Motorcycle Mystique

Bandit read her note again in a coffee shop at 1:00 in the morning. He hoped it wouldn’t happen, but he could feel it in her features and her comments. She was on the drift. Without her there was nothing except his favorite flannel and his leather saddlebags. Maybe it had to do with motorcycles […]

  The story starts with Bandit telling me about a big card game in the Badlands of South Dakota. We were drinking one night down the street from the Cantina getting about half lit. He drank Jack on the rocks, and I was drinking Beam. The only thing left was to break open a bottle

Romance Ricky spent ten years in Iraq. About to go home, he grappled with his mission. Before his time in the service, he enjoyed the fruits of his lovers. A stout, good-looking sort he rode a Panhead chopper and chased women, but like so many young men he didn’t understand the code. Most of the

Voodoomama Part 2   A short time later, Liz calls. “Hello Mama.” “Lizzy, I know this must be hard for you, but please hear me out.” “I’m listening, Mama.” “I need to see you, Lizzy. Now.” “I’m in Kathmandu,” Liz replies dryly. “I’m in New Delhi; I’ve been here for three years. Lizzy, I work

      Editor’s Note: This is Chapter 11-Voodoo Priestess or the first chapter in the second series of MidNight Run.  Location: The Hilton Hotel near CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Liz enters the hotel room enraged. “Zac, they’ve suspended my CSS status and put me on leave of absence!” Liz fumes to me. “Leave

Now that we are totally acquainted, the owner of this site, this internet entity, this block, this stone, this worse than senseless thing, this Bikernet….like I say, this Bikernet, this Keith “Bandit” Ball person, has consented – with great reluctance and argument against the idea….. to permitting me to fulfill my desire to say my

Me and Cecily hopped in the car were on our way to Las Vegas once and westopped at a desert town that is a popular way-station for the Las Vegas hordes thatcome and go to LV from SoCal. It’s a hot gasping oven of a town and used to have just two eateries but time

It was darker than a sparkplug hole And cold enough to freeze your balls off, Following that straight white line crossing the state That night on the freeway   Got gas a hundred miles ago Maybe thirty ‘fore we start runnin’ out Our butts were numb, eyes peerin’ hard into the darkness Hands stiff as

  It’s been 50 years since Burt Munro took his Indian Scout Streamliner to the Bonneville Salt Flats and made history – a story immortalized by the feature film, The World’s Fastest Indian, starring Sir Anthony Hopkins. As a result, Munro’s legacy transcends motorcycles and symbolizes the much broader drive to push beyond conventional limitations

Invited were friends and members of Detroit Federation of MC Clubs. Inner city Detroit was beyond rough in the late ‘60s. A war zone of concrete and corrugated steel empty warehouses with interspersed with functioning businesses. The dirty pothole strewn streets, cluttered with debris, were dotted with greasy spoon restaurants and dive bars. Every building