Hey, I got sick of telling stories about the bullshit mistakes I've made over the years. Besides I might stumble into a story that isn't covered by the statue of limitations and throw myself into a 50-gallon drum of boiling oil. So I'm shifting to terrible tales of bikers from the past. Not exactly the past, but guys who are still around and capable of remembering the past. Here's a good one.
Remember your first long run? The memories are often emblazoned on whiskey soaked brain cells, or worse. This story involved a close friend, Richard Bustillo, a rider for 28 years. He's a Martial Arts Master of the first degree. His accolades are too vast to mention here, including induction into the Martial Arts Hall of Fame. He trained with Bruce Lee from 1964 until two months before he died in 1973. In 1974 Richard opened the Kali Academy, which became the IMB Academy, in Carson, California.
In 1975 he built the basket case Panhead he rides today. Rock and Roll Bikes, in Gardena, California, modified the stock frame. Vic La Rue, who was a hard fighting Kempo Karate Black Belt, handled the base paint and Ron Tessensohn (who just drew the art for the 2003 Beach Ride), inlaid the snake on the frame with prism sheets to give it an authentic snake scales appearance.
Richard tinkered with the bike and rode it locally in Los Angeles until '78 when he hooked up with Bob Bitchin, the quixotic publisher of FTW newspaper, Biker and ultimately Tattoo magazines.
Richard nodded in a Zen like fashion. He's half Pilipino and half Hawaiian/Chinese. Although Bob was 6'4″ and weighed a slight 300 pounds, he loved hanging with Richard, Vic, and some of the guys from Gold's gym.
In the April of '78, Bob and Richard, or Sifu, as he is known by his students, saddled up for the Nuggets MC, Death Valley Run. The sprawling area that bordered the Nevada state line contained, dying-of-thirst, destinations such as Stovepipe Wells, Dantes View, Funeral Peak, Badwater Basin and Devil's Golf Course. There are no major highways, only narrow dusty roads leading into certain Death. If you survive the broad desert plain, you might reach Beatty Nevada and the Star Ranch brothel.
Sifu was young, still in his twenties, and excited about the ride. The Panhead was tuned and tweaked into fine running condition. Bob was riding the Black Bitch, a Shovelhead in a Walker's rigid frame, with 15-inch apes and 5-gallon tanks. The wide glide chopper was stone black with FTW airbrushed on the sides of the tank by Ron Tessensohn. They headed out at the crack of dawn.
Richard strapped leather saddlebags over the rear fender and packed all he needed, plus a tent and a sleeping bag. He was disciplined, direct, and self-assured about everything he did. He didn't do drugs. On the other hand Bob was a wild man who did everything. At each stop Bob would find a beer and a joint while Sifu carefully inspected every nut and bolt that held the '62 Panhead together. “The bike ran fine, but I was concerned about the long, narrow, 21-inch Dick Allen front end,” Sifu said, “I made sure all the fasteners remained snug. They did.”
They rode out of Los Angeles and into the Antelope Valley past Lancaster. Bob's 5-gallon capacity put him in fat city, whereas Sifu's bike was adorned with a jacked-up Peanut tank capable of sloshing two gallons from gas stop to stop. He had, maybe, a 70-mile range. In 1978 the city hadn't spread, like a bad cold, into the desert with small towns and franchise truck stops every 20 miles, especially not in Death Valley. Still they rode on without incident chugging through Mojave on Highway 14 and into the El Paso Mountains through the desolate mining camp of Randsburg. Through Ridgecrest and the Panamint Valley they rode an even narrower passage deeper into the desert, finally reaching the outskirts of Death Valley, that bakes at well over a 100 degrees during the summer. They were headed to Stovepipe Wells, in the Cottonwood mountains, a bleak little town not far from a military base. They had covered over 250 miles.
The Nuggets run was a basic shindig with fire pits, camping and chow. There wasn't much entertainment in those days except for the drugs, fist fights and maybe a slow race. There weren't many women. They rolled into the vast open dusty campground in the middle of nowhere and picked a spot. They set up camp and rode to the small town for grub at the dive roadside cafe. They sat in a booth to keep an eye on their bikes and watch other scooters roll into town. The waitress was cute in her white uniform with a frilly apron, around her narrow center, sporting red trim. She was young and bright-eyed. Sifu kicked up a conversation with her as they ordered. Bob was too stoned to pay attention. “Wanna go for a ride?” Sifu said and expected to be declined, but what the hell. It was late afternoon and the sun was fading over the Panamint mountains.
“I won't be off for another 15 minutes,” She said and smiled.
“I'll wait,” Sifu said surprised. He paid his tab and walked with Bob to the bikes. “I'm hanging around.”
“Whatever,” Bob said and straddled the big Shovelhead, then headed back to camp. He still didn't know what was going on.
Sifu hung out and gave the girl a ride to her nearby cottage. The one-street town was bordered with little clapboard cottages to house employees. Her cottage was clean and surrounded by pots of flowers, but when Sifu entered the studio-type arrangement he was caught off guard. There were two scooters parked in the living room/bedroom. The place was made up of three tiny rooms, the living room, kitchen and bath. That was it.
She thanked him for the ride and disappeared into the head for a shower. Sifu was immediately weary of his surroundings. Who owned the choppers, her old man? Was it a club deal? Over a dozen clubs were expected to attend the run.
Ten minutes passed and she returned with her shapely form wrapped only in a towel.
“Who owns these bikes?” Sifu questioned.
“They belong to a couple of friends,” She returned, her eyes sparkling, her long brunette hair still wet and pulled back. “Would you like to see my tattoo?”
Sifu still didn't know what to make of the bikes or her friends and wondered if he had just slipped into a trap. But she looked hot, all pristine clean and those bright blue eyes called to him. Like an angel standing in the middle of a firearm junkyard, he felt safe, intrigued and horny. “Sure,” Sifu said, “what is it?”
A rose next to a woman's rose. Sifu's concerns for his motorcycle, parked outside the cottage, the choppers inside, and his personal welfare slipped out the window, as if the angel had just slapped the grim reaper's ghost. He touched her, they kissed and the hot afternoon and evening sizzled into the night. They went at it like too alley cats until the next morning. Sifu was highly trained and athletic, but he could hardly walk as the sun came up.
Meanwhile, Bob wandered the campground looking for his riding partner, taking shots for his FTW rag into the night. Stoned and plastered he crashed by the fire. The next morning Sifu, sore and beat flat, cut a dusty trail into camp and found his brother eatin' a burrito and drinkin' whiskey. “What happened to you?” Bitchin said feeding his big face.
Sifu shook his head this time, a rye grin lifting the corner of his mouth. He grabbed a homemade burrito and began to scarf. It was a helluva weekend.
–Bandit
