From a Lakota standpoint, the Sturgis South Dakota Bike Week has consistently presented significant challenges. Sturgis, like numerous towns in South Dakota with a predominantly white population, is deeply rooted in racism and various manifestations of violent colonialism. The denigration of Native people has become ingrained in the rhetoric used to solidify settler identity. In essence, the rally serves as yet another loud demonstration of dominance over our ancestral lands, embodying white supremacy.
The South Dakota government often chooses to overlook these issues. During the summer months, tourism plays a crucial role in the state’s economy. South Dakota actively promotes its “Old West” towns and gold rush history to tourists, capitalizing on Native sacred sites as attractions to boost revenue. This promotion happens while largely ignoring or failing to educate visitors about the history of genocide that led to the creation of these places.
One such sacred site, known as Mathó Pahá (Bear Butte in English), is situated just 8.5 miles from Sturgis. This site is located roughly equidistant between two of the region’s largest and loudest entertainment venues: the Full Throttle Saloon and the Buffalo Chip. For millennia, Lakota people have journeyed to Mathó Pahá for prayer and ceremonies, particularly Hanbleceya, the practice of crying out for a vision.
Bear Butte holds profound cultural and spiritual importance not only for the Lakota but also for the Cheyenne and Arapaho nations. The extensive noise from motorcycles and rally festivities disrupts the tranquility of the town and surrounding areas. This disruption leads to complaints from residents seeking a more peaceful environment, including many Native people engaged in ceremonies during the rally each summer.
From a young age, I was taught about Mathó Pahá—its significance and meaning. In my childhood, my family participated in awareness runs during the rally to educate people about this sacred site and our perspectives. My early experiences of the rally were marked by hostile glances from intoxicated white pedestrians and tourists wearing headdresses, along with an increase in highway fatalities.
Even then, the picture was stark. As I grew older, a disturbing realization dawned: the Sturgis Rally originated in 1938, prior to the time when Native peoples in the United States were legally permitted to practice our religion. The town itself was founded in 1878 and named after Colonel Samuel D. Sturgis, a prominent military figure who commanded the 7th Cavalry during the U.S. Indian Wars. Notably, one of his sons perished at the Battle of Greasy Grass (Little Big Horn).
The growth of Sturgis was fueled by the illegal Black Hills Gold Rush of the 1870s, a rush that violated the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie. This gold rush attracted thousands of prospectors and miners seeking wealth. These historical events laid the groundwork for ongoing exploitation and moral decay, shaping South Dakota’s conservative political landscape, the invasive nature of resource extraction, the tourism industry, and the rally itself.
In 2021, the Sturgis Rally faced significant controversy due to concerns about COVID-19 transmission. Health officials and residents feared it could become a super-spreader event, a prediction that unfortunately came true. Earlier in the pandemic, similar concerns arose during then-President Donald Trump’s rally at Mount Rushmore on July 4, 2020. This pattern reveals a blatant disregard for the safety of Native people by contemporary colonists. When Trump revisited South Dakota on September 8, 2023, Lakota Law joined with other South Dakota Native nations in protest.
Despite the ongoing COVID concerns, as a vaccinated and healthy individual, I decided to observe a day of the rally this year with my cousin. Our goal was to gauge the level of education and awareness among average rally attendees regarding Native history, culture, and contemporary life. We planned to use these observations to inform future actions. The first person I interviewed, a local man in his late 50s with gray hair, provided a telling exchange.
I asked him, “What did you learn about Native Americans in school?”
“Nothing,” he responded abruptly.
Between this response and the toxic atmosphere enveloping the event, we felt we had gathered sufficient information. My cousin and I spent the remainder of the evening at the rally, playing with rubber band guns and provoking rally-goers by blasting Tanya Tagaq’s song “Colonizer” from a car speaker. Armed with a better understanding of the environment, we intend to make a greater impact next year. My fake Winchester and I will return to the rally not as attendees, but as participants in a form of guerrilla performance art.
To be clear, simply existing as a Native woman is challenging anywhere, but Sturgis during bike week is arguably one of the most difficult and dangerous places imaginable. Ignorant, predominantly white individuals congregating on motorcycles in South Dakota—a state where far-right extremists find support in figures like Governor Kristi Noem—creates an atmosphere of such disorder that it genuinely evokes the Wild West. Native Americans feel unsafe, accountability is absent, and armed, intoxicated individuals move freely. Perhaps that is the intended effect, but it’s time to stop the hate.
