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 with Peyote buttons. I couldn't shut him up.
“We lived the life, lived motorcycles in the '70s,” Bob started. All we needed was a pocket full of gas money. There was always food and pussy came to us. We didn't need jobs, just our rides. We rode hard and fast, and built our own bikes to be different.”
I tried the stop him quick. I liked the notion of pussy on every corner and wanted a story from the past, but he kept rambling.
“It was the commonalty of brothers,” Bob said, “trust was earned. Help was there when needed. If you needed a part, it was a given, but you better use it, if not return it for someone else to use. We owned the fast lane, and it was our style. We looked out for each other. You always knew there was backup. The more miles we rode the better. Be it a short putt during the week or that weekend ride to nowhere. Pulling into any local bar, we always took it over. We took the women and anything else we wanted. Bartenders knew, if they didn't want trouble, beer was the answer.”
There he went again rambling into the desert on an old rusty Shovelhead. I tried to nail him down about the girls, but he wouldn't have any of it.
“We had nicknames like, Attitude Fred, Dirty Rich, Racist Roger, Monk, Percy the Professor, Big John, Uncle Dave, Jungle Head, Gentlemen Jim, Hippy John, Mute Ron, Mexican Mike, Pig Pen, Jaws, Dago Mike, Tiny, Danny M, Cowboy, Preacher, Angle Mark, Pop, Tonto, Airhead, Wing Nut Frank, Hangmen Mark (RIP), Little Mike, Big Steve, Sportster Danny, Knucklehead Red, China Don, Lug Nut Louie, White Truck, and so many more I can't remember,” Bob said. “I wasn't aware of their real names. It didn't matter. We had something in common, our bikes, riding and women. We had no cares but the next ride. Out running the cops was no big deal. Some got caught, some got away, but we all lived to tell about it.”
That women thing surfaced again. I thought for a second he would be coherent enough to tell me a story about a bar and the broads they snagged, but he dug out the baggy that looked like desert sand, or Dago crude, as we called it in the '70s. But this shit had green algae growing in it. I couldn't figure it out.
“Packing a chick was always a pain.” Bob rambled on. “It got to the point we didn't need to pack, with all the women out there. There was no AIDS or weird diseases, like now. We didn't care. Pussy was pussy and it was available. I can even remember coming back from the Yuma Run late on a Sunday. Two of us flyin' down the freeway and we picked up two babes in the middle of the interstate.”
I was pumped. He was heading into a story about chicks in the '70s. He held up his baggy of sand and opened it. The smell was atrocious. I looked around expecting a nasty looking mirror and a half-clogged Jack In The Box plastic straw chopped to three inches, but didn't see the paraphernalia. He reached into the plastic bag with his right thumb and fore-finger and took a pinch of this rancid shit and shoved it between his cheek and gum. I cringed. I could swear something moved in that slimy goo.
“Bikes were short and low, Ape Hangers, Drag Bars, Broomsticks, Z-Bars and Flanders Risers,” Bob continued but his words were mushy as if he was trying to enunciate through a mouthful of cotton balls. “We had to ride a Jockey shift or you were a pussy. Each bike had its owner's personality. We didn't have to look at magazines for ideas. Stock front ends, VL springers, or a standard H-D springer was the best. Long front ends with pull back handle bars were jokes. They had no control in the traffic. A bike had to be functional. Chrome? Who cared, just more to clean, which took away from the ride. A can of 49-cent flat black was the answer. Your bike had to fire on the first or second kick or you were left holding the bag. When the sound of an electric start bike was in the air, it meant parts. Back then it was a matter of survival. Parts were parts, but bad Karma components always caused problems. If you could eliminate a costly part you did. Making shit for your bike was part of the personality you put into the machine.”
I was beginning to take shots of Jack. I had heard all this shit over and over for the last 35 years. I rode jockeys, built engines in my bedroom and made my own shit until, oh shit, I'm still doin' it. I wanted to hear about the broads they picked up on the freeway, but I couldn't get this mofo to shut up.
“We had all glass lenses not plastic. Everything was American made, no foreign crap. Flatheads, Knuckleheads, Panheads and Shovelheads. God and Harley-Davidson said no to clones. After another 100 years Harley will still be here. Up sweep pipes, Shotguns, Drag pipes or Dick Allan 2-in-to-one collectors were cool. Ape Hangers over your head. Drag racing with a Jockey Shift was the best. One pair of Levis (which we called originals) we wore for years. When they fell apart we found a Hippy chick to stitch them back together. Horseshoe taps on our Engineer boots were not for the noise but to keep vehicles off our ass. Slam that metal heal against the pavement at 80 mph and throw a fury of sparks in the air, like a Big Rig just exploded.
If your bike leaked oil you didn't run to the H-D dealer. It just meant she was alive. The bitch just left her marked on the pavement.”
After a dozen whiskey shots I was beginning to cop an attitude. I had been down this road a thousand times. So I told him, “Bob, shut the fuck up and tell me about the broads on the freeway!”
“I didn't like to be told what to do and still don't,” Bob looked at me with an icy stare, but I swear his eyes were crossed. He seemed to sway on the milk crate he was perched. “I had enough of that in the military. Most of us were Vietnam Era Vets and still had partners dying in Vietnam. The open road was our home, our life. Live the life and we be cool. That's my opinion. Opinions are like assholes and everyone has one, and that's that. And I hope you don't like it! I knew some guys back then who were ahead of the times like Dick Allan (RIP) and Bob George. They did things that changed a lot for the industry…”
That did it. I grabbed his baggy and held it over the bonfire we lit for light in the night. We didn't need the heat. It was over 90 degrees at midnight. As the flames licked at the bottom of his precious baggy he snapped out of his peyote induced mystique. He reached for the blade on his hip, but knew that if he moved his euphoric mixture would be toast.
“Okay Bandit, you sonuvabitch. That was a good time tearing back for Yuma on a holiday weekend. Fuckin' traffic was jammed and we were making the most of it, splitting lanes and hauling ass. We had jobs, but didn't care if we made it back in time or not. Sure, we were stoned, but who cared. We were flyin'. Then out of the middle of nowhere, jammed in the bumper to bumper traffic, was a giant old Bonneville bomb with all the windows rolled down and rock and roll blaring from the stereo. There were three broads in side partying like crazy.
“We yelled at them to come ride with us. I stuck my tongue out at this blond and made the lickin' pussy sign. Then I pointed to my horny crouch. She wasn't repulsed, but nodded anxiously.
Two climbed out of the Pontaic and jumped on our bikes, but not for a short put. We followed that big assed car up Topanga Canyon to where the Eagles band had a big round pad. There was a major party happening and we crashed it and the girls. We made it with them until 3:00 in the morning. Then we got the hell out of there.
“Everyone says their generation was great, but ours was the best. The bikes, the open road, the women, and most of all, the freedom was unbelievable.”
I needed that simple story to make my night. Bob T. is still a rider as is his brother Chris T. in Hawaii, who helped put together the Choppers Only show. They know the feeling of freedom, the blast of building a bike and the touch of a woman. What could be better.
–Bandit
