Engels Pub has been rated one of the top blues bars in the Seattle area, serving outstanding food and drinks.  Bloggers have also described it as "Biker Friendly."

There were only three motorcycles out front the recent evening we checked out the historic establishment, which opened in 1934.  But somebody explained that we arrived during the biker rally in Sturgis, S.D., which draws crowds upwards of 400,000.

So we had our choice of tables at Engels, ordered a few beers and then decided to check out the "outstanding food."  Apparently, it was also on leave in Sturgis, S.D. The bill of fare was obviously reduced from the time in recent past when Engels also operated a deli next door.

"Menu?" the bartender repeated our request.  "That's it, on the wall."

Advertised in block lettering were racks of baby back ribs, and pulled pork sandwiches.

Ten minutes after we had placed our order the barkeep informed us that they were "fresh out of ribs" but that the pulled pork sandwiches were available.

"What comes with that?" a woman in our group inquired.  She learned that the sandwiches "come" with buns and with pork.  
Maybe that's the menu bikers request when they visit the Full Throttle Saloon or The Buffalo Chip in Sturgis.  

I'm not familiar with the eating habit of bikers.  I do know what they drink.

Free beer was the libation that seemed most popular when I motored to Twin Falls, Idaho in 1974.  The license plates on the hundreds of motorcycles I observed were from as far away as New York, Missouri, Florida and California.  

The hitchhikers I passed weren't seeking rides to any of these destinations.  They held up hand-lettered signs reading, "EVEL!"

Yup, I attended what had been advertised as "The Evel Knievel Jump across the Snake River Canyon."

The Butte, Montana daredevil was noted for vaulting a motorcycle over obstacles like the Fountains at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. His vehicle in Idaho that was supposed to carry him across the Snake River was really more of a rocket ship.  

But the event drew an army of motorcyclists who paid $25 admission.  That included free beer.  

Actually, what happened was that the night before the event the bikers camped near the jump site broke into a large refrigerator beer truck with trailer and helped themselves.

Not satisfied with free beer, the cyclists complained the next day that their admission fee gave them standing room space quite a ways away from the canyon rim.  

In front of them, behind a large fence, was the area reserved for VIPs, members of the press, and for Evel Knievel and his Sky Cycle.  

The unhappy cyclists began to shake the fence, shouting threats to throw the VIPs and reporters into the canyon.  There were an estimated 40,000 of them and only 500 members of the security force.  

The event's promoter didn't like the odds, so he negotiated for a while and finally hired members of one of the biggest, meanest cycle clubs to come over to our side the fence, to guard us from bodily harm.

Knievel was on his own and was launched into the air on schedule. Unfortunately, a malfunction forced a drogue parachute to misfire and the Sky Cycle spun into a mud flat at the river's edge.  

Evel might have said,  "This is one giant step for mankind." Instead he demanded through his radio that "somebody get me our of here.  My nose hurts."

Eventually, spectators began to dissipate, muttering darkly.
Not only had the event been a fizzle, but also all of the refrigerated beer trucks beat them out of town.    

But that was another era.

Knievel is gone and so are many of those who followed him to the Snake River Canyon.  

Today's riders have forged a new reputation as Knights (and ladies) of the Highway and that would include those who park their bikes in front of Engels.  

You might refer to them as The Pulled Pork Posse.