John Steinbeck said it best in his prolog to his novel, Cannery Row, which I quote:

  “Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, restaurants and whore-houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flop-houses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, “whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said: “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing.”

   And the bikers take full advantage of all that it has to offer at this yearly event under the watchful eyes of the Rolex wearing Monterey Cops! Never saw a Sturgis cop with a Rolex, hum!