Ann and I spent this incredible stay with Lydia, Jeff and the grandchildren in late July, but little did we know what cultural awakening was in store for us on the way home in August. Ann and I had always wanted to see the motorcycle gathering in Sturgis. We had seen a segment on the CBS Sunday Morning show, and both of us had also seen news clips on our local station and on CNN. But to be in Sturgis is to experience it better than anything else. It is face of a community that launches thousands of motorcycles every summer, sometimes approaching 400,000 people. Nothing can really give you a lasting impression like actually seeing it with your own eyes. Just when I thought the younger generation was what was taking our country down to hell, I stopped in Sturgis. First, only the finest cuisine was available there. I had heard of people actually eating this stuff on a dare, and occasionally I heard about red necks raving about the wonders of this uniquely Western dish, but I never--other than in a movie once--saw a place where they actually cooked and sold it to people who actually wanted to eat it. But then again, those who walked about the streets were so stripped of normal inhibitions, human dignity and general taste, that it took more than a month before I could put the situation in context and try to understand what we saw there a month later. Even now I still have difficulty not trying to find this fast food trend from hell out of place somehow, even after having experienced 60 minutes of the bizarre atmosphere there.
Ann and I followed thousands of Harley Davidsons through town. There were a few other types of bikes, but to be in Sturgis on a Honda is like ordering a hot dog in a Sushi bar in Tokyo. At least that is the impression that I seem to have. I have never seen so many strange looking people on such beautiful bikes. And to be honest, I think that you could get away easier as an obese middle-aged white male with an equally obese female rider behind you if you rode one of those American masterpieces of chrome thunder. And occasionally, some people appeared who actually would not trigger a gagging reflex, wearing shirts or blouses that did cover large stomachs and fractured navels. I can't imagine riding a bike like that, not because I would not want to, but because I would have to have extensions on my arms to reach the handle bars. Modern culture terms a set of fit stomach muscles as a six-pack. I have stomach muscles that represent four cases and several two liter bottles. It has been at least four years since I being able to see my own toes.
I drive small Volkswagens, a new Beetle and a Jetta. And if I ever have to exit quickly, Ann will have to dial 9-1-1 to have specialists help me get out of the car with the ultimate tool, the jaws of life.
But the miracle of Sturgis is the fact that other white males with my problem sit on chairs or ride bikes with my same problem too, and sometimes without shirts. I felt comfortable there for a short time. We drove down the main street. People sat on lawn chairs looking at everyone cruising Main Street. Some even held up cards like judges once did at the Olympic Games where they held up ratings from one to ten. But then suddenly, Ann and I realized we were about to become part of the parade, and driving a foreign car in a red neck state in a town where people want to see uninhibited, naked people riding motorcycles was not where we wanted to be.
We turned down a side street. Suddenly a group of five men stood in the middle of the road taking pictures. I stopped and waited patiently, and then Ann said, "You are not going to believe this!" 
I could see this woman with a skin-tight flesh colored T-shirt with a large eagle painted on the front, but then I realized the T-shirt was not what the 50-year-old woman wore. She held it up over her head. The eagle picture was on bare skin. The artist had so skillfully painted over band aids that I did not notice the shirt held above her head. It was like the world moved in slow motion. A voice spoke to me through the driver's side window.
"I hope you didn't mind us blocking traffic to get a picture."
"No," I said, "you can stop me any time you want." All four men laughed so hard that they almost dropped their cameras. I was too flustered to realize that what I said sounded like words from the mouth of a lecherous old man, and Ann was so flustered that she didn't hit me when I asked her if she took a picture. 
We finally drove to the end of the street, turned the opposite way, and reentered the Interstate. We traveled in silence for a while, before we both expressed the same thing. We were glad we stopped, but we would never do that again. It's like eating at a Mongolian Buffet, a once in a lifetime thing.
So given the information I gave, you know how proud I am--as an American--that John McCain and his wife visited Sturgis a day or two after we were there. He even told a group of supporters that he thought about having his wife enter the topless contest. At least a newsman said that. I am so glad that McCain is getting some news coverage, and I am equally grateful that this visit will restore the lack of respect that the world has for our American leaders. We need someone with a taste for Rocky Mountain Oysters, someone with a wife who smiles with a grimace on her face like someone just shut her hand in a car door, someone with good judgement to lead a Super Power. Sturgis defines John McCain and his bid for the presidency. But just in case he falls short, when his Alaskan governor returns home, maybe she can continue Alaska's bid for independence as a sovereign state. McCain could become a king there, in a land where Sturgis will make them all proud.
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