The Life and Times of Bandit

I’m looking down the barrel of 2012. The New Year is less than a week away, and we are scrambling to get my son’s Mudflap Girl FXR running and off the lift. It’s been an interesting time for me. Nyla keeps harping on slowing down, but the projects keep coming. I thought maybe I was

I pondered packing light for the Long Ride, and the packing plan goes all to hell in the blink of a high beam. I started with my Bandit’s bedroll, and handful of skivvies and clean socks, a couple of shirts, and then helmet laws jumped into the mix. My mission included flying from Los Angeles

          You’ve seen everything scrambling through my world over the last decade on Bikernet, so it’s been difficult to write a Life and Times. Besides, I should have been dead 15 years ago, shot by some sweet ex’s old man while sipping my last Jack Daniels at a harbor town bar.

I was thinking of purchasing a Panhead to fool around with recently. Owned two back in the day, a 1965 in high school and a 1959 later in college. After reading Rick Schunk's Panhead Restoration book this past tour offshore I thought perhaps an Evo instead to keep the cost down. I thoroughly enjoyed the

I’m trying out my word processor to see if I can write a decent article with pictures. It seems to be working so far. Here is a shot of my ’06 Sportster that I built from a wreck. It was so totaled it never should have ran again. Since the frame was twisted beyond hope

I could swear I’ve hit this story before. I’m sure I’m mentioned it periodically. My first book was based on it. To set the intrepid stage, check what I wrote for Steve, the new editor of Iron Works, for their celebratory 20th anniversary issue: Every year opened with a straight-pipes backfire bang, and 1990 was

This is a strange one. I didn't plan to attend Laughlin this year, been there 10-12 times, done that. Then Joe Zanelli, the Primm Casino mob boss called. “I gotta contact for you in Laughlin; give Sin Wu a call.” That was the first of several Twilight Zone encounters leading to the Laughlin Run. Can

The early 80's were the glory days for my generation. We were out of school, young, our whole lives ahead of us. We lived fast, partied like each day was the last. We thought we'd live forever as the age of 40 seemed a million miles way. Most of the people around me worked the

A note from Crazyhorse: I was going through the Cantina and saw that you were featuring the old stories of our lifestyle. So I sat down and wrote this. It's my story of how I came to be the person I am. I have a few other stories, good old crazy adventure stories from the

As its first full time employee Keith Bandit Ball knows the history of Easyriders Magazine, as well, or better than most. For almost 23 years as Editor he set the tone and flavor of what used to be called the “Bikers’ Bible” under the direction of Lou Kimzey and later Joe Teresi. Besides Easyriders magazine,

Tom on right. I've known Tom Rodan since the early '70s. He owned a shop in Tujunga, California until a divorce ate it. He now restores vintage motorcycles with Don Whalen. Tom encountered motorcycles as a kid living in a ghost town of 450, in Watts, Oklahoma about 100 miles from Tulsa. Even in this

Richard Kranzler straddled a Harley of sorts when he was 16 years old. He's been building bikes and bouncing around the industry since. Recently his wife was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and Lupus. Richard left his job in the engineering field, sold all his bikes, gave Sportster parts to Jon Towle and hauled all his

At first the hard-riding HORSE staff compelled me to blast each issue with rugged anecdotes of outlaw lore. If I went much further with my own road stories, I might confess to some treacherous crime that would bust my three strikes standing to an even half dozen and you'd never hear from me again. So

I often state that anything truly cool is running near the edge between life or death, pass or fail, Ted Nugent or “Damn Yankees”, etc. Just so you know ,when I write these stories, they are not “based on fact” or “inspired by”. They happened, and as a lot of you know the ” smoothing”

The author, Bob T., riding in the old days. Last segment I dug up an old riding pal, Bob T. who now lives in a '59 Cadillac buried in the desert. He's hiding from society, but I sparked his attention and he peeled off his thoughts about the past after snorting some desert sand mixed

That title rings true today constantly, but this was based in '71. If you think newbies run afoul of old school now, hang on. This is a story about a rider, Bob T., who rode with me in the early '70s. He was laid off from Hughes Aircraft after his stint in the Marines, as

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

Hey, I lost chapter 21. Actually, I started and never finished, and it never made it to the pages of HORSE. We jumped right to 22. So, over the next couple of weeks I'll dig it out, dust it off and dial it in. You'll get an original. In the meantime here's 22. I've never

I don't talk about clubs much. I won't mention names to protect the guilty. This particular story will ring a lot of bells from coast to coast. I was in a club in the mid '70s. Some of us were new members, some were old club guys who had been in one club and transferred

I was pulled over recently. While standing on the concrete curb of a city street, a brother rode past at double the speed limit, his straight pipes making the cop’s door rattle. The rider held the throttle open with impunity, barely lifting an eyebrow as he jammed through the traffic unencumbered, disappearing in the crowded

Bandit, circa 1972 Back in ’73 I was young and full of questions. I was taking college classes and working for Easyriders. The pay was poor, but life was one party after another. A riding partner, Mick, worked in the oil fields as a driller/ manager of an oil well. He was a whip-crackin’ sonuvabitch,