11/11/22
Newletter155
The Crack of Dawn
In 1988 I was hired as a cameraman on a documentary called Hawg Wild in Sturgis (1995). Approximately 300,000 bikers showed up that year. One of the highlights was the “Shit-House Jumper.” This fellow had a wooden outhouse that he got about fifty guys to take a crap in, then sign the wall. The outhouse was set on fire, then this guy jumped a motorcycle right through the whole thing. There was also Jesse the Human Bomb. Jesse informed us that he had already managed to blow off one of his testicles. With a leather pad on his chest, Jesse perched himself on two stools over four sticks of dynamite. KA-BOOM! When the smoke cleared Jesse was twenty feet away lying on his back like an overturned turtle. He lay there for a full minute helplessly waving his hands, then jumped to his feet. No problem. In the finished film they showed it in extreme slo-mo and you see this schnook sail twenty feet through the air.
Then there was Drew the rodeo rider. Drew was a big hunk of a dude. About six-foot-three, built like a brick shipyard, wearing black leather pants and boots, no shirt, a broad, hairy, muscled chest, and suspenders. This crazy motherfucker snorted a couple of grams of cocaine on camera (the scene didn’t make the final cut), yammering on and on about his impending wedding the next day. The ceremony took place in a big open field, with a portable stage set up and a rock band playing. The wedding was officiated by a minister biker on his Harley drinking a bottle of vodka. The bride’s name was Ramona, a very pretty girl in a white buckskin dress. The minister pronounced them man and wife, the band broke into Born to be Wild, and the onlookers on their bikes revved their engines in appreciation. Drew then grabbed Ramona, threw her over his shoulder, and ran across the field. I was in the perfect angle with them backlit by the setting sun. Drew put Ramona down on the grass, got on top of her, pulled up her buckskin dress, and thankfully his black leather Harley pants were a bit too complicated to get open before she slipped away. Lit by the fiery gleaming setting sun, it was very romantic.
The crew lived in tents on a campground that accommodated 50,000 bikers. These folks all woke up early, and the first thing they would do is get on their Harleys and rev them. There is nothing to compare with the sound of thousands of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, the loudest bikes in existence, all revving at once. It literally shook the earth and made you feel like you were inside a roaring power that might explode.
I saw one black biker, and this son of a bitch was riding a Honda Gold Wing. Now that’s a tough guy. As a note, I didn’t see one fight in a week. I did however see a lot of female breasts. A favorite phrase amongst the throng was, “Show your tits.” If I aimed my camera at a lot of women, they pulled up their shirts and showed their tits. If they didn’t do it, their boyfriend would do it for them.
At Devil’s Tower (featured in Close Encounters of the Third Kind) I met a motorcycle club, equally composed of 12-14 men and women, all completely covered in tattoos (it was hot and the men were shirtless and the women were down to bikini tops). They were all bright, well-spoken, and called themselves the Wimpy Whiners. They comically complained about everything, particularly their brain-rattling Harleys (but with love). I asked them the incisive question, “Does it hurt getting a tattoo?” That set off fifteen minutes of hysterically funny bitching that didn’t make it into the movie. “Did it hurt? Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? It hurts like hell!”
The local diner was The Road Kill Café whose motto was, “From your grill to ours.”
May this day bring you nothing but mirth and joy.