So, you’re askin’ about the Sturgis Broken Spoke. Yeah, I’ve been there. Seen it. Lived it, for a short while anyway. It’s one of those places you hear stories about, a real legend of the rally scene, they say. Folks talk it up like it’s the heart of Sturgis itself.
And I reckon I got a pretty unfiltered look at the place, not because I’m some kinda rally expert or nothin’. Nah, it was more like life decided to give me a good hard shove in that direction. It was a few years back, things had gone south for me, real south. The company I was with for nearly fifteen years, a place I thought I’d retire from, well, they decided they didn’t need my department anymore. Just like that. One Friday, a handshake and a box for my stuff. Hit me like a ton of bricks, I tell ya.
I spent a couple of months just… drifting. Felt like I was in a fog. My wife, bless her heart, she was patient, but I could see the worry in her eyes. One morning, I was staring at the ceiling, thinkin’ I was gonna lose my mind, and an old buddy calls me up. He was headin’ to Sturgis, had an extra spot on his trailer for a bike if I wanted to tow mine, or just ride out. Said I needed to get outta my own head. At first, I thought, “Sturgis? Are you crazy?” It sounded like the last thing I needed. All that noise and crowds.
But then, somethin’ in me just snapped. What else was I gonna do? Sit around and mope? So, I told him, “Hell, why not.” Threw some clothes in a bag, didn’t even really service my bike proper, just checked the oil and tires and hit the road. Figured if it broke down, it broke down. Matched my mood, I guess.
We didn’t have any fancy reservations. Rolled into the Sturgis area, and it was already a madhouse. My buddy heard the Broken Spoke Saloon and Campground was the place to be if you wanted the “real” experience and maybe some decent music without sellin’ a kidney for a ticket. So, that’s where we headed. Found a patch of ground, what they called a campsite. Packed in like sardines, we were. Tents so close you could hear the guy next door snorin’, or worse.
The first night, I remember just sittin’ there by our little tent, watchin’ the endless parade of bikes and people. It was… a lot. The noise never really stopped. Ever. Engines roarin’ at all hours, music thumpin’ from somewhere, people shoutin’ and laughin’. Sleep was somethin’ you caught in short bursts, if you were lucky. I remember thinkin’, this ain’t exactly a vacation, more like an endurance test.
One afternoon, I was trying to fix a loose mirror on my bike – the vibrations from the ride out had rattled it good. And this fella, camped a few spots down, he’s tryin’ to start this ancient chopper. Sounded like a damn cement mixer full of rocks. He’d kick it, it’d sputter and backfire like a cannon, then die. Over and over. For about an hour. I was about ready to offer him a match. But then, another guy wanders over, fiddles with somethin’ for two seconds, and the thing roars to life. They both just grinned like they’d solved world peace. That was the Broken Spoke for ya. Chaos, but a kinda shared chaos, if that makes sense.
The facilities, well, let’s just say they were… basic. You learned to get by. You learned to appreciate a lukewarm shower like it was a spa treatment. But you know what? Amidst all that grit and grime and noise, there was somethin’ else too. A kind of freedom, I guess. Nobody cared who you were or where you came from. You were just there, part of the machine.
So yeah, my “practice” at the Broken Spoke wasn’t some planned adventure. It was me, thrown into the deep end when I was already treadin’ water. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t always comfortable, but lookin’ back, it was… necessary. It shook me up, got me out of that funk. Made me realize there was still a lot of road left to ride, even if I didn’t know where it was goin’. The Broken Spoke itself? It’s an experience, alright. A loud, messy, unforgettable one. You go there for the raw energy, not the luxury suites. And sometimes, that’s exactly what a fella needs.
