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"When he brought me out here, it was all soybean fields," Feeder says, holding his open hand palm down at mid-thigh. "This high. We spent a lot of time just cleaning that out. Then we had to lay down all those roads out there for the bikes. We still aren't done yet. We want to dig up a pond out back there by the campsites. We'll call it Nude Lagoon."
For now, though, the beer garden is the center of the party, and the dunk tank is an amusing sideshow. "You must pitch for the Royals," Feeder taunts when the next thrower's ball goes 3 feet wide of the target. Back on her perch, Topless is yelling, "You gotta work to get me wet, baby." She's got an eagle tattoo on her left breast and a few gaps in her teeth.
The next ball hits, and she disappears into the water. Fat Feeder howls.
Later, back in the camp, I meet two couples lounging outside an RV. I can hear something over the beer garden's PA system. Judging by the occasional cheers — and by the variety of bizarre competitions that occur at biker rallies — I'm guessing it has something to do with tits and lunchmeat. But out here it's quiet. For now.
The people say they're from Iowa. I ask if they've ever been to the rally in Conesville. It's called Hog Wild and it provides a decent sense of what Grand River Rally could become. Like Tally's, the Hog Wild parties bookend the summer. Also like Tally's, it's a 21-and-older event that started with a few hundred people in the middle of nowhere. It now draws more than 10,000 people.
"Hell, yeah, we used to go there all the time," Doug says, "except this one wouldn't stop showing off her tits." He gestures to his wife, Patty.
"Don't be jealous, baby," she coos.
"I won't go back there," says the other man, Brian. "I like this one already for all the reasons I won't go back to Conesville. Conesville is all about biker gang, MC territory now. You're afraid to walk around because you don't know what's going to piss them off."
He's hardly exaggerating. The last time I was in Conesville, a 1-percenter club called the Sons of Silence cordoned off their camp with police tape and walked around with Maglite flashlights hanging from their belts, a heavy but legal reminder that violence is just a smirk away.
"Fuck that," Brian says. "I'm not risking that bullshit because I stepped on someone's turf I had no way of knowing about. Right now, this is peaceful. There's no bullshit. There's nobody blocking off a camp. I don't have to watch my ass to make sure I don't get beat up and not even understand why."
Saturday morning. Breakfast time. Some are still in the camp, frying eggs over portable propane grills. Others have ventured into Urich for breakfast at the VFW Hall.
When he bought his land, Tally hoped that the rally could coil itself into Urich's DNA.
"Part of the point of this was finding somewhere that would actually benefit from it," he says.
Donating part of the gate to whatever community they're ravaging is standard practice for the successful biker rallies. In Conesville, a percentage of the proceeds is donated directly to the city, which is happy to cash the check and let the bikers have their fun. Raffles also are held for various charities, and money made from recycling beer cans goes to the Boy Scouts of America.