Every motorcycle rally has its own unique character. Event organizers, law enforcement, town officials and the local citizenry combine to form a flavor and attitude that is either fun and welcoming, a nice and pleasant break from workaday worries; or just another wrestling match with rules and regulations, the strict letter of the law and unspoken but enforced biker bias.

Sometimes we just want to shout, “Hey, man, my eyes are up here!” as shops and cops look us up and down like we’re refugees from a leather fetish party. The 130-year-old Williams, however, is happy to see us and a thousand of our best buddies when HOG rolls into town. Officials applaud our arrival, locals appreciate the business and energy the event brings, and lawmen don’t treat motorcyclists like we’re a gift-wrapped Christmas bonus.

People are friendly in this old logging town, whose economy has long turned to tourism. Williams has dubbed (and copyrighted) itself as “The Gateway to the Grand Canyon.” It is. The national park is only an hour’s drive or a two-hour scenic railroad ride north through the sprawling pine forest.

The women here appear to reflect the rugged, sturdy individualism of the town’s fur trapper and lumberjack-and-jill forefathers and mothers. Maybe this is why no one is intimidated by the roaring horde of badass bikers rumbling around this peaceful mountain town. Williams’ women can hold their own, and yours, too.

Aside from the girls slinging burgers, drinks, tourist trinkets or T-shirts, it’s a little hard to tell who is a local and who is just blending in. There were a few coiffed, polished and waxed Scottsdale types who stood out, a small smattering of your standard cute and perky vendor girls, a sashed and smiling Miss Williams, a couple of token goth girls, and a fair number of hardy frontier women who looked like they could pour a whiskey and skin a mule with one hand and fry it up for their man with the other, all with a wink and a grin.

Conspicuously absent were the usually omnipresent bulging mounds of infused silicone. Nor nary a wet T-shirt or tattoo contest, or even so much as an inoffensive-to-even-the-local-church-lady bikini bike wash could be found, which, strangely, was both a relief and disappointment.

At press time, there was still no comment from town officials or event organizers regarding the missing near-nakedness. No individual or group has claimed responsibility for banning the boob shows, but sticking to core biker values and traditional games, and staying away from the glitz and gratuitous if generally nice cleavage avalanches, kind of help make this edition of the Arizona HOG Rally a somehow more true and genuine event for bikers by bikers, to the betterment and wholesome enjoyment of all bikers. Wait, did I just write that out loud?