Black Hills Fat Tire Festival


Rapid City, SD hosted the first annual Black Hills Fat Tire Festival over the Memorial Day weekend, and I decided to check it out.

I roadtripped out to SD with Paul Larson, a good friend and a past and present co-worker of mine. We worked at the same bike shop in the 90’s, and he now works for QBP, our US distributor. We left from Minneapolis on a rainy Thursday morning and arrived at our tent “camp site”, in sunny Rapid City, 8-1/2 hours later.

The Lake Park Campground caters mainly to RV and cabin campers. 6 catbox-like spots, crammed next to each other and adjacent to the office/shower building, are reserved for tents. One of those litter boxes would be our home away from home for 4 days and nights. To add to the ambiance, the Wiettrasch family arrived on Friday with every camping item (still boxed) one could possibly glean from the camping isle of a Wichita, KS Wal-Mart. Big Daddy Wiettrasch yelled at his kids morning ‘til night, while Big Mama looked on and ate delicious salty and/or sweet snacks from one of many Mylar bags piled inside their screened-in chow area. Big Daddy snored each night like a pig hot on a truffle trail. At least, they had extra-loud electric air compressors to pump up their max’d-out air mattresses each morning.

I hadn’t ridden in the Black Hills prior to this trip, so I didn’t quite know what to prepare for. I grabbed my 1x1, equipped with a Psylo, V-brakes, and 32 x 18 gearing, and hoped for the best. Paul chose to ride his geared Univega hardtail sprung with a Marzocchi fork.

My first taste of Black Hills off-road was a locals’ ride scheduled for Friday morning. Steve Beals, an old friend residing in Rapid, told us to meet at the coffee shop. For some reason, Paul and I assumed it was a ride-to event, and we set out on our bikes. The realization that we should have driven the Toyota didn’t hit us until we were past the point of no return. Duh…this isn’t Minneapolis. Luckily, Steve had extra capacity in his truck for 2 sweaty, pasty Minnesotans and their bikes. We ordered some vittles and coffee for the road and set off toward the trailhead to get our asses handed to us. Our ride was on a new section of trail at Breezy Point. It was sometimes rocky, sometimes steep, full of pinecones and pine needles, and sometimes hard to find. We rode 5 miles in 2-1/2 hours. Our average speed wasn’t impressive, but part of that time was spent watching some of the full-sus riders hucking some of the bigger drops on the trail. I felt pretty worked when we got back to the parking lot, but Steve had a cooler full of cold Grain Belt to help me forget about the pain. I was happy, but tired. And I was wondering if all the riding would be as raw as the stuff I’d just ridden.



After this ride, I understood why geared, full-sus, disc-brake-equipped bikes are the norm in the Hills. Flat pedals are pretty common, too. Throughout the festival, I saw a handful of single-speeds on the off-road trails. I didn’t see any rigid forks out there.

If nothing else, the Lake Park Campground has nice, hot showers. After a good degunking and some lunch, Paul and I decided to meet up with our friend Trent Knight (former Minnesota resident and shop wrench), who was helping out at one of the trailheads, and then hit a section of the Centennial trail for a 45-minute out-and-back ride under light rain and dark skies. That was a lot of fun. Rocky and rolling with descent flow. Paul and I are discussing a future self-supported trip along the 111-mile length of the Centennial. I’ve been told, by our friend Simon (Western Spirit tour guide and all-around troublemaking dingo) that there are some really hellish sections that they generally shuttle around. But I’m still interested.

Friday night’s schedule included the festival registration gig at the Chop House, conveniently located within a stone’s throw of our campsite, and a pub crawl to many of Rapid’s more eclectic drinking establishments. I started to feel right at home. After last call, we rolled home. Trent only turtled onto the bike path 3 or 4 times, and we eventually made it back to camp to have another beer and get a little shuteye.

Sunrise came too soon, as it often does at these events. Paul, who had avoided the pub crawl, was up early and found a breakfast joint to his liking while I slept off some of the haziness I’d acquired the night before. Paul ordered and ate 2 breakfasts. I think he has a tapeworm…a very large, hungry tapeworm that wears denim and flannel. I was up when he got back to camp. Trent was still sleeping in the back of his ’54 Chevy parked in front of our site. Paul and I went back to the breakfast joint, the Colonial House, so I could dilute some poison and take in some calories before the 1:00pm ride at Victoria Lake.


The Victoria Lake ride started off at a very slow pace. I wondered why until we got onto the main loop. This 15-mile ride was going to be more about energy conservation than speed. The first climb put me in my place. I went out first because I was the only one on a single-speed (a trend that continued throughout the weekend), and I have to go faster uphill to keep my momentum. It wasn’t long before I had to dismount and walk. I simply couldn’t keep moving over the steep, rocky trail. Most of the riders walked the majority of the steep climb, so I didn't feel too bad. I waited for Paul at the top. We continued on at a little faster pace than the rest of the group. The group leaders would catch us occasionally and we’d ride together, but more often than not we’d be riding in front. Sometimes, it’s easier that way if the trail is marked. The Victoria Lake Trail is well-marked with orange arrows, so we felt confident that we could cruise ahead without worrying about getting lost. The second half of the trail is smoother than the first and we started to ride a little faster. The weather was perfect, and I was really diggin’ the ride. 4 miles from the end, Paul caught up to me and told me he’d broken his pinky finger during a crash. Damn. It looked bad…crooked, green and purple. He thought it was a compound fracture, so he didn’t bother to remove his glove. I had electrical tape in my bag, so we taped his bent pinky to its neighboring finger and continued down the trail to the car. Paul rode well despite his injury.

On Sunday, Paul and I decided to ride Storm Mountain by ourselves without a map. Paul had ridden it before, and we were told that we couldn’t get lost because it’s well-marked and well-ridden. Of course, we missed a turn somewhere and rode the main loop twice. Then, when we were 500 meters from the car, we followed our instincts and some arrows and made another wrong turn away from the parking lot. After a few more small loops, we found a local single-speeder who pointed us in the direction of the car. The trail was pretty sweet, overall, and I wasn’t unhappy about the extra laps. But it was nice to be done, and we were both looking forward to some food and a couple cold beers at the Gas Light Saloon down the road.

That night, Steve and his wife Erica, Paul, and I sat under the stars in the Beal’s backyard, smoked shisha from Steve's hookah, drank a few beers, and talked about our bikes, our families, and our friends until the charcoal and shisha burned out. It was the perfect ending to an already-great day.

Monday’s ride was to be my favorite of the trip. We started off in Shank’s Quarry. This was supposed to be a mellow ride, but the first couple of climbs and descents proved it otherwise. Our large group split into two groups…a fast group and a not-quite-as-fast group. I was perfectly content riding with the slower group. We took different routes, but met up down the trail, anyway. The terrain varies wildly in this area…rocky double-track road climbs, rocky single-track descents, dirt, gravel, pine needles…a little bit of everything. The fast, winding descent down Howling Beagle put smiles on all our faces and burned a visual, of this serpentine chain of riders, into my head. Around noon, most of the group headed toward the parking lot. It was Memorial Day, after all, and a lot of folks had family commitments. Steve, Paul, and I wanted to ride more trail, so we bid our companions farewell and pointed toward the trail that would lead us to the Bone Collector.

It wasn’t long before we came across these guys…



They were testing out a newly-built .54 caliber black powder musket on one of the many roads that crisscross this multi-user area. Steve (who is a multi-faceted, well-read funhog) instantly identified and took interest in the gun. He asked its owner if he’d fire his weapon, and we were treated to a fine display of historic firepower. The other gentleman appreciated my 1x1. These were back-to-basics outdoorsmen, so the single-speed thing was more intriguing to them than the full-sus bikes that most people use in the Hills. After some more bike/gun geekery, we made another move toward the Bone Collector.



The Bone Collector is a rocky, technical-but-not-too-steep trail that invites riders to test their nerves and machines on natural granite and man-made trials. There are lots of challenging technical lines, but there are also less-demanding alternatives for riders who are not willing/able to ride the tough stuff. Gaps, ramps, ladders, shoots, and drops make this trail a destination for skilled technical riders. Knee and elbow pads are not out of place here. The 1x1 did fine, because I rolled the drops and took the mellower lines when they were offered. This is a fun trail.

The heavy logging throughout the Black Hills is a little unsettling. National forests are fair game for loggers, regardless of the bike trails running through them. Most of the trail systems we rode had been logged to some degree. Luckily, local trail builders have rerouted many of the damaged or erased sections.

We rode more of the trails in this area (I wish I could remember all the trail names), took in more great views, and finally made it back to the cars on a fast-as-hell doubletrack descent that scared me in a good way.

After some grub, a couple beers, and a much-needed shower, we drove out to Trent and Carla’s place for a holiday feast and a gathering of kind souls. Heavy, dark storm clouds loomed over us as we pulled up to the almost-complete strawbale house, and, within minutes, the wind picked up and heavy rain began to fall. Nobody seemed particularly alarmed by the imposing weather. The thick bale walls of the house, covered by cement, are quite reassuring. A huge garage sits under the main living area of the home. The garage was the gathering area that evening. It’s a great example of what a mancave should be. I’m jealous. We, a group of cyclists and non-cyclists…men, women, and children, sat in a large circle…talking, eating, drinking, and watching the newborn kittens frolic on and around piles of tools, car parts, and building supplies. Trent’s badass 1920’s touring rod sits in the corner. A CroMo funny car frame rests in another corner. Bikes, bike tools, and bike parts are mixed in with the car stuff. There’s a little somethin’ for everybody here.