Booths throughout the town showcased every possible accessory, from helmets adorned with Viking horns to custom-designed console inserts. There were a few political signs mounted on bikes, including one belonging to a woman wearing an “I feel a sin coming on” tank top; it is unprintable here but used the same curse word to denigrate both the president and anyone who put their bikes in trailers to come to Sturgis instead of riding the open road. Still, the most common activity for us all was admiring the endless rows of bikes, from the custom specials to the simply well shined.

That, and conversations about motorcycle culture, kept me more than entertained. What New Yorker knew there was a whole industry of motorcycle lawyers, who represent riders in personal injury cases? And I heard a mouthful about helmet laws (“It’s a freedom of choice thing!”), which are far more restrictive on the coasts than in the center of the country. I also got a kick out of a North Dakota couple who had matching HSBIKE and HRBIKE vanity plates, and heard more about the TV show “Duck Dynasty” than I had in its first three seasons combined (during which I had heard nothing). Even churches pandered. The sign outside the First Baptist Church in nearby Deadwood read “Jesus likes bikers too” alongside an offer of free coffee.

Fleeing the motorcycle madness and returning to Triangle Ranch at the end of each day could not have been more perfect — as I’m guessing it was even for the biker guests who joined me every morning at the communal table for an elaborate yet down-home breakfast of sausage quiche or raspberry cream cheese French toast. Everyone was in that relaxed, friendly B&B breakfast table mood; I used the time to ask the bikers who were staying at the ranch to explain some unresolved mysteries: for example, what was up with the three-wheeled cycles, or trikes, that I had seen a number of. A guest from Michigan explained that they’re popular among riders with physical conditions that make riding a two-wheeler difficult, but that they had become a culture unto themselves. We had both seen ones that were built to look like semis. “We took some pictures of them at the Badlands the other day,” he said. “Of course, I got friends who are truckers back home and they’re going to go crazy.”

A nonbiker shouldn’t spend more than a day at the Sturgis motorcycle rally any more than a baseball-oblivious foreigner should stick out a doubleheader. So after a day and a half with the big chopper set, I set off to explore other parts of western South Dakota, which is so stuffed with tourist draws that I ended up doing a rushed tour of the major highlights.