
Leather & Lace: Women of Las Vegas BikeFest
Story and photos by J. Joshua Placa
As I wistfully browsed the vendor corridors of the Cashman Center, just a few blocks from old downtown Las Vegas and the epicenter for the 10th annual BikeFest, viewing all the cool and sundry motorcycle stuff I wanted but didn’t need, missing the money I blew on rent and food, I couldn’t help but notice something new, and sparkly, and lacy, and awfully pink popping out of the crowd.
Among the women of various ages, affiliations, shapes and sizes and stages of dress, or generally in the case of big bike rallies, undress, bling was the new thing. As they slowly shopped their way through the Vendor Village, I saw large amounts of rhinestones and colorful beads and glittery crystals adorned on all make and manner of T-shirt, ball cap, belt, pant and skirt, and that was just the guys.
Pink is back from the 1950s with a vengeance, like the original Barbie gone bad. It’s everywhere—a flashy stripe of pink here, a blouse there, turn a corner and suddenly come face-to-face with an eyeball burning matching outfit, and you might suffer permanent brain damage. If a large part of this fashion wave was to rinse off any lingering breast unawareness, I think Las Vegas BikeFest just may have been an exercise in overkill.
More women than ever before attended this year’s rendition of BikeFest, or so it seemed, maybe just because they shimmered and shined. Women account for almost a quarter of new Harley-Davidson sales, and they are making their presence felt on the road and with the vendors; they are changing the look and style of the lifestyle. This is a good thing.
Not many years ago, women seen at bike rallies were, for the most part, usually beer and vendor girls, wet T-shirt and Miss Whatever Rally contestants, 20-something silicone shippers on the arm of 60-something guys in Hawaiian shirts, or the other half of a two-up couple. Seldom was seen a single woman, at leisure, alone or in small groups, just enjoying the show. Women riding their own bikes were even more rare.
It was amusing to see how Hollywood stereotypes depicted motorcycle rallies with hordes of wild and wanton women in painted-on denim short-shorts, legs as long as your chopper and busting out of their tiny halter-tops. I must have always been going to the wrong events since a bike rally was about manly men doing manful deeds, with men, on machines made by men. It was, traditionally, one of the hardest places on the planet to meet chicks since the few that came were either working the crowd, vending, or otherwise engaged.
But that was then; nowadays, there is far better balance, and that opens up new markets, new opportunities, and just makes everything so much more fun, and pink, and leather and lace.