just go home. I felt pretty bad about being the King Fudd.

We separated and agreed to meet at the gas station where we came in. Mark drove off to get saddlebags. Miz Roo followed me and Stray Dog down to the Dyno center. We parked and mosied over to the main window, where the prices were listed.

“OMIGOD!” I said. “One hundred and sixty-five dollars for a CARB TUNE?”

“Is that a lot of money?” Miz Roo asked.

“It’s about $165 more than I have on me,” I told her. We left the bikes parked there and wandered through one of the “Leather T-Shirt **** Lingerie” vendors operating nearby.

Miz Roo was pensive. “So,” she said, pointing at Stray Dog. “How’s she runnin’?”

For the uninitiated, “Stray Dog” is the 2002 Heritage Classic I found in a widow’s garage this year. I always felt that it was too mild-mannered, using as my basis for comparison my 2004 XL1200R (stage 1). I know, the comparison is unfair. Still, I couldn’t stop tinkering with Stray Dog. I added a K&N air cleaner, a set of 1999-vintage Screaming Eagle pipes, and a carb jetting kit from CV Performance. All I had to show for it was 30mpg.

I watched as the crew of two dyno tuned an old Sportster. When they were done, they debriefed the owner very thoroughly. Well, I thought to myself, there are a lot of people here today…they couldn’t get around to me anyway.

The blond assistant leaned out to ask me if there was anything I needed.

“How long is the waiting line?” I asked.

“Including you?” she asked. I nodded. “One.”

I was out of excuses. It was time to find out whether Stray Dog was a dog, after all.


TECHNICAL STUFF FOLLOWS:

Starting configuration: Stock AC, stock carb (42 slow, 185 main), cheap drag pipes.
Performance: 40mpg, loud popping on decel.

Pre-Dyna configuration: K&N AC, Screaming Eagle II pipes (old model), CV Performance jetting kit (45 slow, 190 main, EZ Just needle, new tapered needle, new emulsifier, new slide spring, drilled out slide).
Performance: 30-33mpg, occasional decel popping.

Post-Dyna configuration: 45 slow, 185 main.
Observations:
1. CV Performance emulsifier IS a Harley emulsifier.
2.Unable to test needle…seems OK
3.Slide spring tension seems the same as stock.
4.Main jet is proprietary, but compares favorably to Harley jet.
5.Running rich.
6.Wind screen will sap mileage.
Pre-dyna: 68.92 max HP, 78.53 max torque
Post-dyna: 71.73 max HP, 79.99 max torque

So, for $165 plus tax, I now know that Stray Dog is NOT a dog. Money well spent? Who cares?

END OF TECHNICAL STUFF


Miz Roo was busy talking to an extremely skinny, agitated dude who kept looking over in my direction. Finally, she came over and said “This guy in the cammy shorts gave me a card…sez he can do dyna tuning cheaper.”

“And that helps me exactly how?” I asked, signing the credit card statement. She handed me the business card, showing a Brandon, Mississippi address. I won’t say the business name, because some people like that kind of marketing gitty-up-and-go. As for me, I think it’s sleazy. I’ll simply say this…

Take your dyna tuning business to ANY city OTHER THAN Brandon, Mississippi. Take your Harley business away from Brandon, your after-market parts business away from Brandon, and if you’re hungry and near Jackson, bypass Brandon and go to Pearl. Keep close tabs on your fuel situation so you don’t run low in Brandon. If you own a Harley and you live in Brandon, you have my deepest sympathy.

If Brandon breeds this sort of mindless contempt, I have no use for the place at all.

While we’re at it, Roadhog Motorcycles Dyno Tuning Center is owned by Robert Aqwa. Their phone number is 407-688-0096. Their traveling tune up van was heavily damaged in the Great Sturgis Hail Storm, but it’s up and running. They may not be the best, but they’re plenty good enough, courteous, professional, and not at all condescending.



Robert Aqwa proving Stray Dog's worth.



Part 5 – Leaving Sturgis

I was just re-packing Stray Dog’s saddle bags when Mark pulled up. His Honda Shadow was festooned with leather bags of every height, circumference, and design. He was truly happy.

“They’re forming up for the Big Ride,” he announced. I had forgotten my promise to ride with him on the Big Ride.

“Mark, my hip is killing me,” I sniveled. “There’s no way I’m gonna survive that ride.”

“Well, maybe there’ll be another ride tomorrow,” he said hopefully. He offered to ride home with us and return in the morning with his son.

“Mark,” I said. “That’s mighty kind of you. I hereby relieve you of your promise to ride with us back to Philadelphia. You social obligations are hereby null and void, and you would be doing me a serious favor to get your *** back in line and do the Big Ride tonight.”

His face lit up. “You really mean that?” he asked. I didn’t have to repeat myself. Mark took off with new luggage bags strapped onto every vertical and horizontal surface, happy as a tick on a dog.

Miz Roo gave me a look. Not exactly “come hither,” but not “go away” either.

We took the same route back, passing at least fifty bikes heading toward Sturgis. Everybody waved.

The trip back was uneventful. We stopped twice for sodas and aspirin. The bikes were running on fumes as we pulled into the farm. Shutting down together, we briefly listened to the music of hot pipes ticking and clicking in the cool garage air.

Cheated Death again!