Early may sunshine gently warmed formerly frozen pavement as the old Electra Glide made its faithful way along the small, secondary South Carolina hwy. Dressed in only boots, Levs and thermal shirt, I relaxed into the finely forested scenery that lined either roadside. It was a good day to ride.
Winter always holds the Scooter Drifter to the far south and I never start the northern migration till early May. Well, May was upon me and this year it would begin with the Myrtle Beach rally in South Carolina. I’d arrive within the hour.
For 13-years I’d been committed to this long journey and experience taught that, as per the ways of the drifter, one must sometimes work hard and fast to build his capital then stretch that money across the long periods of travel and leisure that lay ahead. To date, two to three working months per year has always been sufficient. It was in this interest that I’d learned years ago to work for the vendors at motorcycle rallies across the nation. Hell, I was there anyway and had come to know so many vendors and promoters that work for them just seemed the next natural step.
Funds were again slim and work was now necessary. Fortunately, I was prescheduled to work the Metzeler truck this year. This custom built, two-story semi-truck had been outfitted as a rolling tire shop that traveled the country to sell, then install, the tires purchased by so many biking, rally-attendees. Well, they needed mechanics and the long years of repairing my own scooters had qualified me to this relatively straight-forward task. Myrtle Beach rubber jockey. It was a job I actually looked forward to, and the pay was good as well. Still, partying would surely be more fun. But little did I know that nothing could equal the time I’d soon spend among the crazy Metzeler crew…
The roadside forest widened and Myrel’s Inlet came into view. The large and terminally touristy beach town of Myrtle stretches north and south along the coast. Myrel’s Inlet is simply the southern end.
It was 11 am Thursday. By Saturday this world would be filled with blurs of chrome and the roar of engines. But for now the calm scene revealed only the many erect vending tents, and the efforts of those who still worked to set theirs up.
It was the calm before the storm.
After pulling to the curb I called Easy Eddy (my new boss) on the cell. Wanting to settle in and enjoy the rally for a couple days before hell week began, I agreed to start Sunday morn.
The next order of business was accommodations. Just past the southern end of town, a small and seldom used church sets some distance off a tiny side road. Behind it a fine and private plot lay nestled among tall trees. I’d make camp there. Farther into town a huge country club offered hot tub, pool, weight room and showers. A deal was soon struck that allowed me access to all these amenities.
Myrtle Beach was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.
Bikes began to arrive and the days passed in an easy blur of bars, restaurants, and the simple pleasure of old, and new, biking acquaintances. Relaxation and food was the order of the day. Although town became a noisy place at best, the tiny church offered nights as quiet as the open desert.
It was Sunday morning as I pulled the loaded down Harley onto one of the many huge parking lots recently converted into a shantytown of large vending tents. Set some distance back, and parked parallel to the highway, the huge Metzeler truck was nestled among the others; its large awning stretched taunt over the six motorcycle lifts set before it. Inside the trailer would be two pneumatic motorcycle tire changing machines and two spin balancers. I knew, ’cause I’d worked this gig at other rallies in the past. The crew, however, I’d not seen before. Parked in a single row near the working area, their bikes were in obvious contrast to the usual brand new and highly accessorized rides that now littered the lot. Most were older, showed signs of wear, and had obviously been often home repaired by the hands that loved them.
I backed the old FL beside a rusty, custom built, 1964 Sportster and leaned her onto the kickstand. After locking the ignition I strode threw the light crowd then stood for a moment to eye the men I’d be working with. Most Harley riders are older these days, but these were invariably young men. At 47, I’d probably be grandpa here. I turned to greet the boss. Easy Eddy is slightly tall, thin, heavily tattooed and sports a big belly below longish black hair and goatee speckled with gray.
The cat talks kinda funny and, as I’d soon learn, is somewhat of a lunatic genius. After introductions he told me to grab any lift I cared to work at. I retrieved the bag of tools from my own saddlebags then took position. But the week was still young and work was slow today. This job pays by the tire rather than the hour, therefore there’s no “busy work” to be done. When it’s slow you simply relax, drink sodas and bullshit with the guys. And so I came quickly to know most of our staff:
Ray and his wife were familiar since they live aboard the truck. Once their destination is reached a shop owner local to that area is then contracted to bring his guys to work the rally. Different area—different crew. That’s how it works. Both are good people and although Ray only wrenches on the days we’re swamped, he does barbecue lunch for all everyday.
Ken, Eddy’s lead mechanic, was young, handsome, friendly, talented, genuinely demented and the owner of that '64-sportster. There was K-2 (another Ken). Although a factory certified tech, K-2 makes his living as a house painter. Besides the fun of it, he was here for extra money to buy a riding-mower of all things.
Bear (another Sportster rider) was closer to my own age. Tammy, his red headed ol’ lady, would help tend the cash register. Zorro was simply young, fat and rode a crotch rocket. At 19-years old, Minnow would stay in the truck to mount new tires on the wheels we pulled. He was the biking equivalent of “Radar” from that old TV series and everyone kinda looked out for him.
Toby was a new salesmen. A natural bullshiter by trade, this guy was fun. For the topic of women he had only one thing to say, “Rich girlfriend,” and so he had. Haling from Colorado, Toby no longer had need to work. Yet, he enjoyed sales and came only for the action. Toby’d ridden motorcycles over much of the world and we’d come to swap many stories.
The characters were in place. Time passed easily.
Although Eddie and his wife Judy stayed elsewhere, they rented a house for the crew at the north end of town and I was invited to crash there. Sounded like fun, and at day’s end I followed Bear home.
It seemed a long ride. Eventually though, the bikes settled into the front yard of a fine two-story pad. It was clean. Upstairs offered large, wrap-around deck while below sported a hot tub. After dismounting, everyone settled in and the insanity began. Beer and loose talk flowed as easily as the crazy laughter. Those I’d not seen before showed up and it was soon learned that, besides the Metzeler truck, Eddie also had his own mobile mechanic’s spot at yet another location some miles north of town. These new faces worked up there.
Sheila (operator of Eddy’s northern cash register) was hot, compact and as extraverted as few women the world has known. Before long the rusty Sportster was wheeled inside, that she might strip brazenly for an amateur photo shoot atop Ken’s ride. It was nuts man.
Grease came thick around this job. After filling the washing machine I headed for the shower. Next was bed. For many years freedom had been my closest companion. Although it seems strange, for this love I’d been out so long that rooms now felt almost as boxes—four sides and a lid. I made camp in the yard.
The workweek rolled on as the bikes pounded us. This was good. At days end, the boys would often load our best “take off” tires into a truck for transport to the northern sight. A brief mystery to me.
There was always talk of the fun at Eddy’s northern spot. Almost every night the boys rode up there to raise a little hell. But they were young, and I was tired by days end. As the week wore on however, work at the Metzeler Truck slowed to leave me less frazzled at quitting time. The decision was made…
It was full dark when I pulled into the huge northern lot. It took no time to locate Eddy’s place nestled among the others. There, before his big 40-foot motor home, two lifts, many tools, a supply trailer and some chairs rested in the dimly lit gloom. Some distance off a huge, half-lit, crowd gathered around a large burnout pit.
I parked the bike.
Eddy sat shirtless; his tattoos and basketball belly exposed to all the world. Judy had the adjacent chair. Beside them, a tallish and well built young buck—his greasy shorts exposing one prosthetic leg—manhandled equipment with small mercy as he worked to mount one of our used, take-off, tires to his bike. I’d not seen him before. Judy told me to scoot inside the motor home and have some homemade ice cream with the rest of ’em. There was food too. I did. Some of the crew was there and demented comedy seemed the natural order this night.
Before long Ken and K-2 grabbed me for a brisk walk to the burnout pit. They said that the peg-legged dude was a crowd pleaser, and we didn’t wanna miss his show. Hell, put the front wheel against a wall then burn the rear tire off. I’d seen it a hundred times. Big deal.
After pushing through the heavy crowd we laid witness to one ludicrously large burnout pit. Bits of charred rubber coated the asphalt. The restless mob huddled close. I waited in slightly overwhelmed silence. Before long the sea of bodies parted and Mr. Peg Leg emerged with engine revs bouncing off the limiter. I yawned.
Then, rather than against the wall, Peg Leg positioned his bike at ring center and dropped the hammer. The back tire began to trail smoke. The stunts began. Eric’s bike came forward then fell into a long sweeping brodie. He dismounted then held only one hand to the throttle as his bike spun in small circles. Moving around the ring, he switched from one trick to another as great plumes of smoke bellowed from behind. Eventually the tire blew, the crowd cheered, and Peg Leg took his bow. Eric, I’d later learn, was Eddy’s right hand man and a good wrench as well.
Next up was Easy Eddy on his twin-cam bagger. Against the wall he went. At mid performance, he called me to come check the speedometer. A hundred and ten MPH against that wall. Crazy bastard.
On the return walk to the motor home I stopped to buy a couple cigars. Approaching the RV, I stopped to watch some big dude spin my boss over his head then set him easily to the ground. More comedy. I sat to light a stogie then endure the remainder of this insanity with some sibilance of serenity.
It was late when we finally started for home. In the lane to my right sat Ken aboard the rusty Sportie, while Boberry brought up the spot behind him on a Road King. The speed limit was 55.
All was smooth till the sound of scraping metal stirred me to check the rear view and find a meteor of sparks sliding rapidly up from behind. I hit the gas to avoid being run down. Ken moved to the lane’s far side for the same reason. Eventually the hunk of steel slowed to a stop and we pulled over to investigate. The broken Softail lay on its side in the left lane with most of its fancy chrome doodads now scratched or bent. Ken lifted the bike and we pushed it off the road. In a minute the rider staggered outta the bushes, his jacket scuffed and levis torn. Drunk. A crowd gathered now and one man said the cops were on their way. Immediately the Softail guy jumped on his bike, grabbed bent bars, started the engine, and was gone. Guess he figured a busted bike was bad enough. Why add jail time? This event supplied good material for later conversations back at the house.
Eventually the workweek rolled to an end and I readied myself for the coming dinner that everyone talked about. It would be a fine restaurant event and I intended to dress accordingly. Clean jeans, tee-shirt and engineer boots. Still, it was kinda weird to accompany such a motley crew into this fine establishment. Aged beef and lobster for me. The final bill neared $700. Bosses treat. Unbelievable.
After dinner my wages were paid. Work would not again be necessary for some months to come.
Freedom.
My bike had been running like hell even since before Mexico, and I was sick of it. Its problems would later prove somewhat severe. Easy Eddy’s H-D shop was in Huntersville, North Carolina (near Charlotte) and this seemed like a good opportunity. So I asked if he’d mind me showing up there to work on my own sled for a while. Eddy’s response was quick, “Here’s the address. See you there.”
Everyone filed out of the big house leaving only Minnow, K-2 and myself to enjoy the beachside pad for two quiet days more. But eventually they were gone as well.
Again, I began the slow migration north.
