The Gun Show
All that molten rubber and magic smoke only made the natives restless, so we strapped on our lids and peeled out of there, eastbound and down on Highway 34. We didn’t make it more than 3 miles before Ari was literally stopped in his wheel tracks by a roadside sign reading “SHOOT Machine Guns!” Guns of Freedom advertises itself as “The Ultimate 2nd Amendment Experience.” For a modest fee, you can very immodestly exercise your constitutional right to spray hot lead at a variety of household refuse with your choice of more than 80 fully automatic weapons. No I.D. check, no breathalyzer, no prior experience or proof of mental competence required: Just make your selection from the world’s most lethal photo album, pay a few bucks to the lady behind the counter and the man at the gun table passes back a cocked and loaded weapon.
As a lover of freedom and all things heinously high-powered, Ari spent half his paycheck unloading an AK-47 into an old washing machine and splintering bowling pins with an HK-UMP. He even emptied a few rounds from a Smith & Wesson 500 .50-caliber revolver—a handgun so brutal the owner had only shot it a half-dozen times. “Like fielding a line drive with your bare hands,” is how Ari described the experience. For his finale he took a seat in the “Lawn Chair of Death”—a tripod-mounted, belt-fed, .50-caliber Browning M2 “Ma Deuce” machine gun, spraying a pile of rusty hubcaps with 10 rounds in less than 2 seconds. “Go big or go home,” bikers like to say, and Aaron took this ethos to heart. Never mind that he had never shot a gun in his life; that didn’t stop him from firing a .50-caliber Barrett sniper rifle—the ballistic equivalent of learning to ride a motorcycle on a turbocharged Suzuki Hayabusa. “That’s a hell of a first gun,” was all the range marshal had to say before turning our firearm virgin loose with the long-range arm-cannon. Yes, we earned the commemorative, blaze-orange “GunsofFreedom.com” can koozie each shooter gets at the end of his session.
Immediately after this photo was taken, Aaron Frank leapt from the balcony, rode the zip-l
Great Balls of Fire
High on gunpowder and only mildly concussed, we staggered across the street and entered The Legendary Buffalo Chip campground: Ground Zero for “The Real Sturgis Experience.” The Buffalo Chip is a city unto itself—a self-contained and completely self-sufficient 500-acre compound that becomes the temporary home to 30,000 hardcore party-people every rally week. There are even on-site medical facilities, as well as a church where one can repent his inevitable sins.
Pocketing a pair of Executive VIP all-access passes lifted from Harley-Davidson’s communications officers when they weren’t looking gets us a 10-cent tour with Lon Nordbye, The Chip’s Director of Corporate Partnerships. Sturgis old-timers separate rally history into two distinct periods, Nordbye explains: BBC (Before Buffalo Chip) and ABC (After Buffalo Chip). During the BBC epoch bikers squatted in Sturgis City Park, until inadequate facilities and constant harassment by cops led to a riot that culminated in bikers dousing a dozen porta-johns in gasoline and setting them on fire. The Great Sturgis Sh*tter Fire of 1981 inspired local lawyer and notorious Sturgis party animal Rod “Woody” Woodruff to establish a bikers-only campground and party-pit on the edge of town, where bikers could be free to park their machines without being hassled by The Man. The Buffalo Chip was born.
Touring the compound with Nordbye in the back of a Polaris side-by-side, the Buffalo Chip looks like the set from a Mad Max movie. Campers roam dusty dirt roads on all manner of crazy homemade conveyances including motorized couches, go-karts pulling kegs on trailers and countless minibike choppers. Portable stripper poles and dancing cages outnumber picnic tables in this campground.
“Wanted: Fun, topless women,” reads one sign. Don’t we all? Private Property privileges means anything goes at The Chip, and everywhere we turn we see evidence of more outrageous, alcohol-fueled, adults-only madness. Pickle-licking contests. Midget bowling. Bra auctions. The random gay cowboy, complete with dyed-pink goatee and de rigueur assless chaps. Thankfully, before we gamble away all our beer money trying to ride Colonel Tom’s Crazy Bike (which goes left when you steer right, and vice-versa), the opening chords of “No More Mr. Nice Guy” ring out from the main stage and remind us it’s time to catch the show.
In addition to the campground chaos, The Buffalo Chip bills itself as the World’s Largest Motorcycle Music Fest, each year hosting dozens of international touring acts. Legendary shock-rocker Alice Cooper is tonight’s headliner, and we beat feet to the concert venue, taking advantage of the “Chip Zip” zip-line—of course there’s a zip-line—to soar like superheroes 50 feet above the sweaty, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. “I’m coming through with a group of young corporate executives,” Nordbye says into his handheld with a completely straight face, and soon we’re standing in the Top Shelf VIP lounge, watching Alice and his ace five-piece burn through blistering versions of “School’s Out” and “Eighteen.” Two hours later, Cooper ends an epic set by ceremonially beheading himself with a giant guillotine. Instead of cheering, the assembled crowd—most of whom are sitting on motorcycles—rev their engines. Cooper reappears for a three-song encore, head firmly attached to his neck, proving once and for all that loud pipes really do save lives!
We beat it out of The Buffalo Chip shortly after Alice’s encore. Having survived the burnout pit, the machine-gun range and the backstage buffet line, we feared sticking around for the after-party might be pressing our luck, even for a couple of Sturgis-caped crusaders like us. Quit while we were ahead—and while Aaron’s nose ring remained intact. Considering all the chaos we courted, we came away unscathed. Despite a debauched reputation, Sturgis is an overwhelmingly friendly event. Even our photographer, Tom Riles, commented on the mellow vibe. “Daytona and Laconia are a bunch of East Coast wannabe thugs. All those guys want to do is show you how tough they are, and how much noise their bikes make,” Riles says. “This is the Midwest. These people are way too nice for stupid bullsh*t like that!”
So, what’s not to love about Sturgis? Riding in the nearby Black Hills is stunning, whether you’re dragging boot heels on the serpentine roads of Wind Cave National Forest or dodging buffalo, elk and antelope in Custer State Park. And where else besides The Buffalo Chip can you toss a midget, jam out to Def Leppard and fire off a few .50-caliber rounds with just one wristband? Sturgis was full of surprises—the biggest one being that we didn’t see a single bare breast! The imported talent working the bars wasn’t giving anything away for free, and we undoubtedly left The Chip too early for the complimentary cabaret to get underway. That was probably for the best, however. It was already going to be hard enough to explain to our wives why our luggage smelled like gunpowder and burnt rubber. At least we didn’t have to explain away any errant coco butter or glittery stripper dust…
“C'mon ladies, show us your ta-tas!” There’s an inverse relationship at Sturgis between at
“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold…” Ari channels his inner Jimmy Page w
Who says hard rock is dead? Sixty-three-year-young Alice Cooper had our Gen-X&Y editors ba