Now, friends, plug your ears for a great clattering rolled into Virginia City–Street Vibrations Fall Rally—a thunderous cacophony of engines and music that could stir the bones of the long-buried.
Assuredly, it is a family affair suited for the innocent eyes of children and the weary gazes of the elder.
“We produce to the Disney standard,” a Ringmaster warned like that might soothe the ears blasted by roaring Harleys.
But there, you would not find princesses—unless they wore leather and came riding chrome horses through the dust. And while Disney dabbles in politics, we had our thrills: the FMX Rampage stunt show, where daredevils soared like caffeinated squirrels, pulling off acrobatics that would have made a drunken mule blush. But fear not, for they were wisely caged behind fences, lest some poor soul on the boardwalk become a participant in that aerial ballet and unwilling.
And oh, the boardwalk! Picture it, where the very air trembled with adventure and mischief.
Ladies—God bless ’em all—flashing their bosoms for glittering beads as if Mardi Gras had rolled into town on two wheels. A finer spectacle you would be hard-pressed to find, as even the stiffest old-timer cracked a grin at the joyous abandon.
Caught in the spirit myself, I had wondered if the pursuit of such trinkets did not have its charm after all. It had been a strange thing, indeed, that a bit of foolishness had brought so much merriment to a town that had seen its share of rough-and-tumble days.
But of course, when you invited a flood of bikes—some 35,000 of them, with 52,000 revelers tagging along—it would be best to keep safety at the top of the mind. Our vigilant lawmen and women were out, warning the four-wheeled folk to give those riders their space, for motorcycles are as elusive as a ghost at a séance. They had said to keep four to five seconds of distance–enough to prevent bones from knitting together in unfortunate ways.
Ah, and speed—those crafty bikers dart through traffic like needles through cloth, slicing lanes in a way that makes a seamstress proud. But let me tell you, friends, lane-splitting has been as illegal in Nevada as bringing a cat to a dog fight. Our deputies have not taken kindly to those who thought they could bend the rules like a cowboy shaping a new hat.
In the middle of the metallic carnival, a fellow rode in from the Sandwich Islands—now known as Hawaii, a secret of hermetic he refused to divulge.
“It’s a sight to see,” he had said, beaming like a lad with a fistful of candy. “With all these booths, rides, and the mountains in the background, this is the heart of biking.”
And who could argue? Virginia City has become the Mecca for those on two wheels.
With live shows, stunts, poker runs, and rides through landscapes that would have taken your breath away if the dust had not done it first, the rally had everything a soul could have asked for. Throw in some shopping, food, and drink, and you had a festival that could have made a commoner feel like a king.
As Virginia City shakes with the joyous noise of engines and laughter, I thought of when the town clamor was constant—rock-crushing machines hammering from dawn till dusk between 1860 and 1940. What had been a few days of raucous revelry compared to a lifetime of that?
Let the engines roar, I have said, for we embraced the noise as heartily as the following silence in this place.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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