Ray pulled up to The Place and looked up at its weathered sign. Severalpick-up trucks and a rusted El Camino sat along side the little bar. Hestood up tall and proud from the scoot and sauntered into the bar like agunfighter looking for trouble.

Vintage Conway Twitty assaulted Ray’s ears as his eyes adjusted to thedarkness. The smell of stale beer and disinfectant hit him like gale forcewinds. The red neon of a ‘Drink Bud’ sign threw highlights on anamber-haired cowgirl leaning against the bar. The fireplug of a bartenderlaughed out loud at a raunchy joke from the woman. Razor was aware thatevery eye in the place was on him and he took a deep, measured breath ashe strolled to the bar. “Bud and a burger,” he drawled.

The fireplug smirked and wiped his hands on a bar towel. “How you wantyour burger?”

Ray looked into the bleary green eyes of the redhead and answered,”Bloody.” The woman’s full lips turned up in greeting and Ray stepped inclose to her. “This seat taken?” She shook her amber locks ‘no’ and thebiker sat down on the stool.

The redhead named Doris had seen better days. Honky Tonk nights filledwith drugs, booze, and cheap sex had written an all-too familiar road mapon what was once the face of a homecoming queen. That was eighteen yearsand a million beers ago. “Heard your bike when you pulled up,” she winkedat Razor. “I’d sure love a ride.”

Ray took a pull from his long neck, letting his eyes caress every inch ofthe woman’s full breasts stretched tight under a turquoise T-shirt bearingthe words, ‘Ride ’em Cowboy!”.

The dark-haired biker looked up into the woman’s green eyes and whispered, “I’ll give you a ride you won’t soon forget.”

Doris wrapped her arm in Ray’s and called to the barkeep, “I’m ready foranother, Bobby.”

The crewcut wearing Bobby smirked and popped the top of another beer,”I’ll just bet you are, Doris. But is your new friend ready?” Doris andBobby shared an eruption of used laughter.

The Redhead turned to Ray and reached between his legs in front of Bobby,God, and the assembled rednecks and gave a gentle squeeze, “Oh, I thinkhe’s ready!” More slurred laughter skittered around the dim room. Razorreached down to remove the woman’s paw when a hand like a steel viseclamped on his shoulder and spun him around.

Suddenly Ray was facing a cowboy in his early thirties with a genuineGarth Brooks cowboy hat on and a face like a hedgehog. “That’s my gal,mister.”

Young Garth’s best Clint Eastwood gaze gave way to a look of pure dread asRazor’s eyes began to glow blood-red. “Then you’d best keep your gal’shands off of my meat.”

The cowboy took two steps back as if calling Ray out to an old-fashionedgun fight. Razor took a slow half glance over his shoulder to see Fireplugpulling a baseball bat from under the bar. Doris apparently had seen thisscene all too many times before and stood away from Ray to slur, “Quit it,Jimmy Joe. I ain’t your girl, and this fella just came in for a burger ferChristsakes.”

Jimmy Joe tried to give Ray his best ‘crazy-eyed’ look as he spat, “How’bout it biker boy, you wanna dance with me?”

Later, Doris would tell police that she couldn’t recall the horrific eventwhich took place in the next seven seconds, but she would tell the copssomething they would dismiss as crazy talk, “that biker’s eyes glowed likesome demon wolf from hell when he did what he did to Jimmy Joe… like ahound from hell!”

Razor stood up slowly from the barstool and held both hands out in frontof him, palms up. “No need to die today, boy.”

Jimmy Joe’s knees were going to water but he couldn’t back down in frontof his redneck pals. His right hand moved towards a sheathed buck knife onhis hip, “Huh! You one of them queer mother-fuckers that talk a man todeath, ain’t you?”

The tall biker took one step towards Jimmy Joe, his palms still upraised,apparently as a peace offering, “Let’s find out!” With lightning speedRazor’s hands shot out as if jacked by pistons. His rigid fingers enteredunder the cowboy’s ribcage and buried themselves nearly to the wrists.Jimmy Joe let out a gush of air in a startled gasp as Razor closed hishands on the man’s lower ribs from the inside, and pulled back with asharp ‘snap’!

Everyone in the bar heard the sick, wet crack of Jimmy Joe’s ribcage beingpulled apart like a chicken wishbone. Piss ran down the cowboy’s Wranglersas he slid to the floor like a gutted, broken doll. “Oops,” Razor hissed.”I forgot to make a wish.” In the same instant, the bartender pulled thebat up over his head and Razor spun on him.

The sound of two pearl-handled straight razors clicking open with a metallic ‘schwing!’ echoed in the close space.

Before ol’ Fireplug could move, the twin razor’s where criss-crossed athis throat. Razor’s glowing red eyes held the man in a terminal embrace.The barkeep felt painful pricks under each ear and knew the sharp razorswere ready to do the devil’s work on his neck. “You too, Bobby?” Razorhissed.

Later, Doris would swear with a boozy, weepy voice that the biker’s teethhad grown into chrome fangs when he said to Bobby, “See you in hell!” Thenin one expert motion, Razor pulled his arms away from each other and theshining razors spit blood across the room in both directions. A crimsongrin cackled and blubbered under Bobby’s chin and the big bar owner slidbehind the bar, disappearing like some hand puppet in a bad dream.

Razor wiped the bloody blades on Doris’ shirt and gave her a kiss full onthe lips, “thanks for a lovely time.” Then he turned to the startleddenizens of the bar and announced, “Anyone else?”

Back in the wind, Razor let out a howl above the Panhead’s throaty engine,and gunned the chopper through the shimmering heat waves of the desertroad as the sky turned towards purple twilight. The odometer on thecrimson bike clicked past 665 miles just as Ray roared over the crest of ahill. On the other side, a black semi truck appeared moving away in hislane about a half-mile ahead. As Ray closed in on the truck’s rear bumperhe could make out the personalized plates which read, ‘REAPER’! He movedto back off on the throttle…but his hand was frozen to the grip. Gettingdangerously close to slamming into the rear of the truck, Ray tried topull in the clutch with his left hand but it too was frozen in place. Evenhis feet seemed nailed to the pegs and the bike had him! He pulled awayfrom the apehangers, twisting and turning with all his might but his armswere locked in place. As a startled curse escaped his lips, the Panheadsuddenly came to life and pulled hard left into the on-coming lane!

Razor said a silent prayer when the lane turned out to be clear of anytraffic on the desert road. The scoot accelerated and Ray began to hear asound pushing up from his darkest nightmares to scream and echo within histwisted brain.

It was the sound of a thousand lost souls in eternal torment and suddenly, Razor understood what was happening.

He had known all along really. Ray glanced down at the bike’s tank to thehorrible sight of all the screaming faces in the tank’s paint moving andwrithing in endless agony; a scene from hell come to life! They were theformer owners of this ride from the dark side and he was to be the next tojoin them in damnation.

As the Panhead pulled up to the truck’s cab, Ray looked up to see blacktinted windows glaring back. The small speedo between the bars was peggedat over 90 miles per hour and for an endless, agonizing second, he watchedas the odometer clicked over to 666. The chopper began moving towards thetruck’s front wheel and Ray pulled back on the bars with every ounce ofstrength he had left. Veins stood out on his arms and though he strainedfor all he was worth, the bike was in full control. Razor let out a screamas the bike smashed into the truck’s tire and cab, turning his right leginstantly into hamburger. Ray screamed again and the truck’s horn blastedback, sounding like a cruel and unholy laugh. Then the bike made one last,great lunge forward ahead of the semi, clearing the front bumper by inchesbefore suddenly turning right, directly in front of the 18-wheeler deathmachine!

The massive collision threw Ray and the bike high in the twilight sky. Itwas an odd feeling, watching the world spin beneath him and watching, in adetached way, as the earth, the boulders, and the cactus came up fast tomeet him. Time slowed and Razor had time to think, to say goodbye to life,and to watch ashis body fell through the purple sky. The pain waited untilafter the blinding flash of impact and then came like a tidal wave.Searing pain shot through him, unrelenting, unfathomable pain fromeverywhere and nowhere at once. The bike erupted in a fireball a hundredyards away and though Ray couldn’t move a muscle, he could watch the bikeburn and melt with the one eye that still worked.

The destroyed biker was dimly aware that a large cactus seemed to havegrown through his right hand, which was twisted at a very wrong angle infront of him. Other than that, he had no way of knowing if he even stillhad legs or a spine, he could only lay amid the boulders in the fadingdesert sun, smelling his flesh fry and watch as his beloved Panheadburned, and melted, and….changed. In the distance, at the edge of hisvision, the black semi had pulled to the side of the highway and a blackhooded figure jumped from the passenger’s side door. Ray watched as thefigure moved towards the burning bike and even through the insane wall ofpain that coursed through his brain, watched as the bike began to take ona different shape. It was being re-born, forged in the fiery crash into abrand new motorcycle! The metal twisted and flexed, the tires filled withair, it was like watching a movie in reverse. As the Panhead picked itselfup and set itself down on it’s gleaming side stand, the figure in blackthrew back her cloak to reveal the raven-haired woman that rode behind himin his dreams.

Standing next to the showroom fresh, glistening chopper, the woman smiledseductively and then looked up at Ray. Tears filled his eyes then and theworld became a blur. He was aware that she was walking towards him andthat the closer she got, the louder the screaming became in his head.

Then the voices of the doomed pulled him down, down into the crimson abyss, into the darkness to join them….forever.

A face looked down through the eternal depths of red paint and wondered atthe twisted faces found there. 24-year-old Tim Aldridge was lost in thePanhead’s enchantment. The young blonde biker had wanted a bike like thisas far back as he could remember and his search had led him to Cypher’sCycle. A voice like broken glass pulled Tim from the bike’s caress, “Yep,five grand and she’s all yours.”

Tim smiled at the little troll of a man, “maybe I shouldn’t ask, but howcan you sell a bike like this so cheap?”

Louis Cypher picked at his odd, sharp little teeth. “Simple my friend,” hehissed. “I sell in volume.”

The young biker looked at the odometer between the chromed apehangers;only thirteen miles on the clock. Then he gazed back into the endless redpaint and something glittered within. He looked closer and was amazed atthe incredible attention to detail of the airbrushed faces that seemedlocked in eternal screams. One face in particular fascinated him, forlooking close at the agonized screaming mouth revealed something bizarre.Why had the artist gone to the trouble of painting twin silver lightningbolts on the front tooth?

Tim grinned at the tormented soul in the tank and said, “I’ll take it!”

THE END

Razor Ray opened a bloodshot eye and groaned. It wasn’t bad enough thathis three day-speed binge and Jack Black hangover made his head feel asif the points of a million stilettos were tapping on the inside of hisbrain pan. It wasn’t bad enough that the insides of his eyelids felt as ifthey were being eaten alive by leeches and his mouth tasted like a usedentrenching tool. No, the nightmare had been worse than all that. Ray likedto think of himself as being beyond such petty human emotions as guilt,yet the dream had jerked him about like a marionette with two brokenstrings.

In the dream he was riding off in the sunset on a blood-red Panhead, moneyin his pocket and a raven-haired bitch on the p-pad behind him. He roareddown a flaming highway toward his ol’ lady and laughed at her tears,laughed at her loyalty to him, laughed at her pathetic love for an outlawas he gunned the engine and rode over her whimpering bones. “Fuck!” hewheezed, and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. It hurt toturn his head but he did it anyway and stared at Vickie’s sweet form onlyhalf covered by the thin sheet. Why was he getting an attack of guilt now?He was fully aware that at one time or another in his illustrious careerhe had burned every bridge and shot every opportunity ever given to him.Yet he always seemed to come out smelling like the proverbial rose.

Ray had run the gamut of low-life betrayal during his 36 years. Just offthe top of his head, he had sold out solid brothers, stole dope, stole abro’s ol’ lady and then cheated on her. He once stabbed a dude in the gutsand took his bike just because he didn’t like the fucker’s looks. He hadspent half his adult life in one pen or another for bullshit petty crimes,feeling lucky that he skated on all the heavy beefs. He missed his mom’sfuneral while in the pen at Chino, and even once kicked a dog to death. Rayhad spent his life getting away with murder, so why was his consciencerearing a wagging finger now?

Vickie moaned seductively in her sleep. Ray shook his long mane of wavyblack hair, heading into the pisser. “Just take the bitch’s money and getthe fuck out,” he said to himself. “So what if the supposed loan she’sgiving me is every penny she had in her spaced-out little world?” By thetime the last drops of Jack Black-smelling urine hit the bowl, thoughts ofthe dream faded to nothing, like a vampire at dawn. Still, there wassomething that lingered in the back of his throbbing mind. Why was hefucking over another innocent? He stared vacantly at the prison tattoo onhis forearm baring the words “Ladies Love Outlaws.” Something was going tohappen, something bad; Razor felt it in every cell of his being. The echoof distant screams somewhere behind his eyes receded to purple shadows inthe back of his brain and a voice within him muttered…”lost souls.”

As quickly as the phantom thoughts entered Ray’s domain, they flew off againand he found himself searching the crevices of his morning mug in themirror. “Good morning you handsome devil,” he purred. Razor liked to thinkthat whatever dark forces were at work in his life had a bigger purposefor him. He was being saved for something really nasty.

Ray stood up tall and examined his muscular six-foot-five physique. Therewas pride in his sculpted features and dense black beard that called backto his family lineage in Russia’s Ukraine. It was a family tree thatstretched back to none other than Rasputin the Mad Monk. Razor grinned andstared at the hole where his front tooth used to be.

He was even proud of that since it was sacrificed during a brawl defending his club colors.

Picking up the partial plate from the sink, Ray admired the silverlightning bolts inset in his false tooth before putting it in his mouth.

Thoughts of the bike filled his mind as he made a quick breakfast offrosted flakes mixed with milk and a dollop of JD. Ray couldn’t wait tostart the Panhead up and hear the blast of its fishtails. It had takenhim nearly a month to sell Vickie on the idea of letting him “borrow” thedough he needed to buy THE bike, the ultimate fuckin’ chopper! Hecarefully counted the wad of hundreds one more time, chuckling to himselfat how easy it had been to give the girl the puppy dog eyes treatment.”Five thousand smackers,” Razor grinned and the silver bolts on his toothglinted in the morning light. Pulling on his cutoff, he peeled off fiveone-hundred-dollar bills and hid them in a secret pocket before placing therest of the money in his chain wallet. Then Ray took the two whitepearl-handled straight razors from a bed table and slipped them into thecustom pockets on either side of his leather vest designed for quick andlethal access. Vickie was still sleeping off the night of speed, booze,and lurid sex as Razor slammed the screen door. He smelled his finger,recalling where it had been and grinned big. Today was HIS day! Fuck baddreams and fuck guilt! He had the bitch’s money and his new ride awaitedhim.

Cypher’s Cycle squatted in the dense heat of the San Fernando Valley likea dog seeking shade. It had existed as long as any of the localsremembered and long before the current crop of border brothers moved inand declared turf. Its metal roof shimmered in the summer sun with a kindof defiance. Now blending in with the gang-torn surroundings of LosAngeles, the shop sat on a graffiti-strewn street marked with swelteringpalms that looked like giant baked weeds with drooping shoulders. In thegrimy shop’s window, the bike of Razor’s dreams patiently waited, a 1962Panhead chop job with a righteous rigid frame, gleaming chrome springerfront end, apehangers to the stars, and fishtail pipes that reached toglory. Ray walked toward the shop slowly, his black cowboy boots sizzlingon the frying-pan asphalt, savoring every second. He recalled the dayweeks earlier when he first set eyes on this two-wheeled wonder.

The shop had been full of flies that day. Actually, as Ray remembered it,he didn’t actually see any flies but rather heard their incessant buzzing.Cypher’s Cycle was piled high with the remains of motorcycles; theskeletons of a few riceburners hung from meat hooks as the carcass of amilitary WLA stared from socketless headlights. This was a slaughterhouseof deceased bikes and the shop’s overweight owner was its lord and master.Razor strolled by a stack of weathered Easyriders magazines from the’70s, picked up a rusty Bendix carburetor, and stroked a flamedMustang tank on his way to feast his eyes on THE bike. The Panhead dancedin the glare of the mid-day sun coming through dust-encrusted windows, bars ofshadow cast across it from the burglar bars outside.

The paint was dazzling dark red with a shimmering ripple effect that made you feel as though you were drowning.

The shop’s troll-like owner held court from a destroyed desk near the backof the ragtag display room, looked up from a skin rag called ShavedNurses, and took a flaccid stogie from his mouth with inhumanly longfingers. He eyed Razor in much the same way that a bird of prey sizes upits next victim. Ray stood respectfully in front of the Panhead and letevery glorious curve of its perfect metalwork burn into his brain. Thewicked red beast looked like it had just rolled out of some maniaccustomizer’s dream world. A suicide shifter was topped by a gleamingchrome skull, its eyes glinting red rubies. Upon closer inspection, theshimmering dark red paint of the tank, frame, and rear fender was more thecolor of dried blood and the rippling wave effect was actually an illusioncaused by meticulously intricate airbrush work beneath countless layers ofclear. Ray’s eyes focused deep beneath the outer layer of paint,down … down past the layers of pearl red to see the unholy visage ofhundreds, no thousands, of human faces, each captured in the twistingtorment of impossible torture beyond words … beyond description. “Lostsouls” he whispered in a sinister tone, as the mouths seemed to work soundlessly,screaming eternally, screaming relentlessly, screaming for a release thatwould never come.

“I can see you on this bike.” The shop owner’s words pulled Razor fromwithin the depths of the paint.

“Wha…what did you say, man?” Ray felt like he was stoned out of his minduntil the man shook his hand. He suddenly felt as though he had a handfulof dead dog and let go of the stranger’s hand. The shop’s owner justgrinned and Razor thought he saw the tips of needle-sharp teeth peek fromthe recesses of the his mouth.

“Name’s Lou,” the shop owner said. “You interested in the Pan? They suredon’t make ’em like that anymore, son, and I can tell you’d appreciate abike like that. Could say you were born to be on that bike.”

Razor just blinked for a timeless instant and finally found his tongue.”You got that right. How much you askin’?”

Lou rubbed his salt and pepper goatee, sizing Ray up one more time. “Fivegrand and she’s all yours.”

Ray smiled and saw Lou notice the twin bolts on his front tooth. The shopowner’s eyes narrowed with a look of appreciation. “Five grand. So tell meLou,” Ray drawled, “how do you stay in business sellin’ drop-dead gorgeousrides like this for five grand?”

The shop owner picked at his teeth with a very long and sharp fingernail.”Simple my friend,” the troll hissed. “I sell in volume.”

You can have the girls and the hat for any sponsorship donation.

Speed is the rush when the throttle is open and the bike’s just about to take flight. Speed is a fugitive, always a bit faster than the ride and rider in pursuit. Nothing but speed will take the record for a flat-out mile on the Bonneville Salt Flats, and that record is what Larry Petrie is after. Anything less than the record just isn’t fast enough.

”Can’t you do anything about that Chop N Grind team?” Ernie Roccio said at Speed Week 1962. “Let the air out of their tires.”

Land speed record

Actually, it takes two flat-out miles to get the record. Any difference between the fastest speed recorded for each run is the rider’s official score. Last year Petrie set the record in his class with 148.307 mph, the difference between 146.600 and 150.014. This year he plans to break it.

Land speed records are the big leagues, and the main event for this kind of racing is the BUB International Motorcycle Speed Trials held over five days in September on the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. This is where Petrie set his record last year for the Modified Pushrod Gas 1650 cubic centimeter class.

Except for modified steering and foot-peg mounts, his bike looks like it could be just another street bike of the particularly muscular sort, at least to those who don’t know anything about motorcycles. When Petrie and his partner Bob Tronolone get to talking about the machine, though, just about any resemblance it has to the domestic motorcycle vanishes.

This bike is a wild thing, a purely exotic species whose every ventricle, port and shaft has been shaved, shaped and scaled to within thousandths of an inch of breaking so that when it runs, it’ll push right onto the razor-sharp edge of its own self-destruction. Fly or die trying is all this bike does. “There ain’t no mercy on the far side of the speed limit,” is how Petrie and Tronolone see it.

Chop N Grind team when they’re not in the penitentiary. Team Chop N Grind on the Bonneville Salt Flats. From left to right: Larry Petrie, Rob Tronolone Jr., Bob Tronolone and Danny McPherson.

Team Chop N Grind

Petrie got the bug for land-speed record chasing when a former instructor of his from Motorcycle Mechanics Institute in Phoenix where he went to school took him along to Bonneville one year as a crew member. That bike didn’t even get out of the pits, but Petrie liked what he saw. Here was where the roar and risk of speed had all the freedom it could want, and to make it even better, it took a mechanical finesse of the surgical sort to make those machines go so fast.

Laughing about it now, Petrie says he came home and in two months threw together a turbo-charged bike that had more turbo-chug than charge when he entered his first event. Nevertheless, he was hooked and continued working with that machine until Tronolone came along.

Tronolone had history with land speed motorcycle racing that went back to the 1970s. He knew what it took to succeed in the Bonneville big leagues, and between his experience and Petrie’s mechanics, and Petrie’s passion for riding on the edge, they actually thought they might stand a chance at record-setting together. They added two more members to the team, Danny McPherson and Rob Tronolone Jr., and Chop N Grind Racing was born.

That was four years ago, and since then, this grass-roots team of home-town mechanics has proven that even in the world of big-money, professional racing, a record-breaking motorcycle can still be built at home in the garage by speed-wise motorheads with day jobs. They proved it last year in September, and they plan to prove it again this year.

Larry, the pilot, mechanic, tuner, truck loader and mechanic. What do the other guys do? Bob makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Hands-on tech

Big-time motor events are big-time money enterprises, and even though a dark horse team like Chop N Grind can come out of nowhere with a serious vehicle paid for on the budget plan, it still isn’t exactly a thrift-hobby.

Chop N Grind’s bike uses a stock, after-market frame, but every angle on it has been reconfigured to increase stability at high speeds. The motor is a hybrid affair, built by Petrie and Tronolone from the parts of two Harley Davidson engines of different vintages. It’s safe to say that every part on the bike has been refined in one way or another, and by the team’s estimate, the whole thing took about $25,000 to build.

Of course, this is only for starters. By Tronolone’s account, it costs about $20,000 a year for the team to make new refinements to the bike, replace any marginal parts, and pay for all the registration and operations costs to compete in the five day BUB Trials. Even the gas to run this bike is specialized, and expensive, although it may not be more expensive than the nitrogen used in the tires to prevent their expansion at high speeds, which can lead to a possible blow-out or tire delamination.

In many ways, the bike is just about as design-tech as any other vehicle in the BUB Trials. Unlike most of those bikes, though, all the work on this one is hands-on and homemade.

Only a few machining procedures require a true specialist’s touch, and fortunately for Chop N Grind, one of motorcycle racing’s premiere specialists lives right here in the neighborhood. Jim Leineweber grinds cams for high performance junkies all over the nation, and the Chop N Grind boys only have to make a short trip to Landers for his services. Hutchins Motor Sports is another important resource that’s local. Over the years, Petrie and company have relied on the place for everything from parts to specifications for aerodynamic modifications.

Chop N Grind operators are standing by.

Making it count

Although the Chop N Grind team’s story may have a little something of the underdog-makes-good subtext to it, the team does have the bike to beat this year. It is the team with the national record, and if it doesn’t have as much money as most other teams, it has the speed. That’s all that counts.

Tronolone has described his partners in a publicity piece as “real deal racers.” At least part of what he means by that was elucidated by him and Petrie in an interview when they talked about the team and its obsession.

“We all came from street racing and have a thing for speed,” said Petrie, but he qualified his comment to stress that, “the best speed of all is the speed you’ve built yourself.”

For Petrie and his team, the obsession is as much about designing, blueprinting and building the vehicle as it is about actually seeing the thing in operation. Naturally, the object of the BUB event is to turn the fastest time in a category of other contestants, and owning the record is important. However, from both Petrie’s and Tronolone’s comments, the motive force behind the “real deal racer’s” obsession is to just build something that will go as fast as it can, and when that’s done, you do it all over again to make it go even faster.

Whereas the street once seemed like a place to go fast, it was just never pure enough, said Petrie. “Too many distractions. Too many unknowns.”

To Support Chop N Grind contact Bob T. at r.tron@verizon.net or call (760) 365-2476.

The jukebox was playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird. The tempo was picking up, and Bo, a young biker/stranger in this small berg, reached out to pick up a little something himself. Linda Lou, a hot looking local number that regularly melted strangers, had been shaking her tits at him for the past two or three songs, so he thought he’d call her bluff and ask her to dance.

He was about an inch and a half from twin heavenly peaks when the music stopped and he heard the cylinder of a .38 rotate as the hammer was drawn into its firing position behind his right ear. He froze as the cold steel chilled the side of his skull. Looking across the scuffed hardwood dance floor, Bo noticed the guys behind the pool table moving to one side, out of the line of fire.

Bo looked at Linda Lou. Her plaid Western shirt was unbuttoned almost to the center of the hardest belly Bo had seen in a month of traveling. She was looking at him with a mixture of fear and excitement. A funny little crooked smile raised the corner her rosy lips. Bo knew as the hair stood up on the back of his neck, it meant something sinister was happening.

“OK you cocksucking, yellow-haired sonuvabitch,” a voice behind him said, “turn around real slow. I ain’t so low that I’d shoot any sum’bitch in the back of the head.” Bo wasn’t inclined to believe this, but it was his only option. Bo wasn’t a big dude, in fact he knew his tolerance for violence was low. His Pa beat him severely behind the barn as a small, gangly teenager. As he grew, so did his flinch from anyone who might raise a hand to him. His self-esteem was at the bottom of the barrel when he hit 18 and snuck out the back of the farmhouse, high-tailed it across 3 miles of cornfields to his neighbors barn and the ratty Flathead ’45 he had built and stashed there, ’cause the old man would have beat him within an inch of his life if he knew what Bo was up to.

As Bo turned slowly to face the stranger, he saw a large dark circle in his field of vision. The circle was surrounded by blue steel and it was pointed directly at the bridge of Bo’s nose. As he concentrated on his fate, he noticed he had gone cross-eyed looking down the barrel of this gun. Sweat poured from his throbbing temple and his knees turned to Jell-O.

“You fucking bikers are all alike,” the gunman said. “You bastards come into town, raid the bars, and ride off with our women. That bitch over there is my woman and nobody looks at my woman, nobody dances with my woman, and nobody touches my woman unless I say so.”

Every time this slovenly fucker barked, “My,” Bo thought he’d piss himself.

“Listen buddy,” Bo said, visibly shaking. “I just asked her to dance. That’s all. Why don’t you put down the gun and let me buy you a beer?”

“Shut up asshole. I ain’t gonna drink with a whiny little prick like you.”

“Mister…” Bo began.

“I told you to shut up weasel boy,” interrupted the gunman.

“Maaaaan,” Bo stuttered like a broken record. It was a consequence of the fear his old man beat into him. The more he stuttered, the more the old man beat him. The more he got smacked, the more he stuttered.

SPONSORED BY


Jake, the local bully behind the 8-inch barrel .38, liked the fear he saw in Bo’s eyes. He was a veteran bully. His degree in intimidation was renowned. He had bullied the best, and the rest were plain fearful. So he made his living pushing people, collecting debts and being an all-around musclehead. “OK asshole, this is the deal. It’s up to you. You prove to me that you weren’t gonna take Linda Lou off somewhere on the back of your hog,” he emphasized the word hog in a snide kind of way, “out in the bushes somewhere, fuck her brains out, and leave her alongside the road, and I’ll let you live.”

Bo just looked at him. His fear was like a locomotive running him down. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t talk, think, or run. He had run from every confrontation in his entire life. He tried to get over it, tried to study and learn about fear to control it, but nothing helped. He recently read about Dave Barr who had both his legs blown off in Angola and was riding around the world. Dave said of fear, “I have no time for fear.” Part of Bo was so scared to death, he didn’t care anymore. Something in Bo wanted him to ask this big-armed slob to cap him and get it over with. “I wasn’t going tooooooo do that. I was just gooooonna ask her to dance with me.”

“That ain’t gonna cut it cumwad.” Cumwad?” Jake snarled, the barrel resting on Bo’s frozen nose. The sharp edge of the barrel cut his tender flesh and a droplet of blood ran down the side of his nose. “You’d better ask me real nice to let you live.”

“Ooooookay,” Bo said. “Loooooook, I don’t wannnnnnt any trouble from you, OK? Why don’t you just puuuuuput the gun away…”

Bo could see the lead hollow points waiting to be discharged. “Listen,” Bo attempted to say, shaking, “Yo, Yo, Yo, You take a ni, ni, ni, nice, long look at your girl over the, the, the, the, there. I’ll take three big steps toward the door. I’ll be gone by the time you look back.”

“Well now,” said the gunman, grinning from ear to bearded ear. “I like a stuttering punk who knows when to run. That just might work. OK shithead. I hope you got long legs.”

Jake pressed the barrel against the bridge of Bo’s nose so hard it began to bleed down both sides, then he removed it with a chuckle and turned to Linda Lou. As soon as he did, she started to yell at him. “Jake, you asshole,” she screamed. “You always do this. What the hell is the matter with you?”

Jake treated the women in town the same as he treated the men. He moved the gun to his left hand and backslapped Linda Lou across her pretty face with his right. She spun a like a balsa wood top and went down, taking a barstool with her. The power of the back of Jake’s hambone-sized hand busted her lip and bloodied her nose. Jake picked up the girl by the hair, “I’ve about had it with you, bitch. You’ve got a lesson coming you’ll feel for a month.” He began to drag her toward the pool table.

They say that when you are drowning or facing imminent death, your whole life flashes before your eyes. This didn’t happen to Bo; what he saw instead was his future. He saw a scrawny, yellow-haired wuss running from problems just like always. By the time he was half way through his first step toward the door, he was turning to a bag of shit. This chick wasn’t his problem. She was the town sleaze, Bo thought, trying to take another step while listening to her wailing in the background.

Bo never did a brave thing in his life, except save an old woman’s dog once. He ran from fast moving shadows, hid behind his long, scruffy blond hair and a full beard that concealed his fear of everyday dilemmas. He roamed from job to job, working on his motorcycle alone so he could avoid dealing with people. Even alcohol didn’t help Bo. Linda Lou shrieked, “Help me.”

He turned back toward the domestic quarrel, replacing his failed confrontation with this big guy. It was as if there were an invisible brick wall forcing Bo to run for the door. He couldn’t turn back. It was physically impossible. Bo looked around, no one was making a move to save Linda Lou as big Jake slammed her against the pool table, then hoisted her slender 5-foot form onto the faded felt.

In an instance of frozen clarity, Bo noticed the surrounding men cringing from the one-sided domestic confrontation. He could see their fear, and it gave him strength. He could hear Dave Barr saying, “I have no time for fear.” He remembered a Hells Angel he met who liked to say, “If in doubt, knock ’em out.”

Suddenly, he heard breaking glass. He looked at Linda Lou. Her angelic face was crimson with blood. She had a broken beer bottle in her hand and she was threatening Jake with it. He laughed at her as she plead, “Not here Jake, please.” Jake laughed, snarled, and shoved the gun barrel into her Levi-covered crotch.

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Everyone in the bar was looking at Linda Lou and Jake, not at Bo. Bo watched the precious woman, half the big man’s size, attempt to defend herself. He looked at the multitude of men standing around the room, many holding pool cues immobile, and something snapped in Bo. It was as if a high-tension wire pulled way past its limit for decades finally let go. He spotted a heavy straight-backed chair at a nearby table and snatched it amid full stride. He wound up and swung it low and hard. The chair caught Jake on the back of his legs just above the knee. Instinctively, Bo jerked the chair free as Jake’s hamhock legs buckled and he stumbled back. However, Jake’s legs didn’t collapse as Bo expected. Instead Jake turned, a large sinister smirk crossing his face. Bo hit him alongside the head with the chair and it exploded as Jake attempted to raise the .38.

“You are a brave li’l sum’bitch aren’tcha?” Jake laughed and fired.

The revolver was pointed directly at the center of Bo’s chest as he jumped for cover. The round hit Bo in the left shoulder. The impact of the bullet spun him around and he went down hard. Bo got back to his feet immediately as Linda Lou plunged the broken longneck into Jake’s back. As Jake’s eyes got big and wide, Bo took another step toward him and stopped. Jake pulled the hammer back with his thumb and squeezed he trigger. With the remainder of the back of the wood chair still in his hand, Bo slapped the big man’s face. The bullet missed its target.

Blood spurted out of the arm of Bo’s leather jacket, and the pain shot through him like 220 volts. He took one more step toward Jake. This time Jake pointed the gun at Bo’s head.

Bo didn’t figure he’d get a third step as Jake raised the revolver less than a foot from Bo’s chest. Suddenly Linda Lou drove the broken beer bottle into Jake’s back once more. Jake turned white, although he still had the gun. His hand was shaking and his eyes were wide. He was trying to pull the trigger, but couldn’t.

Jake went down on his knees. He was trying to turn and grab at Linda Lou and keep the gun trained on Bo.

Amazingly, Linda Lou grabbed another beer bottle and broke it over Jake’s head. She was sobbing almost uncontrollably now, but she kept up her attack. Bo just stood there in amazement, bleeding profusely.

Jake tried hard to get up, but he was weak from losing too much blood and his hands kept slipping on the slick, wet floor under him. He finally stopped trying and spoke to Linda Lou, his head nearly on the floor. “You are a bitch. You always were and you always will be. You’re momma was a bitch just like you. I guess that’s where you got it.”

“Daddy,” Linda Lou replied, “if I’m a bitch, I didn’t get it from momma. She was an angel that you pulled down from heaven and ground into the dust.”

Bo reached down and picked up the .38 from the pool of blood spreading on the battered hardwood floor. He could smell the gun powder mixed with stale beer. Linda Lou suddenly grabbed it from Bo’s grasp. “This is for my momma,” she said as she pointed the gun at Jake’s head and pulled the trigger. Most of Jake’s head splattered across the floor of the barroom. Linda Lou stumbled into Bo’s good arm and looked into his clear blue eyes, her face red and swollen. “Thank you.”

“We’ll have that dance, yet,” Bo said, leading her to the door. It was the first time since he was 15 that the words came naturally without the annoying stutter.

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Friday night, 9 o’clock, downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Corner brick bar, three days before Christmas. Some 60 years of coal dust had robbed the ceramic stone of its color and replaced it with flat black. Two Shovelheads were parked at the curb. A drizzling rain formed a puddle on the solo seat of one of the two black bikes. Christmas lights flickered on the rain-slicked concrete sidewalks. The worst storm of the winter was still a day away, and the wind was gathering up an icy momentum.

Ella, a dumpy and dowdy waitress wearing a worn, Christmas red and green blouse, leg warmers, and a mini-skirt, hung flickering white lights above the bar’s hundred-year-old etched mirror. The yellowed glass was surrounded by dark mahogany and ornate carvings, chipped and stained with years of downtown saloon abuse.

Ella’s father, a large, old, grizzled bartender, slowly stroked a tall tumbler with a soiled towel. He was somber, his eyes reddened by four decades of beer breath and cigar smoke. He stared intently at the glass that reflected two days of whisker growth, cracked glasses, and a split lip. The day before yesterday local hoods had barged in to collect protection money. He didn’t have the cash and a check would have bounced. They threatened to take the only family member he had left and turn her out.

His eyes lifted slightly to watch his daughter trembling on the step stool, festooning lights from rusty nails; she pretended nothing was wrong. One of the men had held him down while the other one gangster-slapped his leathered mug. As he turned the glass in his hand he could still see the terror in his daughter’s face as she witnessed the beating.

“Whatta ya doin’ old man, tryin’ to rub through that fuckin’ glass?” sneered the shorter of the two bikers sitting at the bar, jarring the old man back to the present.

He looked at the glass, then set it down. He was bald, and although the temperature in the pub had dropped some 15 degrees, pearls of sweat rose between his few wisps of remaining hair. He wondered about the bikers. Overnight they had become regulars, coming in daily at 2 p.m. and staying until closing. Had they been hired by the threatening hoods?

“Now we made him sweat,” the wiry, devilish-looking biker said, nudging his partner.

The other biker was a massive, menacing man who stirred the ice cubes in his tumbler of Jack Daniel’s with a short straw. Staring at the amber liquid, he had nothing to say. His rope-thick, auburn hair cascaded over his shoulders. The full beard was matted and untrimmed. He wore Levi’s, a black belt with a brass wheel buckle, a solid blood-red flannel shirt and a black vest with long leather fringe that married with his hair over his shoulders. He looked powerful, like an angry volcano. He glanced up at the frightened bartender. The old man flinched at his direct gaze.

The younger and smaller of the two had an itchy trigger finger. He scratched the growth of beard between his goatee and sideburns. Shifting in his seat, he gulped his rum and coke as he watched the bartender wipe the glass.

The bartender set his towel down and went to his daughter’s aid. He steadied the ladder while she completed hanging metallic reindeer on a Budweiser sleigh. He was nervous about turning his back on the bikers. They always sat in exactly the same stools at the darkest end of the bar, farthest from the door.

“You boys live ’round here,” ventured the old barkeep, searching for some hope.

“No,” said the shorter man who wore a black leather shirt and vest. Gimme another drink, old man.” He was slick and scary looking.

“Sorry, boys. Didn’t mean to bother you. You been coming in here a while, now, and haven’t said a word.”

“We don’t need to say shit, just pay our bill and get out, right?” Blade said, spinning a razor-sharp buck knife on the edge of the marred, varnished mahogany.

“Yes, sir, right. Couple of days before Christmas. Ya got family in town?” The old man continued to press into dangerous waters.

Blade stood up abruptly and kicked his bar stool, spinning it into the jukebox across the room. “Silent Night” screeched and skipped. “Shut the fuck up, old man. I don’t want to talk about my family, and I don’t want to talk to you or your fat-assed daughter. Just bring me a goddamn drink.”

The bartender nodded, sweat dripping down his cheek, while he turned toward the well bottles. He fumbled with the tall glass. The mob had leaned on him for months. Then a week ago they’d made a mess of the place, smashing furniture and glassware. When they saw that the old man didn’t have a pot to piss in, he thought they’d leave him alone. That wasn’t the case. They abandoned his fleeting material wealth and initiated beatings and threats against his daughter. He checked the revolver in the drawer next to the sink. It was an old .22 caliber rusted by years of barroom mildew. He slipped the new drink onto a clean napkin in front of the nasty biker. The biker spun the knife, and the startled ‘keep dropped the empty glass on the floor. It shattered. “Sorry,” he said, leaning over with a soiled towel to clean-up the mess.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Blade said, nudging the other biker. Mun just shifted his eyebrows. The wind whistled against the wooden shutters covering the windows. He looked at his watch. Lights in the bar flickered and hail tapped against the foggy windows. It was nearing 2 a.m. Mun leaned closer to Blade. “Let’s go,” he said.

“What the fuck for? We ain’t got no place to go.” Blade had come to Pittsburgh to see his child. He broke parole in the process, then his ex refused the visit and reported him. Both men were on the run, but trapped by an incoming winter storm. Gulping the drink, he slammed his glass down on the tacky wood surface. “Okay.”

They got up and headed for the door.

The old bartender had spent 40 years behind the polished varnish and had never witnessed bikers riding in this kind of weather. They grabbed their jackets and scarves from the antique coat rack. Rain and hail pelted their jackets as they mounted the bikes and kicked them over. The old man listened as the Harleys rounded the corner, then the storm drowned them out. For the first time that day, he felt safe. “It’s all right, baby,” he said to his daughter, holding her close. “It’ll all blow over.” A storm shutter tore free and violently slapped the side of the building. The explosion jarred the only two inhabitants.

“Not this time, Daddy,” she said sobbing and stomping her worn running shoes against the sticky floor. “I can’t take it anymore. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. They’re coming back.” She stomped up the stairs behind the heads to their equally dingy apartment above.

Christmas eve, 2 p.m. The rumble of the approaching Harleys filled the drizzling air. A chill rolled up the bartender’s spine. His knees felt weak. It was raining and freezing outside, yet the bikers were returning. Their drinks were on the counter, along with small plastic bowls of chili, before they turned the brass handle on the door.

“Looks like I got the old man trained,” said Blade, tossing his heavy, wet riding gear on a nearby stool. It rocked and almost went over. Mun said nothing. “And chili, too. I’ll bet little miss interior decorator cooked it up.”

“Yes, she did,” said the old man, “and it’s damn good.”

They pulled up their favorite stools, guzzled their drinks, and dug into the chili.

“Smells good in here. Maybe you can it and sell it for what you owe us,” Frankie Devino said, kicking open the door. “You got the money, old man?”

“I told you I don’t have any money,” answered the barkeep.

Devino opened his expensive cashmere trench coat and withdrew a submachine gun. He was young, handsome, well dressed, about 6 feet tall, and mean to the bone.

“Then you’ll make a fine example for the neighborhood, you scroungy piece of shit.” Two other bent-noses kicked in the feeble doors, shattering one of the classic stained glass windows. Shards of glass dripped to the floor. One of the other two men also wore a trench coat, a cheap, vinyl one. It was slick, black, and soaking wet. His hair glistened in the dim light of the bar as flakes of snow slid off his padded shoulders. He had the long form of a pump shotgun under his coat. The other bodyguard was short, with wavy hair and a pockmarked face. He reached for his .45. The storm wasn’t just outside the door.

Ella turned and dropped a large vase of poinsettias; it shattered at her feet. She ran to her father behind the bar, “Daddy,” she screamed, “it’s not worth it.”

The other coats opened and the two forms of lethal weapons came into view, a High Standard, 18-inch barrel, 8-round pump shotgun and a stainless .45 automatic. Both men shifted their gaze to Ella, her legs visibly shaking as their stubby forms scrambled around the open end of the bar. Frankie focused on her nipples beneath the loose sweater and her sizable breasts bouncing in their halter. Tears were already streaming from her eyes.

Frankie cocked his weapon and lifted the muzzle in the direction of the old man. The first round split the mahogany of the bar as lightning cracks a tree trunk. The old man bent to ward off the oncoming barrage and reached for the frozen .22 in the drawer.

Mun took advantage of the girls heaving distractions and drew a freshly oiled 9mm Browning out of his vest. Blade dropped his plastic spoon beside the half-empty bowl of chili, and the two slipped behind the bar.

“This isn’t our battle,” Blade hollered. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Bullets cracked across the bar, chewing up the surface like a chain saw, bits of wood exploding in the air. The girl dove behind the bar as another round of gunfire shattered glasses in an explosion of jagged shards reflecting against the array of colored Christmas lights. Snow was dumping outside; inside the flurries were razor sharp.

Mun didn’t reply; instead, he leaned around the corner of the bar and fired. Caught off guard, the enforcer with the stocky legs planted them shoulder width apart. His .45 was cocked and chambered and leveled in the direction of the girl. Surprised, pockmarked face turned as the bullet slammed into his elbow, spinning his torso against the wall. “What the fuck? ” Frankie shouted, turning the muzzle of the auto in the direction of the bikers and pulling the trigger. Frankie’s weapon discharged, chipping the top of the bar as if it was clawing in the direction of the bikers. Blade grabbed Mun and pulled him around to face him. They slid into the slime of decades-old snot, piss, and puke that coated the underbelly of the bar.

“Goddammit, it’s not our fight,” Blade shouted. “We’re wanted. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not,” Mun said, his dark brown eyes boring into Blade’s. “Code of the West. They’re firing at a woman. We’ve gotta fight.”

Blade looked in his brother’s eyes. Just then, Ella screamed. He turned in time to see a half-dozen bullets rip through his black riding jacket. He’d owned that leather for 12 years. The automatic’s user paused to reload. Blade and Mun slid up the gooey facade of the bar, coated with puke, smears of thousands of shoes and boots, bubble gum, and boogers. Their heads pressed against the underside of the bar; they listened for the reloading of the machine gun. The firing paused, but the smell of gunfire lingered. Mun brought his thick mane of hair around the lip of the bar as the old man did the same with his rusty .22. Mun motioned Blade to move across the room to shelter behind the jukebox. “I’ll cover you,” he said.

“I was hoping you’d all come to the fight,” said Devino, watching Blade run for the jukebox. “Makes it more interesting.” His confidence and adrenaline pumping, Frankie didn’t hesitate. He ducked, drew a fresh clip out of his suit jacket, and slammed it in the chamber. Then as the old man raised the rusty, small-caliber revolver, the Italian cocked the fully automatic weapon.

“Let me get him,” hollered the tall, slick goon, while pumping a round into the chamber. He fired. The short weapon jumped in his gloved hands, the .32 caliber pellets missing the owner but blowing a hole the size of a trash can lid in the wall behind the bar-magnum load.

“He’s mine,” said Frankie, “Get the bikers.” His eyes were as cold as a New York steel bridge in winter.

The old man leveled the gun at Frankie, cocking the double-action revolver.

Frankie started firing. Splintered wood, bits of razor-sharp glass, and screaming filled the bar again. Mun stood. “Code of the West, muthafucker,” he hollered, distracting Frankie. The gunman glanced in the direction of the massive biker at the dark corner of the bar, then back at the old man. His bullets slashed through the wooden bar like a bandsaw cutting balsa wood. The old man pulled the trigger, the gun misfired, and two of Frankie’s bullets split the old man’s shoulder like a cherry bomb in the center of a watermelon. Spinning, the old man careened into the remnants of the well bottles behind the bar. “You bastards!” Ella screamed and sprinted to reach her father.

Mun chambered his weapon, stood, aimed, and fired. Nothing happened. The 9mm had jammed. Blade dove from behind the music machine toward the center of the room and fired, catching the guard in the knee. The thug screamed, flinched, and fired, blowing out the corner of the bar where Mun stood. Mun crashed backward, overturning tables and chairs. Blade’s second round split Frankie’s teeth and tore out a chunk of his jaw like a cleaver through a chicken thigh. Devino’s eyes bulged out, and he squeezed the trigger of the automatic as Blade fired a second time, blowing Frankie’s cold heart out the back of his single needle shirt.

Blade shifted his attention to the stocky enforcer with the big-bore automatic. The man was confused, splattered with Frankie’s blood, scared, and in pain. He shot at random around the room. Blade caught him in the thigh with his last round. Stunned, the man was driven against the old wall. First his face went white, then noticing the biker attempting to reload, while squirming in the rubble, his fear turned to rage. He took the massive auto in both hands and aimed toward the biker.

The .45 sounded like a cannon, ripping into the hardwood floor. Blade ducked, but a sliver of lead caught his gun hand. He tried in vain to conceal himself behind the semi-auto, while attempting to reload. Only one clip remained.

The wounded gunman, a fireplug of a man, followed Blade with the muzzle of his gun, blowing holes in the floor as Blade rolled toward the jukebox. Bullets tore into the music maker, spilling fragments of vinyl Christmas records over Blade. He hadn’t had the time or composure to reload, and he found himself under the lethal eye of the .45. He could hear the weapon rechamber after the last bullet. He had nowhere else to go. He fumbled for the clip, on the inside of his heavy leather shirt. He knew his time was running out. He wondered whether Mun would make it? How bad was he hit? He thought about his kid, her perfect red hair, her bright green eyes. Mun had jeopardized his job and his freedom to come along on this risky ride. He hoped his friend would survive. Blade pulled the clip free and drew it closer to his auto. It was empty.

The pain in Mun’s gaping left thigh was unrelenting, yet he rolled free of the rubble and fired into the ceiling fan, tearing at the cords holding the porcelain lamp and rotating fans. Severed, the unit fell at the feet of the gangster. He ignored it and took final aim at Blade. Mun rolled along the sticky floor and fired again, splitting the man’s navel. His next bullet pierced the gangster’s skull; he died instantly.

“Fuck you, biker trash,” came the voice of the wounded slicker with the shotgun, the color leaving his narrow face as his hand slipped to the trigger of the shotgun.

Coming to his dead brother’s aid, the lanky pasta maker fired at the wounded biker. Mun returned the fire, but his weapon clicked with the frightening sound of an empty clip. For a moment there was silence. Only the storm, sirens, and the tinkling of glass set the disastrous tone. Then, the sound of a 12-gauge cartridge slamming into its chamber interrupted the storm. “It’s my turn to be the boss, now,” he said. The slicked back hair of the tall hood glistened in the dim light. He went after the ammo-less biker. His first bullet took Mun’s weapon out of his hand . Lead pellets tore into the muscular fiber of his forearm. Mun rolled to avoid more of his medicine.

Blade cocked the heavy pistol in his good hand and threw it at the greasy hitman. It slammed into the side of his face. Mun took the opportunity to take two massive steps and dive for the shuttered window. Blade pulled out his Buck as the young hood recovered and began to fire again. The bullet shattered the floor at Mun’s escaping feet. Blade’s arm screamed with pain, but his namesake was for his ability to open a Buck lightning fast, with just a flick of his left wrist. Another shell exploded and blew out the adjacent window as Mun fell onto the street and the mounting snow outside. Blade let the knife sail and turned to follow his brother. Shattering the wood slates and the glass it was protecting, Blade made a similar exit, spilling onto the snowdrift outside. Two rounds followed them onto the street, then stopped. The knife had struck just above the slimeball’s heart, slid in between a couple of ribs, and severed the main artery.

Ella held her injured father in her arms. Blade reached back in through the broken glass to retrieve his riding gear and shouted as he strode toward his bike, “Merry Fuckin’ Christmas.”

End

This will be a heartfelt report as we near and pass deadlines, scramble, dodge and grab the plan B book. We’re getting close, but can’t go to paint without a front end. It never arrived, so I picked up a contact number and reached out. I sent an e-mail to Leo DiOrio and he responded, “Don't panic.” That was a month ago. I spoke to other builders and they were also waiting.

I couldn't wait any longer. Rodan, or SCTA official, rides a new Dyna Glide and it sports the new 49 mm semi-narrow glide. I was impressed, strong, sharp looking forks. I reached out to Harley-Davidson and they responded quickly. We ordered the new 49mm Dyna Glide front end. We were also running super low on funds and couldn’t pick up our AIM data system. We had the Bonneville blues.

I’m standing at the gate right now waiting for UPS, but nothing stops the 5-Ball racing team. I spoke to Kent at Air Tech about a fairing this morning, to Berry Wardlaw about NOS system questions, to Jeremiah about our NOS fittings, to Delvene Manning about our bike class this year and to Custom Chrome who just came on board as a Platnimum sponsor. Made my day, saved our asses.

The lovely Nyla made a mad dash, snatching a homeless credent off the streets, so she could use the carpool lanes. She grabbed the cash and hit it to AIM sports dealer, GT Fabrications in Anaheim, to pick up MyChron3 XG data acquisation system. This afternoon I’ll run it over to Gard’s LA Choprods for final tank assembly. Then the tank could go be delivered to Jim’s Custom Paint.

This weekend we started on the final Nitrous system install—the straps. We are fortunate to live in LA, where the creed is, “You can do or find anything in Los Angeles.” We have three major steel supply yards in a mile radius of the extreme Ivory tower International Bikernet Headquarters. We hit Phillips Steel and asked them to fabricate our straps. They did and had a steel hinge to work with.

?You can see where I cut the axle, slipped a washer over the end and welded it. I tried to blacksmith the end down, but I sensed destruction and gave up.

I bungied the Nitros bottle in place using the old strap loops and started making measurements. But first I had to split the steel hinge in two and remake the hinge link. Then I slipped the hinge between the frame rail and the bottle.

I tried to fit the hinge so it ran square with the tank and that allowed me enough space to weld it on both sides.

Then I cut the strap. We wrapped the Nitrous bottle with blue masking tape to prevent paint damage while attempting to tack the straps in place. Again, we tried to keep the strap tight to the bottle to hold it square.

We made, no less, than three research missions to various hardware stores to find the proper strap for the bottle. The notion was to build a bottle valve guard to prevent the bottle from becoming a rocket or bomb during an accident. After finally finding the right strap we asked the lovely Ninja goddess, Nyla what she thought. “Why don’t you fasten the guard to the frame?” She said and winked at me. That was the solution. We grabbed a cap off an acetylene bottle and tried to work it in, but that was awkward, if we tried to hook it to the bottle. I’ll get back to our solution in minute.

First I needed to face up to the Pingel electric shifter. This puppy will allow Valerie to shift from the bars, I hope. I had a long conversation with Mr. Pingel and he explained the severe need to prevent any binding since an electric shifter pops through gears with 18 pounds of thrust, whereas Pingel air shifters sports 40-50 pounds of boost. The directions call for the shifter mounted above the foot shift lever on the frame.

The lever off the trans is a couple of inches shorter than common foot shift levers and that concerns me, since it will take more thrust to drive the shorter lever.

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The Pingel directions call for a static test of their system before installation so we charged our Big Boar battery with a new Xtreme Charger. It’s cool, tests the battery and gives you tremendous info. After charging over night and watching the LED lights blink from 50 to 100 percent charge on the Xtreme Charger we tested the Pingel electric shifter and it did exactly what it was supposed to do.

Here’s the Pingel 1-inch handlebar switch. To test the system we had to wire the battery to the system and hold one button down for 5 seconds. Then, with the shaft centered we push one of the buttons and watched it jerk in one direction. Then we centered it again and pushed the other button. It was supposed to jump in the other direction and did. We were good to go.

Pingel supplies all the wiring, connectors and components to make their system work, including this mounting bracket which I cut, drilled and mounted to the top of the BDL inner primary, by drilling 1 inch holes and taping them with 5/16 coarse threads.

The directions call for the clamp to rest close to ¾ the length of the solenoid cylinder for the best angle on the thrust. We shot for the prescribed deminsion and came up close.

Here’s a major consideration for mounting. First, we wanted the Pingel solenoid to make a direct thrust and not be forced to hit the shifter at an angle. In addition a critical element needed consideration. The thrust of the Pingel unit is 2 ¼ inches, or 1 1/8-inch in each direction. The directions call for avoiding slamming the solenoid to full capacity, but just slightly less. “The strength is at the end of the reach,” Mr. Pingel explained. But I could damage the shifter if it went too far. I had to test the shift lever reach and make sure it would shift within 1 1/8 inches in each gear, confirm it and test the positioning of the shifter.

The positioning looked good from front to back, so I moved on to create something that would extend out from the tranny to reach the Pingel heim joint. Actually I just spoke to Wayne Pingel a couple of minutes ago, “It's all wrong, Ball,” he said. “You need to pivot the clamp 90 degrees. Not the cylinder, just the clamp and move it away from the wiring slightly for shifting ease.”

I'll fix it in the next segment.

I dug around in our metal bins for a chunk of aluminum to make a stand off from the tranny lever to the Pingel shaft and went to work machining it with our new, old Logan lathe we just recently bought from Gard Hollinger’s LA Chop Rods shop. He was moving new equipment around and didn’t need another lathe crowding his shop. I was jazzed to have it.

Working in the shop alone has it’s drawbacks. I machined this piece and it worked like a champ, but there’s always an alternative. I wish I made it so it could be adjusted for a longer throw, if I needed it.

Rare Bonneville art from the Bob T. collection.

The masterpiece worked well to give the Pingel unit a solid, direct throw. We’ll see if it works. I’ll ask Mr. Pingel to check this article and let me know if I headed in the wrong directions. Whiskey, women and the wrong direction are ingrained in me.

The Pingel directions call for the solenoid to rest in the 80-90 degree relation to the shifter. I think we hit the nail on the head with that requirement.

Actually we blew it and needed to turn the clamp verticle or 90 degrees.

Remember the U-bolt for holding a NOS valve guard. Well, the lovely Nyla suggested we mount the guard to the frame and I came up with this crazed notion. Since we’re not concerned about weight we cut up a Acetylene bottle guard cap, split it open and went to work.

Jeremiah is a master with a grinder, except when he nearly ground a finger off. He cut the cap a couple of times and ground it to contour the shape of the NOS bottle. We welded tabs to the frame, and that puppy fit securely around the valve. We still needed to pick up the necessary fittings and make sure the hose can escape back to the NOS solenoid.

A reader reminded me to my chagrin, “Just 45 days left before Bonneville.” We’re burnin’ daylight fast, but we’ll make it goddamnit. Fortunately the Harley-Davidson front end parts we're arriving and we scrambled to make the front fender. Then we can finish welding all the tabs, let the master grinder, Jeremiah, have at the frame and send all the shit to powder and paint.

HARLEY PART NUMBERS FOR THE KILLER 49MM DYNA GLIDE FRONT END:
45948-06 left leg
45947-06 right leg
45718-60 stem nut
45717-63 lock washer
45538-06a top crown
46384-06 bottom crown and stem
48198-06 Dust shield
48184-01 top dust shield
48307-06 Bearing adjuster
40928-06 Axle
(4) 4351 fork screws
40936-06 right spacer
40940-06 left spacer
6590HW washer
7068 Lock washer
7956 axle nut

Larry, from the Chop N Grind Team and Palm Springs H-D, helped me scramble through the numbers, so the order would be correct the first time—we hoped.

New H-D 49mm trees.

I ordered the sprockets from Azusa Engineering. I needed to have the handlebars bent by a local guy in Long Beach. Maybe we’ll attempt to bend them ourselves. Then we need to figure out some of this wiring mess and we’re ready to rock. See ya at the next segment. Don’t grind your teeth. I’m crunching enough for all of us.

Jerry from Rollin’ Sixes Choppers sent the following suggestions regarding paint:

It’s been awhile since I last talked with you. I’d like to see it painted in big flake like we use. That bike will look like flashing diamonds going across the flats, but that’s just me. We got one of the best nose art, and pinstripers in the country working with us. So if you need anything just let us know. I want this bike to look like a ghost bike riding out of a mirage in the distance. I want people to see the flashing of the flake thru the heat waves coming off the desert floor before they see the bike. I want them to hear it, then see the flashing of the flake before they can tell it’s a bike. I want it to hyptonize them.

I usually keep this to myself, you will be surprised who doesn't know about it. I like to Cryogenic my motor, trans, etc. I really think this will help you set a new record. I got a 89-inch stroker motor that I have used this on and it eats 124s for lunch. It’s been together for about ten years now with no problems and I ride it hard. It has over 200,000 miles on it. It drastically cuts down friction in the motor. We have a place down here that does it. The motor can be done after it’s together.

–Jerry
Rollin Sixes.
239-770-6024

Here’s the unit with one of the initial sketches. It sports the V-Rod headlight and an illegal rear fender. Except now we're running a fairing, since we'll be in the partially streamlined class.

Wednesday night, Mick rolled his bobbed ’92 Dyna onto his table lift and pulled up a battered bar stool to begin checking the performance machine over from end to end. Mick was single, alone, and tired from a day deep in mud and sludge in the oil fields. He lived in a small industrial complex on Signal Hill adjacent to Long Beach, California. His home/shop was nothing more than corrugated galvanized walls, steel-beam structure and a concrete floor. Girls didn’t stay over much. He worked hard, took good care of his bikes, and rode hard. But his life was lacking the female touch, except for one memorable night two months ago, during the holidays.

The shop phone rang as he checked his rear belt adjustment. “Mick?” the soft voice questioned earnestly, “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he answered, recognizing the same gentle lilt in the voice he heard that night in the rain. “Rikki, what’s going on?” He wanted to tell her he missed her, but being guarded with women was a priority since his short-term wife took off. Since then he vowed to never get serious or marry again. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Yes and no,” she began. “Remember what I told you?” Mick’s memories about that night were as clear as Christmas crystal. Her husband was an office boy bookkeeper at her father’s business. He had all the opportunities in the world to make a better life, but chose to avoid career challenges. Frustrated with his own lack of drive, he took to abusing her and drinking heavily. Mick remembered the dark ring under her eye when he opened the door of the stranded BMW. “They transferred him to Phoenix, and I left him.” She began to sob uncontrollably, feeling primarily guilty for breaking up the relationship. “I miss you Mick. I don’t know anyone here and he’s lost it. I heard he’s looking for me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m staying at the Biltmore, but I’m afraid he’ll find me.”

“I’ll find him, if he does. I’m coming out there,” Mick said without hesitation. If she had called, and in a perfectly calm voice, invited him to see Space Jam, he would have jumped on his Bartels’ modified freeway glide and hit the asphalt runnin’.

“I can’t make you do that,” she said. But he could sense the fear in her voice.

At 4 in the morning he was on his feet, loading a small Browning .25 auto that slipped easily into the gun pocket of his Fox Creek Leather jacket.

“It’s a done deal, what room?” he asked.

“4133,” she muttered with an obvious release in her voice.

“I’ll be there by 2 tomorrow afternoon,” Mick said resolutely. “And, I miss…” His voice trailed off as he hung up the phone. That was as close to a nicety he had come to in 10 years. He stood back and looked at the silver anniversary Dyna. It had run like a top since he bought it used with 11,000 miles on it. Bartels had shaved the heads, dialed the ports, installed their street cam and built him a set of exhausts that matched their Sportster racing exhaust. The formula was perfection on two 80-spoke Kennedy wheels and recently with Carl’s Typhoon carb bolted in place, it kicked the 90 horse mark with 90 pounds of torque to match it.

He knew he could spend all night checking every last chromed nut and bolt, but he rationalized, “To hell with that, it’d run.” He was confident of it, and the vision of her creamy white features surrounding warm red lips, and those eyes that said there was nothing but kindness beyond this point, called to him like an industrial magnet to a leftover nail. He walked around to the other side of the bike and added a half quart of oil, all he had, and let the bike down from the lift.

It was almost midnight as he packed his Bandit’s bedroll, and strapped it to the front of his bars, forming a windscreen. He tried to sleep for a couple of hours, but all he could think of was a mental check list, her bouncing blond curls, the motorcycle, and if he forgot something. At 4 in the morning he was on his feet, loading a small Browning .25 auto that slipped easily into the gun pocket of his Fox Creek Leather jacket. He would have preferred to haul his stainless Wather PPK, but the weight and size held him back. Besides, if he had a problem, he would much rather take care of it with his hands or the Spyderco knife in his back pocket.

It was still February and he planned for the cold as he donned Patagonia long underwear, old Navy denims, a double-X sweatshirt, his Bill Wall, one-of-a-kind leather vest, then the jacket and a knitted scarf of his own design, and cowboy boots. He didn’t like wearing black-too common, so his choice from his boots to his scarf was brown and western tans.

Mick weaved around in the erratic exchange of steel trying to find an opening, an open lane, and the edge of the city.

As he pulled the Dyna into the street, it began to sprinkle. Rain was not uncommon for the month of February, but it drifted out as fast as it converged with the coast. He touched the starter button and the 80-cubic-inch, high compression monster popped to life, no choke, no idle adjustment, and lopped like a well trained pony. He let it warm as he secured his building and pulled on his padded, cold-weather Easyriders gloves. He felt sealed off from the morning chill as he weaved his way through the light mist in the 45-degree morning air, toward the freeway. Rolling onto the on-ramp, he remembered what a friend had told him about wind chill factors. Seems for every additional 10 miles an hour, the wind chill drops the temperature three degrees. He made a quick mental calculation and didn’t care for the results, and just as rapidly put the formula out of his mind. In the rain, going slower to avoid a dropping chill ratio, meant extended rain time, and longer before he would be at her side.

As he hit 70 on the Long Beach Freeway into the center of Los Angeles and the junction of Interstate 10, the morning traffic was already accumulating on the slick lanes. As the city expanded, so did the traffic at odd hours. A couple of years ago, at five o’clock in the morning, a rider would be lucky to find another car. Now the lanes were crowded with early risers, ambitious money-seekers, and lovers sneaking home from affairs to clean up and get to work. Most understood the level of congestion on L.A. freeways at peek traffic hours and were trying to beat the crowds.

Mick weaved around in the erratic exchange of steel trying to find an opening, an open lane, and the edge of the city. He discovered a web-like, conflagration of freeways-the 10, 5, 101, and 110 interchange, and split off to the east. The rain didn’t let up as he made his way through unceasing L.A. suburbs trying to find relief from the congestion. Almost 10 years ago, once a traveler passed the 605 interchange, only 20 miles from the civic center, the roads were clear-not anymore. After the suburbs of Lakewood and Downey there was Covina, and West Covina, Pomona, Riverside and San Bernardino. Now each one was linked by brightly lit car dealerships and super malls glistening with neon and surrounded by a swarm of prefab model homes. The treachery of the traffic, the slick streets, and his glasses smearing and dripping with water caused him to rethink his mission.

The deep purple rosette under her right eye, and her disheveled appearance told him that no matter how much money her bank account contained, she was a human being in a lot of grief.

Between dodging cars and slow moving trucks, Mick remembered meeting Rikki alongside a dark, industrial, nasty neighborhood on the edge of Signal Hill. Her BMW had broken down alongside the road, but the interior light remained lit as Mick made his way home in his lowered ’52 Ford pickup. He pulled over and approached her car carefully. For all he knew she was being beaten by her pimp, and he had no business in their space. All he could see was a cascading jumble of blond curls.

As Mick split lanes pulling down 75 mph, the sun began to illuminated the wet, rain grooves in the concrete, and the rain seemed less foreboding. The showers tapered, as open spots in the looming gray clouds allowed the rich blue to appear. The traffic tapered at the 75-mile mark and Mick pulled into a truck stop to refuel and have a cup of coffee. He looked at the imposing 76 ball pivoting in the mist, 100 feet above the freeway and remembered 15 years ago stopping to refuel with 20 other riders, all drunk and high, stealing gas and food, raising hell and pissing off the half a dozen truckers in the down-home restaurant. At that time, there was nothing within 30 miles. Now hundreds of semis refueled and the joint was packed with transient truckers having breakfast and lounging outside, smoking (no smoking is allowed in restaurants, anymore). Some gawked at the rain soaked 6’2″ rider as he got off his dripping silver lightening bolt, quickly refueled and mounted the scooter once more. Some commented to one another, that only a fool would be riding on a day like this. The storm was heading east. Unlike the pilots behind the 18-wheelers, Mick wasn’t privy to weather reports as he hauled out of the truck stop heading east on Interstate 10.

The hills were mild, but the storm continued to pester him as he passed through San Bernardino, passed Beaumont and Banning, once small desert towns for the city’s outcast, now growing suburbs for middle-class survivors, scraping and clawing for the American dream.

As Mick tapped on the window of the silver BMW only three days after Christmas in a blinding downpour, the girl inside jolted and turned to face him. She was as striking as a new Arlen Ness creation, and just as out of reach, financially. Mick harbored the anti-yuppie sentiment. He’d always lived on the back streets of life, and felt begrudgingly that’s were he belonged-done deal, until that night.

Tears flowing from her eyes, she looked up at him. The deep purple rosette under her right eye, and her disheveled appearance told him that no matter how much money her bank account contained, she was a human being in a lot of grief. She lowered her electric window a couple of inches and looked out at the dripping biker with long hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.

“Are you all right?” Mick questioned, concerned.

“I slid into the curb,” she said, beginning to cry. “I think I blew the tire.”

Mick inspected the tire, and sure enough she had pinched off the valve stem against the unforgiving curb and the tire went rapidly flat.

“Listen,” Mick said, “I live up the street. Let’s get you out of this weather, and I’ll come back for the car.”

To his dismay she nodded her head and gathered her purse and expensive overcoat and opened the door. For the first time as she emerged from the tight quarters of the compact, Mick got a quick glimpse of her stunning form in a black sequined, low cut, evening dress. He pulled the coat from her grasp and draped it over her shoulders, as they made their way in the wind and engulfing downpour toward his truck.

Sheets of sand stretched across the highway like the ghosts of a thousand stinging snakes trying to escape from one side of the freeway to the other.

Just then Mick’s attention returned to the concrete divider in the center of the freeway slipping past at 80 mph. The sun forced its way between two billows of clouds and the rain let up. At that speed the drying capabilities of the wind began to immediately push the weather away from his leather. A noise had distracted Mick and he looked through his damp lenses to the right. In lane number three a young child’s bicycle danced across the concrete, directly into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer. The truck driver jammed the brakes on and the tires began to squeal. Mick didn’t have time to determine where the bike came from or whether the truck driver was also engaged in a fantasy of his own, and the bicycle had been resting in the lane for some time.

The truck driver swerved, and his trailer lurched like a bullwhip, then snapped straight again. Whatever the trucker was hauling became dislodged and large portions of metal flew from the rumbling flatbed directly into Mick’s path. He swerved as the large steel shelf spun like a Frisbee through the air in his direction. Inches from the speeding Dyna Glide, the objects crashed to the pavement. Mick didn’t blink, but kept the throttle turned to its stops. In no time, the Dyna pulled away from the tire-burning calamity. It was 7:30 as Mick roared past Palm Springs Harley-Davidson off Indian Road.

Mick remembered the battered and beaten young woman as he slipped into the driver’s seat and started the classic, fire engine red Ford. It lurched into gear and all of a sudden he wished the truck was cleaner inside, and that he shifted it with more finesse. Pulling into his industrial area, he purposefully slowed and stopped the truck with determined care. She looked up and shock and fear crossed her face.

“Don’t worry,” Mick said reaching out and touching her forearm gently. “I live in my shop. It’s OK.”

Again she didn’t speak, just nodded and waited until he got out of the truck. He moved quietly and quickly to her side and opened the squeaky, 40-year-old door. As she departed, her heal slipped on the black floorboard and she fell into his arms. Mick grabbed and prevented her fall, and again their eyes met. As if she was his kid sister, an emotional trust passed between the two and he hugged her. She naturally responded, and for a few long moments in the driving rain they stood together.

The speed limit loosened as Mick blasted into the Indio area and the Coachella Valley. For the first time in 200 miles, the rain let up enough to dry the asphalt strip traversing the desert. The clouds were dark and looming, but Mick was confident that the Arizona heat would run off any further precipitation. He generally ran from 8 to 10 miles an hour faster than the speed limit, but this Thursday he pushed 15 to 20 miles an hour over the enforced law. The white fluorescent signs called for 70 mph in black lettering. Mick was pushing 90 as the desert winds picked up. The lows caused by the storm formed brutal, chilling winds unhindered by any mountains or obstacles on the flat desert floor. Sheets of sand stretched across the highway like the ghosts of a thousand stinging snakes trying to escape from one side of the freeway to the other.

Trucks rumbled along in the right-hand lane as the once four-laned freeway became an interstate with two lanes going in either direction with a 50-foot wide medium of tumbleweed and sand. The semis were scattered along the road at half-mile intervals. As Mick blasted up behind one of the moving buildings, several reactions were set in motion. From behind as he approached, his machine was tumbled like a dryer cycle by the turbulence caused by the rolling battleship splitting the cross wind. If he dared to get close enough, he’d be drafted by the truck, momentarily, as if a fly crawling into the comforts of the spider’s web. At a particular point, only 25 feet astern of the rolling cargo ship, all wind was gone, the temperature rose five degrees and Mick felt he was captured in a traveling cocoon. But the trucks weren’t moving fast enough for Mick, so he moved to the left into the passing lane where the truck blocked the wind momentarily and his V-twin speed increased four miles per hour. He slipped passed the trailer only to be batted severely by the wind after he passed the trailer and again once as he passed the cab, like being slapped twice fast, then he was gone again. For another hundred miles that was his routine through the desert center into Blyth where he stopped to refuel.

He was making excellent time as he pulled into a service station. Pumping gas, he checked his mileage to prevent getting stuck in the desert with a dry tank. The 90 horsepower Evo at 90 mph was clicking off 33 miles to the gallon, and the next stretches were desolate desert, nothing for 40-50 miles. He was careful to top off the tank for maximum mileage.

Blyth was centered over the highway on the California/Arizona border. Last year on his way to Sturgis, Mick was forced by a bad rear tire to hold up at Yamaha of Blyth for two hours while the tire was replaced. It was hot that day. Hot enough to avoid standing in the sun for very long. Mick and his riding partner, Mark got rid of their helmets the minute they hit the border. Although Mick wanted to lose the helmet bad, this was a different situation. Temps had dropped to the mid 40s, and it started raining again. Mick popped the shaved and formed then scalloped fiberglass beanie back on his head and hit the road.

Pulling onto the freeway the skies let loose and the highway turned into a glistening black strip in a cloud of gray. Visibility diminished considerably. His narrow glasses were drenched with water. The rain even slid up his cheeks and coated the inside of the glasses. At first, the fear of going down in the rain beside a fully loaded semi, caused his traps to tighten in his back. He became super sensitive to any change in the bike’s reaction to the pavement. He avoided the white lines, and tried to keep the bike perfectly upright even in the gentle curves crossing the flat desert.

But speed was a priority as he remembered his first conversation with Rikki after he gave her a cup of coffee and called a brother with a towing service. She attempted to lie about the bruise around her bluer than blue eye. At first she paced the floor worried, “I’ve blown it, and he’s gonna kill me,” she stammered.

The wind and rain hit his face like a zillion needles pricking his skin.

“What do you mean?” Mick asked, heating another cup in a small microwave.

“He can’t handle the success he’s been handed,” she stumbled. “He can’t endure the stress of prosperity, and he started drinking. He was all right as a regular account exec, but as my dad opened doors for him, he avoided the challenges. It must be my fault.” She broke down again.

“Why would it be your problem?” Mick asked.

“If it wasn’t for my father’s company and the opportunities,” her voiced slowed and she looked directly at Mick. “You don’t understand. I came from wealth, I know the drill. He doesn’t. Could you give up the freedom to work on your bikes anytime you please to put your life on the line for some business? My father’s responsible for the income of hundreds of people. He works 12 hours most days, at least one day a weekend, and spends half of his weekends on the road for the business. If you calculate his hours, he makes less than his average employees. On top of the responsibility and the hours, he must manage all the trappings of being a success and a pillar in his industry.”

“What are you trying to say,” Mick said, “he married you for money, works for your family’s business, can’t handle it, and wants to put the whole thing on you?”

“Do you have a drink?” she inquired.

“Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. That’s it.”

“I’ll take it,” she said, bursting into tears again. “He told me that, if I ever left him, he’d have me killed. He can’t stand to lose me.”

Mick handed her the drink in a plastic cup and sat down beside her. She sipped her drink and leaned into his arms. He would never forget the smell of her hair, the texture of the skin of her forearm or the softness of the nape of her neck as he leaned down to kiss her gently. She responded and raised her ruby lips to his and they kissed deeply. Mick looked deep into her eyes, and thought, “I can’t do this.”

The semi came out of nowhere. Mick flinched, and warned himself that any reaction on his part could cost him his life. The downpour intensified as he passed Quartzsite and visibility became critical. At 85 mph the trucks were wave runners throwing up blankets of spray to the rear and off either side. Mick was only concerned with one side as the wave of spray hit him as he passed one 18-wheeler after another. Ducking behind his bedroll helped until the spray splashed into his face from the right. The wind and rain hit his face like a zillion needles pricking his skin.

Passing each truck became a training session in dealing with terror. At 80 mph, as he approached the stern of the approaching trailer traveling at 70 mph, the turbulence from the wind and the drafting ship on 18 wheels jerked the Dyna, but he had no choice except to twist the throttle some more. As he reached the corner of the trailer the bike jerked as the container blocked the wind only to be replaced by a slip stream effect that drew the bike alongside the truck tires. Visibility diminished as his glasses became drenched while entering a wave of spray. Approaching the corner of the trailer he could see the broken white line, but once alongside each truck, he couldn’t see anything. It was as if he was at sea in a dense fog. He couldn’t see a thing. He was moving too fast to smell and the wind buffeting his ears with 150 decibels of engine noise, truck noise and wind formed a deafening combination that at one time was almost comforting. Mick thought about the girl, flat tires, and almost imagined his bike missing while lost in the spray beside a speeding tractor trailer truck. In each case, he had no choice except to twist the Simm’s lightening bolt grip and scream out in front of the truck.

Fifty miles from Phoenix, Mick began to ponder the outcome of this meeting. Confronting the old man wasn’t a problem, but tackling his own demons with relationships was.

For 85 miles he stayed frozen to his throttle, passing over 40 trucks in the process. At Tonopah he swung off the freeway for gas. As he entered the warmth of the flooded station, he realized that the cold and wetness which penetrated every layer of his exterior shield was beginning to effect his body temperature. He began to shiver involuntarily while approaching the coffee vending machine. Like his Jack Daniel’s, he poured it black and let the warmth of the Styrofoam cup seep through his palms. He continued to shiver. As he looked out the window to the lone silver Harley standing proudly in the parking lot while the rain formed growing lakes around the Mobil Oil overhang, he wondered what about this woman made him want to risk one more mile on this highway. Then he remembered their last conversation.

Mick broke off the kiss and looked deeply into her eyes. “Listen, messing with me will only deepen your problems,” Mick said. “If we will ever have anything, it can only be after you leave the sonuvabitch. I may not fit in your world, then again, why the hell not? I’m not afraid to try anything once.”

“Hold me,” she said, moving close once more, but it wasn’t a sexual closeness. It was for comfort.

Mick lifted her face to his once more as he heard Charley’s flatbed pulling up in front of his warehouse. “I want you to be happy,” Mick whispered. “You deserve it. If I can ever add to that happiness, you can bet I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I believe you,” she said and they kissed again as Charley banged on the steel roll-up door.

Mick left the shelter of the station ge-dunk store shivering violently, but as soon as he threw his leg over the Dyna the shivering stopped. The scooter popped to life and Mick guided it onto the freeway to the final 80 miles into the Phoenix area. Mick knew he was facing the prospects of passing every truck he had passed in the last 100 miles, but that didn’t deter him from pushing his rowdy putt back to the 85 mph mark, to make the best time possible. Again the wind chill formula resurfaced, but his choices were limited. He could slow down and face the prospects of some half blind driver, unable to see his 1 1/4-inch cylindrical taillights in the spray, running over him. He could slow down and gain a few degrees of warmth and spend another 10 minutes on this godforsaken highway. No way he was slowing down. His first priority was to once more feel her arms around his waist.

Rolling the throttle on, he sensed an increase in rainfall. Instead of hesitating, he twisted the cable in defiance of the weather. The stinging drops of rain sandblasted his exposed face and with his free hand he pulled a corner of his scarf out from under his collar and bit it with his teeth. The woven material plastered itself to the form of his mouth and jaw and suddenly the stinging stopped. The trucks crept into his line of sight, one after another, along with swerving campers, vacation trailers and buses. Fifty miles from Phoenix, Mick began to ponder the outcome of this meeting. Confronting the old man wasn’t a problem, but tackling his own demons with relationships was. He pondered his past life and changing for a new one. Although the prospects excited him, would he handle a different lifestyle? Could he meet the challenge? Was he abandoning the biker lifestyle, if he sought to improve his life? He had been a veteran, an oil worker, a machinist and a welder for 15 years, but always a biker. Why couldn’t he take on another vocation, test his metal in a different arena. He would always be a biker.

Then she screamed as the roaring cycle came out of nowhere on their left where there was no lane as if the Grim Reaper on a silver Harley had come to collect his due.

The questions seemed insignificant as a compact swerved into his lane from between two 18-wheelers. The rain was so intense and coupled with the spray, he was sure the driver couldn’t see anything from his rearview mirror. But that would have little consequence if Mick went down and was run over by a thundering 50,000-pound big rig. He would be a mere thump in the road, as he was positive no one would see him. His right foot moved toward the rear brake pedal. Two fingers of his throttle hand proceeded to wrap around the Performance Machine front brake lever. He knew a slight touch on the wet brake could cause two reactions to happen. He could find no stopping power in the lake of spray as the dual GMA caliper pads closed on the stainless steel RC discs, or they could work efficiently and the bike could lose traction, or he could run into the back of the compact and end it all.

Determined to see Rikki and learn something about himself, Mick swerved into the emergency lane and gunned it against the rough asphalt. Startled, the compact driver had no notion of a motorcyclist in his vicinity. The woman sitting on the driver’s right, frightened by the two immense trucks bearing down on them, shouted instructions to her weak driver. Then she screamed as the roaring cycle came out of nowhere on their left where there was no lane as if the Grim Reaper on a silver Harley had come to collect his due. As he leaned slightly, tentatively back into the passing lane, Mick noted an increase in the incessant stinging around his eyes. The tenor of the storm had changed. It was colder as the arms of his jacket soaked through and he could feel the wetness running down his forearms, chilling them to the bone. It was hailing as he passed a barely visible sign announcing the mileage to the city limits at 25. Traffic began to increase along with billboards, light commercial trucks and lanes.

Inexperienced, arid, desert drivers pulled from one lane to the next, and Mick slowed, watching for some sign to give him direction. Finally at 35th Avenue, he emerged from the freeway to a city unaccustomed to slick streets. Accidents were prevalent as Mick attempted to cross the city in bumper-to-bumper traffic. He could sense the girl’s presence and a sense of heightened tension spread across his freezing chest. He split lanes and weaved through traffic after obtaining rough directions from a gas station attendant. A half hour later he pulled up in front of the Arizona Biltmore, designed by George Wright in 1923. It stands today as one of the top hotels in the western states, and Mick had never stayed at anything even close. He was immediately surrounded by helpful bellmen who found a dry, protected area for Mick to park his consistent steed.

Removing his bedroll from his chromed bars, Mick slouched his way to the front desk, his feet swimming in his roughed-out boots. The attentive, well groomed receptionist behind the desk looked Mick up and down as well dressed business people gawked at the dripping man. “Can I help you?” she said.

“Do you have any messages for Mick Connor?” Mick inquired, trying not to visibly shiver in her presence.

“Yes, sir, I do,” she perked up, finding a note in the computer.

Just then Mick thought he felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to face an angel waiting for him in the lobby. “Never mind,” she said, as that oh so soft lilt in her voice returned. “I will personally show Mr. Conners to our room,” Rikki said. “Thank you.”

End

Editor’s Note:
This story is based on a couple of true stories, but the most recent was a ride I made with Hamster Christian Reichart to Phoenix in the midst of the roughest storm this winter. Waitresses in truck stops bragged that it hadn’t rained in Arizona in three months.
-Bandit