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But Urich won't be won over so easily. Richard Shields, the prosecuting attorney for Henry County, which includes Urich, says that when Tally first tried this last year, Urich sued to stop him. (The suit didn't go anywhere.)
"I think a lot of it had to do with the fliers," Shields says. "Some people saw them — even Todd admitted to this, I think — and thought they were pretty raunchy, pretty scandalous. People looked at them, and they didn't know what was going to happen. Is there going to be a thousand bikers having an orgy in a field somewhere or what?"
The flier wasn't much: just a little black card with a woman in a bikini riding a motorcycle, plus a list of dates and a calendar of events. But it was enough to stop Urich from welcoming Tally and his friends.
"When I was planning it, I called the fire department and asked about donating a part of the gate, and they wouldn't even take a check from me," Tally says. "The cops wouldn't. I got shot down by every group in Henry County. None of them would touch me. Finally, I met some people who work with kids' baseball programs — Little League and that sort of thing — and told them what I was doing and how I wanted part of the gate to go to charity. Last year, we paid for all their uniforms. It's just part of the way I want to show people that don't understand, this isn't a bad thing."
After breakfast, the day is spent on traditional tests of biker strength. In one game, a skinny guy's blue thong pulls a blanket loaded with kegs. Eventually, the burden proves too much for the underwear, revealing the man's nether-region, which is completely shorn of pubic hair and adorned with a multicolored lightning tattoo. Another game tests a woman's ability to bite a hot dog that's suspended from a string while she rides on the back of a moving motorcycle.
This exercise aside, motorcycles seem almost unnecessary here. No one is racing them, and with the exception of one burnout, you don't see many tricks. A good paint job is admired, and a custom chopper is on display here and there. But there's a sense that the parking lot could be full of PT Cruisers, and it wouldn't make a difference.
That night, I head back into the beer garden for what's supposed to be the last big event of the rally, the fall Miss Grand River Rally competition. Tally takes the stage to introduce the contest.
"You all know this is my dream, a field of dirty dreams," he says, tipping the ever-present Mason jar. "And every one of you here tonight is here to show them that a bunch of bikers can get together and have a good time without hurting anybody. Every one of you here tonight is making that dream come true, and you're my family now. You better get back here in June because it's going to be better than ever, I promise you."
The crowd hoots. Tally steps aside, and "Low Rider" comes on, and the girls take over. The first two are topless when they come out, so there's not much they can do to tease the masses but grind on the stage. The crowd, which has been mostly scattered before, has jammed together in front of the stage. Cell-phone cameras go off in scattered bursts.
I wake up Sunday morning to find that at some point during the night, the tarp has come loose, and the cruel Missouri sun is shining down in my eye like a knife. I need to find a mirror and a toolbox, because clearly, someone has sneaked into my tent and drilled steel bolts into my skull. It's the only explanation for this pain.