A year and a half ago, I spouted words of abject resignation, boldly proclaiming without a shadow of a doubt that I would never go back to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. I said without any hesitation and with chest-beating fortitude that I had seen all I needed to see, on two separate jaunts to the Badlands, mind you, and there was no need for a repeat performance, which on both occasions lacked applause and flowers being thrown at my feet for a job well done. I lathered on with tales of how expensive both trips were and that my meager retirement income, bank account, wallet, and bride were all voicing retaliatory objections as I tallied the figures and said with a sheepish grin, “Oops”. Regardless, I resumed my campaign on numerous occasions and remained steadfast with the stout determination of a prairie dog barking at the wind to ward off an approaching beetle, that the 85th and subsequent rallies would have to suck it up and go on without me. I concluded my sermons with an implied “so there” to drive the point home.

Yet, here I sit contemplating going to the Rally in August, the 86th event.

The 83rd Rally in 2023 morphed into a rather dismal affair for me, resembling a particularly dreary Wednesday in a notably forgettable dystopia. The weather, it appeared, had conspired with Mother Nature herself to ensure I was drenched to the bone and completely bewildered. Yet, despite this atmospheric betrayal, there emerged a few bright spots—instances so absurdly vibrant that they felt indelibly etched in my mind like the lingering aftertaste of an ill-advised meal. As I departed that rally, I was engulfed by a resounding sense of “Meh,” as if the cosmos had taken a long, unimpressed yawn in my direction. Interestingly, my accommodations were nothing short of epic. I secured an Airbnb in Rapid City called the Historical Honey, and it was everything I could never have anticipated—utterly adorable and nothing short of wonderful. The amount that slipped from my wallet for that bed was minuscule, and I had entertained the idea of booking it again this year until I noticed the owner’s apparent realization of Sturgis Rally prices; they swiftly decided to join the fray and triple the asking price compared to what I paid in 2023.

In the utterly perplexing year of 2024, I embarked once more on my intrepid journey, this time with my bike in tow and the dubious honor of residing in the cavernous back of my truck for a staggering eleven days. I became an impromptu chef, whipping up culinary disasters while grappling with the existential dread of dying batteries, an overheating cell phone that seemed to have aspirations of self-immolation, and a Wi-Fi connection that existed solely in the whims of the campground owner’s imagination. Naturally, I was also burdened with the urgent necessity of getting my beleaguered Harley repaired, a task that became dramatically urgent when my enthusiasm for tie-down straps transcended all reasonable limits and resulted in a spectacular blowout of the front fork seals. This unexpected financial setback was nothing short of a cosmic joke—an expense seemingly designed to elicit a guffaw from the universe, a nearly $400 indignity that no one ever requested, akin to receiving a birthday cake lavishly adorned with crushed glass.

But after 11 grueling days, a few of which flirted dangerously with the 100°F mark—like a celestial body testing its boundaries—I concluded, rather emphatically, that I had had quite enough of this relentless heat. However, a curious little thought began to nestle itself in the dusty corners of my mind, whispering tales of grand adventure. Specifically, the riding. Ah, the riding! It was simply marvelous, the zenith of this expedition, like discovering that the universe is not only stranger than we imagine but also populated with exceedingly friendly motorbikes. This stood in stark contrast to 2023, when the high point of my journey was a rather splendid visit to the Harley Davidson Museum, which—in a plot twist of cosmic irony—was not a rally at all but an inquisitive exploration of metal and mechanics that left one marveling at both the absurdity and beauty of it all.

But 2024 whisked me away on a whirlwind tour of Iron Mountain Road, Needles Highway, and Spearfish Canyon Road—each more fantastic than the last, as if the universe had conspired to offer me a scenic buffet of extraordinary landscapes. My gas credit cards undoubtedly received more cardiovascular exercise than I did during those 16 days of unbridled adventure, a revelation I would only come to appreciate upon returning home, with the horror one reserves for discovering one’s refrigerator filled with a dozen expired containers of yogurt. 2024 also graciously introduced me to the Full Throttle Saloon, conveniently located not far from my camping spot, a delightful establishment that left me pondering how I had so egregiously overlooked its existence in my initial planning. The place was not just “awesome”; it was the epitome of freaking awesome, a veritable monument to revelry—and much to my astonishment, it also bore the impressive distinction of being quite pricey. So, once more I found myself retreating to the Iron Horse Campground, contemplating the great cosmic joke that is budgeting while gallivanting across the great expanse of the American landscape.

I encountered a delightful assortment of splendid individuals, each one a captivating enigma in their own right, who, for reasons unknown, seemed to find my ramblings at least mildly entertaining enough to engage in conversation. Among them were the ancients from yesteryears, brandishing their memories like vintage wine, and fresh faces, brimming with the optimism of potential friendship, though some flitted away like ephemeral holograms before we could orchestrate anything so mundane as a deeper connection. Naturally, I understood their transient nature.

However, despite the whimsical chaos of those encounters, I hold dear the cherished recollections of my two jaunts to the rally—a curious blend of nostalgia and bewilderment. With a spirit as resolute as an ill-tempered poet’s affection for bad verse, I upheld my steadfast declaration: I shall never set foot at that rally again! This proclamation made its indelible mark upon the pages of my most treasured journal, a veritable tome of thoughtful musings. Yet, lo and behold, there existed a loophole in my otherwise ironclad resolve, a gaping chasm far wider than the HMS Titanic and remarkably free of icebergs. In this chaotic diary, I inscribed, “Now the big question: Would I do it again? Absolutely not! I’m pretty sure I’m done with Sturgis.”

Did you see the loophole? Here, let me point it out for you. “…..I’m pretty sure I’m done with Sturgis.” Those three words contain more doubt than a balsa wood bridge.

Armed with that intriguing morsel of knowledge, a peculiar thought began to swim about in the vast expanse of my mind. Just a fleeting thought, you protest? Oh, but I assure you, it feels more like the universe orchestrating a ballet in my honor. Picture this: a humble 5×8 box trailer, granted to me in the wheezy year of 2024, now serves as my gloriously unyielding mobile storage unit, perched defiantly alongside my driveway. Its existence would be utterly banal were it not for a serendipitous encounter with a video on YouTube, showcasing a rather audacious fellow transforming a trailer of precisely the same dimensions into a micro camper.

After witnessing that spectacle, the mere thought of returning to Sturgis became as insistent as an unwelcome guest at a dinner party. If only I could replicate his ingenious modifications to the trailer, I’d be poised for the camping escapade of a lifetime at the rally. Hmmm… the plot thickens, rather like an overcooked pudding. Alas, the ever-elusive concept of money refuses to accompany me on this journey; persuading it to join is proving to be more challenging than teaching a cat to fetch. I’ve laid out my arguments like a defense attorney in a courtroom drama, even resorting to comparing the costs of alternative escapades, only to arrive back at the dismal conclusion: “We can attend Sturgis on the cheap,” a statement I’d admit was utterly preposterous, devoid of any fiscal sense. Realistically, I’d still be out at least $500 for fuel alone—before contemplating sustenance or the staggering expenses involved in preparing the trailer. Yet, a persistent voice in my head chirps, “We can do this!” Meanwhile, my reasoned judgment rolls its metaphorical eyes, emitting sighs heavier than my dog does when she’s had one too many rounds of fetch.

Still, I peer intently at the trailer as if it were a stubborn cat, imploring it to embrace the ludicrous notion I’ve declared as my latest adventure. Time stretches out before me like a very long, twiddly string of spaghetti—seven months, to be precise, during which I must persuade both this obstinate contraption and my reluctant wallet to embrace the inevitable chaos. As for my wife? Well… she’ll be off somewhere pondering the unfathomable depths of my human folly.