Do you hear that? That low rumble? It isn’t thunder. But if you live in the Northern Black Hills, it is constant, more and more so all the time. You only hear it at first. Then by the time August comes, you feel it. The vibration is steady and volcanic. The odor is metallic, heavy, a cocktail of sweat, dust, and oil. It’s the fifth season, and it comes hell, high water, or COVID-19 every year. It’s The Rally, and it’s the motorcycle.

One town. Six thousand five hundred people for ten days become the population hub of the state and much of the Great Plains. One town becomes the epicenter for half a million or more people every year. With those hundreds of thousands of visitors comes the lifeblood of South Dakota’s tourism industry. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally accounts for over 15 percent of the annual tourism revenue in direct-to-government tax income, according to the South Dakota Department of Tourism. That’s not pocket change. That’s roads, schools, and emergency services paid for by ten days of noise and traffic that will sometimes make you want to open your window with your own head.

Beyond the temporary tax boom, the rally is directly responsible for the survival of many Sturgis area businesses. Spend time talking to the business crowd in Sturgis, and you’ll learn that many rely on those ten days in August to provide up to half of their yearly income. Sometimes more. I’ve heard owners say flat out that without Rally, they’d be closed for good.

That reality explains something visitors notice, but locals live with. Many buildings with perfect curb appeal sit dark nine months of the year. The signs are up, the inventory is gone, the doors are locked, and they don’t open because they would actually lose money in those nine months. The electric bill, the staffing, the heating in a South Dakota January – it all costs more than the three customers who might wander in on a Tuesday in January.

Which is why I bluntly refuse to patronize any business in Sturgis with a main-road or Main Street storefront that isn’t open the rest of the year, except for a few Rally vendors that come in, pop up, and leave. The big, one-eyed bear and the horse made of metal are two that come to mind, but there are others. I see them every time I drive by. You could do so much more in the community. You could give back year-round, not just when it’s most profitable.

Learn something from The Oasis, Sturgis Brewing Company, Sturgis Guns, Magnolia Soup Company, the Loud American, and so many other companies that stay open year-round because their neighbors matter to them. A hometown should feel alive all the time, not only when it’s full of tourists. When your doors are open only during tourist season, and you occupy a massive amount of real estate, it suggests you only care about out-of-town customers.

Meanwhile, local taxpayers pick up the tab for the infrastructure that gets people down the road to your doors. We pay for the plowing, the extra police and police overtime, the water and sewer maintenance that handle a half million people. That’s the deal we made. But the deal feels lopsided when the beneficiaries won’t turn the lights on for the people who live here.

I’m not naïve. I know margins are thin. I know a gift shop can’t survive on local coffee sales in November. I know some buildings are owned by out-of-state LLCs that treat Sturgis as just a line item. I also know Rally isn’t going anywhere. Hotels from Spearfish to Rapid City are full. Campgrounds east of Sturgis turn into micro cities for one week. The economic engine is real.

But engines need maintenance, and communities need more than a two-week paycheck. If you own a storefront downtown, you own a piece of the town’s identity. When you leave it dark for 40 weeks, you’re telling locals they don’t matter. Open one weekend a month, host a winter market, partner with a local artist for gallery nights. Lease it to a pop-up in the off-season. Do something that says Sturgis is more than just a parking lot for Harley-Davidson.

I love the Rally. I love the sound, the chaos, the way the whole world shows up in my backyard. I’m proud that a town of 6,500 can host the biggest motorcycle party on earth. I still love our town when I drive through in March, and it feels partially abandoned.

Here’s the appeal. If your business plan depends on local tax dollars and local roads but you won’t serve locals 90 percent of the year, they shouldn’t serve you during the 10 percent you decide to show up. That’s not bitterness. That’s reciprocity, and mostly inconsequential – because you already know you don’t need our support. But you could be so much more successful with it.

A town is more than revenue. It’s neighbors. It’s open signs in the window when the bikes are gone, and the snow is falling. If you want my money in August, earn it in February. It’s more than just financial. It’s a relationship, and that’s what business is supposed to foster… community.

Collin Duprel is a guest columnist for the Rapid City Post. Opinions expressed may not necessarily represent the views of the Rapid City Post, its affiliates, or advertisers.