Installment #17 – Jumped A Couple of Decades

I don’t know why I leapt from the ’70s to the ’90s? Suppose it could have been the date, the first of August, when I would usually be cutting a hot dusty trail to Sturgis. The year in question was strange for several reasons. I had recently left my 5th wife for a big-titted psycho who smeared her face with lipstick in a jealous rage, the night before we were scheduled to ride out. I sent her packing although my heart wanted her at my side especially at night under the sheets. I knew, in the evil recesses of my mind, that she would be a problem on the run. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I didn’t.

I’m not going to cover the entire trip just touch on one day, a week later, after we slid into the Badlands but first a touch of background. I rode north out of Los Angles to meet the Hamsters in San Francisco then we headed toward Reno after a party. There was a good forty of dem guys and we didn’t stay in a pack for very long. We rode at our own pace and met up at the motel every evening for another party. Next morning we’d line up like we were somebody then split in forty different directions. I basically rode with one other man who was a former 1%er and liked to ride fast. I remember passing a bunch of guys in Wyoming as we reached Buffalo. When we stopped for gas, a guy pulled up to the station and was going to chew on us for our fast, erratic riding style. My partner looked at the man with cold steely eyes and said, “Did we scare you?” The guy immediately knew that we weren’t the kind of guys who gave a shit about the AMA rules of the road. If a rider is holding up traffic, shame on him. We were less than two hours from the Dime Horseshoe bar and our first Jack Daniels before we reached Sturgis. No one would hold us back.

A couple of days later I was still in a foul mood toward women. It was hot, and our motorcycles were running fine. The faster we rode the more we escaped the heat. We were runnin’ from event to event most of the week and avoided the crowds of downtown except for one day. We had to touch down on the dusty main street of Sturgis and feel the vibe, see a handful of people who worked the entire week in the sweltering heat, dust and exhaust fumes. We shuffled through the crowds until we had enough, so we moseyed into the Fireside bar, where a gun fight had rocked the streets of Sturgis a couple of years earlier. The first table besides the door was open. We pulled up stools and ordered a couple of drinks. We could hear the rumble of the loud pipes in the street cackling against the asphalt. We could see the crowded, litter strewn sidewalk and the constant flood of black t-shirts. No sooner had our drinks arrived but two girls sauntered up to our table and broke into pushy-broad conversation.

Generally there weren’t many single women roaming the streets of Sturgis and these girls weren’t half bad on the sun burnt eyes. Their attitudes stunk, though. We bought them drinks yet still received pompous, big titted conversation, so I told them to hit the road. “We’re not going to put up with bullshit just because your nipples are pressing against your top,” I said, “Get the hell out of here.” My partner looked at me in wonderment, but agreed and pointed toward the door.

No sooner had the two broads who looked over their dipped shoulders at us as, left the bar, but two Hispanic girls strutted up to our table. This is no bullshit. The same blasphemous banter started again with their anti-men jargon. I can’t remember the exact conversation, but I kindly ask the one with the big bouncy tits to finish her drink and get out of my site. They shrugged. I told her that I wasn’t going to buy drinks for anyone who was going to give me bullshit. She could take it somewhere else. They left, but 10 minutes later they returned with apologetic attitudes, and we had a couple more drinks as the sun dipped in the west and the night engulfed the town.

It was a rare time for my partner and me. He was and is still a no-bullshit weightlifter with a dry sense of humor and a hot temper. He was in no mood to fuck around. I suppose that if one of the girls offered him a blowjob he would have obliged. Generally, I was hot to trot. I joked that men think about sex every seven minutes and every other seven minutes they’re wondering why they ain’t gettin’ any. I like sex, but I was in a no-bullshit mood. We weren’t interested. We probably would have preferred a fistfight. Sturgis isn’t exactly the place to be roaming the streets for love. There are about 8,000 men to each woman, but we were scoring and didn’t have any inclination. Isn’t that always the way?

These two broads stayed for a couple of drinks and we chatted in a disinterested fashion. Finally I looked at my partner and he nodded knowingly. It was time to split, but the girls had another notion. They wanted to ride. We weren’t much in the mood, but figured that we could haul them to the base of Deadwood, to their hotel, and drop them off. I was riding a Harley-Davidson Softail modified into my notion of a Street stalker with highbars. It wasn’t exactly set up to be a passenger scoot, but this little young tight girl with naturally tan skin and full wavy jet black hair crawled on board.

My partner, who will remain nameless, straddled his full custom Dyna glide with a slightly larger, plump, voluptuous vixen who pressed her mammoth tits against his back and drove him straight into a Euphoric state. Keep in mind that we had downed six drinks apiece, the sun had dipped behind the hills and the streets were a maze of chromed silhouettes darting one way then another. The town of 5,000 was brimming with a couple hundred thousand guys all oiled down with beer, margaritas and an over-amped level of testosterone. Prostitution should be legal. We’d be a lot mellower.

We started jamming for the Sturgis city limits and I lost my partner in the traffic. I pulled to one stop along side another rider and when I turned my head I discovered that it was Buzz Buzzilli, the editor of “American Rider”. He was riding some sort of hot rod Buell, but we were sitting amidst a Super Bowl parking lot of rumbling motorcycles and anyone in their right mind wouldn’t race. I did and Buzz stayed right with me until speed and power no longer were ingredients in the insane mix. The challenge ahead included weaving around choppers, van mirrors, and dodging footpegs. I was feeling no pain and headed into the mix as if I couldn’t be touched, swerving and dipping, until I reached the edge of town. I didn’t deserve to survive, but did. I was high, dancing the white line mambo and looking over my shoulder to see if my equally fast riding partner was catching me.

He was the only rider I ever met who rode faster in the rain than when roads were as dry as a popcorn fart. I couldn’t see him and couldn’t slow down as I twisted into the hills with my terrified passenger holding on for dear life. Her ass slide around on the black fender with orange scallops–no passenger pad.

I rolled up 85 at a high rate of speed but watching my ass. I knew the cops would be out in force and that I would surely face a DUI. As I rounded the curves toward the outskirts of Deadwood and the girls’ hotel, I shut the Street Stalker down to a dull roar. I pulled to the stop across from the hotel, made an easy left, and rolled into the parking lot. I had no assumption of makin’ it with this chick.

She was some biker’s ol’ lady and I don’t go there. She looked up at me with cute dark eyes. I knew I was buzzed but the dimples in her cheeks mesmerized me in a way only a woman can. Suddenly the world went away except for the magic in her eyes. I had to break the spell and get the hell out of there. I kissed her and sent her on her way, jumped back on the Street Stalker and pulled out of the gravel parking lot and into the street to the boulevard stop and made a left. I rolled it on then saw the flashing lights of a patrol car off the side of the road. I could swear the cop looked up from his evil business to eye me and I dropped my speed in an effort to back off the wild Bartels’ Exhaust. Eyes straight, behind shades in the dark I passed the cruiser then poured just enough coal to the motor, to pull me gracefully up the hill into the dark woods. As I passed my mind flashed on the image of a rear fender back by the cruiser. Could it have been my partner?

I rolled on like a sailor gracefully trimming sails toward Spearfish. The roads seemed bent to my will. The night was perfect, the moon full and the smell of the great outdoors was all around. I felt like a surfer on the perfect wave. Nothing could be closer to riding with God than a night like that. Then I pulled into Spearfish and knew that the main drag would be packed with patrolling cops. I hate the fact that a rider can’t have a few drinks and enjoy the pure bliss of riding without police terror always haunting the back of his mind. I carefully pulled up in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. It was packed, but I discovered a slot dead in the center of the doorway, across from the wide sidewalk, where several riders stood or leaned against the rock wall.

I peeled off the bike with a sense of relief, as if I had run some notorious gauntlet and survived. I didn’t want another drink. I had come to a time in my life when I knew when to stop drinking and kick back. I figured that I was blessed to make it back. to home turf without being busted. I wasn’t going to push it, but say hello to my pals, wait to find out what happened to my partner, and then roll around the corner to the motel.

I’m notorious for leaving my ignition on or the keys in the ignition. I have this buddy of mine who knows my predilection for insecurity. Hell, I’ll lock my rotor then leave the keys in my ignition, but I always keep an eye on my bike. This partner, also buzzed, was standing outside the Silver dollar grinning from ear to ear as I dismounted. As I stepped off the bike to the left and turned toward the bar he move quickly, straddled the black beast, and fired it to life, a real card, but he drew a 2 of diamonds. He jammed it into gear and peeled into the center of the street as if some insane bike thief tearing out of town on the blacked out Street Stalker. Guys pushed off the wall flabbergasted at the gall of this bastard. Some ran to my side as if they might slip me a .45 to blow the sonuvabitch to hell, but a cop beat me to it. He had cops all over him before he careened to the end of the block. I looked up the street shaking my head. I had just rode 45 miles drunk and heavy on the throttle and he didn’t make it a block. I had to walk to the street corner to show the officer my paperwork so the bastard wouldn’t be arrested for stealing my putt. I got the bike back and they took him to jail to pay a heavy fine.

I took that as a warning to lie low for the rest of the evening. I waited for my partner for a while then carefully putted to the corner and around the dark block and up to my motel room. I carefully took the key out, locked the ignition and put the rotor lock on my front rotor. The bike was parked less than a yard from the window of my motel room. I went in and laid down on the bed in the log cabin motel and stretched out.

An hour later the phone rang and it was my partner. I found out that it was his bike along side the road on the outskirts of Deadwood. “You bastard, you left me,” he said “That cop had me on an incline. He made me touch my nose, walk the line and repeat numbers from 103 to 69 backwards. Then he searched me. Again I was asked to rundown the numbers 93-72 backwards. Then my fuckin’ ABC’s backwards. That girl wouldn’t leave. She just stood there.”

After an hour of questioning they put him in the partrol car. “There were two cops,” he said pissed off, “When one got tired the other would take over.” He was sequestered in the cop car and given a number of breath analyzer tests and sobriety tests.

My partner was no slouch. He handled it with aplomb, careful not to raise the officer’s ire. Finally the officer cut him a deal. Push his motorcycle to the casino on the corner and gamble for an hour behind a couple of mugs of coffee before hitting the road. He took the deal, relieved not to face jail and having his new custom being hauled off. He discovered another dilemma besides the cops and the broad, the bike wouldn’t start. Some electrical woe.

He pushed it to the Casino and slurped coffee and played the slot machines. After the hour passed he had won $87.00 and the girl wouldn’t cut him loose. He was stuck with her again. He pushed started the Dyna and headed back toward the highway, heading in the direction of Spearfish. This guy can handle himself in any situation and was relieved not to take the fall. His bike was clean as a whistle as he rode to the bottom of the Canyon to the intersection of I-90, but as he made the turn to ride into town bright lights followed. Another cop was on his ass. “I had just passed the fuckin’ sign that read 5 miles to Spearfish. I’d only been on the freeway for a mile.” The infraction, the size of his running lights disturbed the officer who immediately put him through another sobriety test, followed by another breath analyzer. He barely passed and found himself sitting in another cruiser. The officer’s partner searched him. One officer rolled up the windows to make him feel more uncomfortable in the heat and continued to quiz him. He sat there for another hour, under constant interrogation, before he was cut loose, but his bike wouldn’t start. His adrenaline was pumping high. “I wanted to get the fuck out of there,” he muttered, “I had to talk that cop into giving me a push. He finally agreed and we started that bastard pushing it up hill. I was beginning to think that chick was a jinx.”

He was elated once he reached the comfort of his hotel and called me. “I’m not riding again,” he said to me on the phone, “Can we get a cab to take this chick home?”

Is there a lesson here? Hell, I don’t know? I once talked to the creator of the Easyriders Rodeos, Leon Hatcher, about developing a town for bikers where we could be free to ride hard and be left alone. Currently drinking and riding is risky business. If they bust your ass, you go to jail, and your life is scattered with fines, jacked insurance costs and community service. I don’t know? It was just a night when a number of us rolled the dice and they came up snake eyes.

I suppose whenever we ride we roll the dice. Just make sure you make it back for the next game.