Sticky shards of beer bottle splashed against his face as Harrison rolled in the soiled sawdust to escape a worn, pointed cowboy boot. His troubled mind whirled. What was he doing diving towards the cigarette butt-strewn deck of the cowboy bar anyway?

Less than a half hour before he pulled his ’78 Shovelhead up to the litter-infested curb in front of the hick bar in the backwater town of Tombstone, Arizona, Harrison was cruising along without a thought in the world.

A pool cue slammed against the concrete next to his head. His eyes expanded to the size of the tops of Harley oil cans and he rolled to avoid he splintering cue stick shattering against the sawdust and cement. Jumping to his feet a fist made a catcher’s mitt out of his stomach.

He thought, when he pulled up to the curb alongside two other shovelheads, that he’d found the only biker bar in a couple hundred miles. The town seemed deserted except for the bar, with its Bud and Miller neon flashing outside, and floodlights sporting the harmless name, “Maggie’s Place.”

Another fist struck him solidly. Harrison grabbed his guts and buckled onto the cold floor again.

He hadn’t been in the joint two minutes when he discovered something wasn’t right. The warm, sexy looking woman at the end of the bar looked up at the rugged stranger as he came in, their eyes meeting as if they had been connected at birth. However, the black and blue shadow under her left eye was a billboard displaying abuse.

Stepping up to the bar, two cowboys strode up behind him. “Hey Chuck, we gonna add another Harley to your collection,” a big, lumbering, beer-bellied boy shouted over Harrison’s shoulder to someone behind a poorly lit pool table.

“Suppose so, if he don’t get the message real quick and hit the road,” the voice was ominous. Harrison couldn’t make out the stranger in the dark corner. He did catch the hint and was beginning to turn for the door when the girl at the bar stood up.

“You’re not going to turn this bar into another war zone while I’m here.” She pivoted on slender legs toward the dark corner.

As her voice quaked out the last syllable, it was as if someone had sounded an alarm. Patrons began to rise and depart to the walls and doors. The small passageway to the heads became as congested as a downtown freeway at rush hour. Though Harrison was tall and well built, a cloud of doom was filling the honky-tonk like an Arizona flash flood. Smacking like a jackhammer, his heart beat against his chest. Knees as slippery as 60-weight quivered beneath him.

A hamhock-sized fist slapped his back, shaking every fragile vertebrae. “Guess you ain’t gonna have that beer after all, boy,” a fat man with bib overalls shouted at Harrison, while launching a right. Harrison was prepared, but off balance. With the speed of a rattlesnake, he blocked the first blow. But the following flurry of punches and kicks got the best of him.

He rolled under the pool table, while four men kicked at him. He hadn’t seen the man in the corner yet, but whoever he was, he called the shots. Harrison drew his knife and stabbed at a stationary boot, he heard the girl scream. Another rancher was dragging the screaming redhead to the corner of the bar.

All Harrison could see were her small refined ankles and petite shoes as she struggled. His mind flashed on the image of the defiant girl as she stood in protest-the tight Levi’s on the narrow waist, snugly gripping her perfect hips and long legs. Her checkered Western shirt fit snugly at the waist and flowed up over her heaving chest, accented by an unbuttoned V below a delicate neck. She was either a vision of traditional Western beauty, or the form he had examined before the first punch had landed was merely a fantasy.

He could still see her delicate shoes being dragged, her feet kicking like a young pony’s, as the man screamed. The knife was buried through the arch of his foot into the sole of his boot. “He’s gonna die, now,” one cowboy shouted, and Harrison heard the sound of a gun cocking. Pulling the knife free and rolling, he cut the Achilles tendon of another kicker and the man immediately fell to the sawdust floor. The first bullet splintered the wood to his side as he spun toward the opposite side of the table.

“Get him, Joe,” the fat farmer shouted, and the cowboy with the 9mm Browning fired again, missing him. Harrison was covered in sawdust and sweat as he wrapped his arms around the cowboy boots belonging to a man who had stomped the knuckles of his left hand less than 30 seconds before. He leveraged his legs against the pool table legs and thrust the man up and over the table. Looking up, the gunman saw this figure diving for him, and he instinctively shot at him. The tackled man fell in his own growing pool of blood on the scarred green felt.

Struggling to stand, Harrison found himself face to face across the table from the smoldering automatic. A fat farmer moved to his right and the young, burly ranch hand grabbed a pool cue to his left. The light above the pool table swung, throwing bits of light in odd directions, and Harrison caught a glimpse of a small sweaty man in the corner slapping the girl while another man held her.

“I own this town, bitch, and you’re mine,” he hissed. The slap made Harrison flinch.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Kill the sonuvabitch,” the slimy little man in the slick leather jacket in the corner shouted.

“But I just shot Billy.”

“All cuz of that fucking biker. Now do him.”

Harrison wasn’t waiting for a decision. He stuck his blade into the fat man’s belly and, yanking the knife upward, spilled the man’s guts onto the table. The horrified cowboy grimaced and stepped back, lifting the auto to aim. Harrison jumped behind the fat farmer just in time, as a bullet spit the fat man’s shoulder socket all over the room. The balding farmer with three days of stubble looked like a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a large bite taken out of the corner. He screamed, as one of the arms he was using to keep his entrails in place fell limp to his side.

Harrison grabbed the half empty beer bottle on the ledge next to the cue chalk and threw it at the gunman, splitting his left cheek, exposing a slashed jawbone.

The girl screamed as the 225-pound ranch hand swung a pool cue like a baseball bat against Harrison’s lower back. He tried to focus on the girl as rivers of pain shot down his legs and up through his spine. His legs went limp and he collapsed. Moving his arms he shoved off the gurgling farmer, slouched against the coin dispenser, and stumbled over the side of the table into the now crimson felt. He reached for the cue rack, the fingers of his right hand barely encircling a couple of the holes. With his left hand he lunged for a chair, and with all his might he prayed for the feeling to return to his legs.

Rounding the corner of the table into the gunman’s sights again, the rancher caught his dragging calves with another sharp blow cracking the cue mid-impact. “I don’t need no gun to take this biker down,” he taunted, recoiling.

The strike shot lightning bolts of pain in the opposite direction. His legs were immediately sensitized again and jerked instinctively under his torso. The pain caused Harrison to flinch. He tore the old wood rack loose from the wall, sending a half dozen cues into the path of the oncoming rancher.

Harrison’s adrenaline was pumping too fast to comprehend. He knew, just as in the jungles of ‘Nam, that this was it. He had no chance. The next bullet would split his skull like a shot through a beer can.

Putting both bleeding hands on the chair, he pushed up, forcing his legs beneath him. They held. Stepping left, he picked up a scarred wooden chair and launched it in the direction of the gunman who had regained some composure.

“Kill the sonuvabitch, you stupid muthafucker,” the shout came screeching from the corner. The cowboy ducked the oncoming chair and fired, taking out the corner pocket in a shower of felt and wood. Fending the chair off with his left arm, his left eye blinded by blood and swelling, he shot again. This time the bullet penetrated Harrison’s Levi’s and the fleshy part of his thigh. He thought he was going down, but the leg stayed strong and held up under him. He charged, head-butting the big man and grabbing the gun. They spun and Harrison’s fingers found the trigger slot. He shoved in a bloody digit over the other man’s, pointed, and squeezed.

The grease ball in the corner stood, dropping the girl to the floor, and stepped into the light. “You dumb . . .” he began, before leaning on the pool table in full view. He was a slight man glittering with gold chains and rings too big for his fingers. His face was pale and pockmarked. A tattoo crept up his neck, over his collar, and between the lapels of the shiny leather trench coat, a red wave began to cover his white satin pocket.

“If you can’t kill him, I will,” he said, reaching into his waistband for the stainless steel 25 caliber automatic while Harrison and the rancher struggled. Pulling it free from behind his belt he released the safety and aimed. Harrison rocked the rancher and the bullet entered his chest. “That’s okay,” the slimeball said, leaning heavily on one arm. “I wanted him out of the way, so I could take my time with you.”

His silver blue eyes glared at Harrison as if he were the dessert after a helluva good meal. As the rancher fell, the slimeball aimed again. Harrison grabbed the heavy automatic with both hands and unloaded the last two rounds into the slicker. The heavier load slapped the already dying body away from the pool table and into the darkness beyond. He heard the body crash against the wall and slide into the debris on the deck.

Harrison pulled free of the cold hand holding the auto and fell to the side of the table, gasping with fear, adrenaline, and fatigue. It was quiet for the first time. A handful of onlookers stood paralyzed against the walls. He glanced around, looking for more assailants. Seeing none, he quickly pulled himself to the other side of the table to check on the sobbing girl. She was tucked in a ball, her face buried in her hands. He lifted her gently, “Are you all right?” he asked.

Raising her face into the light, even with the streaks of tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, her beauty was breathtaking. The pain in Harrison’s leg disappeared as her deep blue eyes met his. His hand melted against her young waist as a hint of a smile crossed her face.

“Thank you . . .,” she murmured. Harrison’s heart swelled as her scent filled his nostrils. As he reached across her middle his forearm brushed the points of her breasts and he sensed their soft fullness. Turning her toward him, she smiled again, only this time with a sly hint of larceny.

” . . . for nothing,” she said as she plunged a stainless dagger under his ribs, slicing the arteries beneath his heart.

Up here in the great northland known as Minnesota, we know it’s time to fire up the beast when the Donnie Smith/American Thunder Motorcycle Show and Swap Meet comes around. For the third year in a row it was held at the Xcel Energy Center home to the Minnesota Wild hockey team. I only mention that because my buddy Willy got the coach’s autograph/picture at the show. It wasn’t hard to pick him out, as three-piece suits tend to stand out among as bunch of beer swigging bikers.

The swap meet had its usual club representation and the dirty bins of old parts. Nothing special, I guess I wasn’t on the search of any specific component.The highlight of the day was getting an autographed poster from Dave Perewitz of his new Discovery bike. It’s a right side drive, 124-inch motor with a cool swingarm, red with Perewitz flames. It took 900 hours to build. It doesn’t look comfortable to ride, but who am I to say. He rode it from the East coast of Florida to Dallas.

I like rigids. My favorite show bike was an evil rigid, raked and stretched, rattle-can flat black with shiny black flames. Cool

The night before, Willy and I had a chance to hang out at the hospitality gathering at Whisky Junction (A local biker hangout) and ask Donnie and Dave a few questions. I got to tell you, it was pretty cool getting a chance to congratulate Dave on his recent induction into the national hall of fame, and awarded the VQ fabricated bike builder of the year. We chatted about some of the bikes he’s built for NASCAR celebrities. It turned out that his tattoo artist is mine as well. We talked about the Discovery Ride and he offered a terrific perspective. It’s not really about the competition, but furthering the biker cause. Dave, my hats of to you and all you do. I agree. By the way, Bandit, Dave was looking for you.

I spoke to Donnie Smith as well. He was excited about the success of the bike show. It has grown from 70 or so bikes entrants three years ago to about 170 today. Business was brisk for Donnie and he was pumped. He also built a sharp blue chopper for the Discovery Ride. His thoughts of the current up and coming bike builders included, ” Young builders need to have stamina. You’re not going to be millionaires tomorrow, but stick it out.” On his current projects he would only say, “a super secret project bike.” I am sure it will be sharp.

I did learn two lessons this weekend:

1. Keep a cooler in your trunk, park in the garage next to the building for 10 bucks and drink your beer in the parking lot. It paid for my parking.

2. Do not try to install ape hangers the weekend of big show. All the local shops were out of brake line fittings.

Until the next ride,Have a drink on me,–Troy (Rigid) Toensing

Bikernet correspondent Troy or Rigid.

As usual when I visit my 78-year-old mom, she slips me clippings of stories she reads about motorcycles. As she slid this one onto the desk, I noticed that it was the same one Earl McNeely sent me from federal prison in Texas. When I was in Vietnam, my mom sent me clippings about guys who were wiped out on motorcycles. Of course that was to push her feelings on helmets. Years later, she gave up on helmets and fought along side of me in the name of freedom, at least intellectually.

On one recent afternoon, she gave me an article fromThe Los Angeles Times about a guy named Harold Benich, who turned his Softail into a soybean-burning bastard. When I first read the short piece and studied the photograph, I got the impression that he had altered anEvo engine to make it run on diesel fuel, but that wasn’t thecase. He had replaced the Evo engine with a small displacement dieselturned sideways in the frame. According to the National BiodieselBoard in Jefferson City, Mo., it is the first diesel-poweredmotorcycle in the country to run.

I gave Harold a call and found out that soybean oil iscombustible at 300 degrees, which makes it very user friendly. Standarddiesel fuel is combustible at 150 degrees, although there is asubstantial difference in the flash point. “If diesel oil prices gotoo high, the trucking industry could turn to soybean fuel,” Haroldexplained. He gets 100 miles to the gallon. Unfortunately, soybean oil is $2.50 a gallon, compared with $1.39 a gallon for gas in Pennsylvania. With diesel fuel prices cresting the 2-buck mark, soybean fuel could become an alternative.

According to the Biodiesel Board, trucks, cars and even planesrun on food oils. But the motorcycle crowd may be reluctant to playsince the installation of diesel motors in their bikes, as Harold hasdone, may reduce their ability to have kick-ass power. “Soldiersrode such bikes during the world wars to save fuel, but since thenthey’ve gone the way of the Edsel,” said Jenna Higgins, a spokeswomanfor the Biodiesel Board, a trade group that promotes food oils asgasoline alternatives.

The 21 HP Perkins Diesel pumps up to 35 horses!

The positive aspect of soybean fuel is its cleanliness, before and after it’s digested by a diesel engine. “You can eat this stuff,” Harold said. “Cleanup consists of a little water on a rag. It’s wonderful.” Soybean oil is consistent and readily available. “When others speak of alternativefuels, they are often referring to waste vegetable oils. These oilsare not consistent and should be used in home furnaces whereconditions don’t change,” Harold explained. “Soybean is pure, can bepurchased in 5-gallon buckets or tanker trucks full. Some waste oilscontain animal fat, peanut oil or even canola oil. Just depends onthe quality of oil a restaurant pays for.”

Another garage-inventor, Hugh Gerhardt of Holland, Mich., is working on a custom bike that will take a rider from Corpus Christi, Texas, to San Diego, Calif., on a 12-gallon tank of soybean oil.

According to Jeffery Bair of The Associated Press, “Harold’sbike gets 100 mpg, roars like a jackhammer and smells like a freshbatch of McDonalds fries.”

Harold used $15,000 in H-D parts and an engine he rescuedfrom a construction site. “People wonder whether I have come to mowthe lawn,” he said. “It doesn’t accelerate like a stock H-D, andcosts a third more to run currently (4 cents a mile compared with3 cents a mile for the stock bike), but the fuel won’t catch fire andit runs so clean even the fish will eat this stuff. It’s also readilyavailable. Currently, due to the influx of foreign oils, farmers arepaid not to grow crops of soy. If demand grew, the likelihood ofreduced production costs are great and the price would drop, makingit even more competitive with fossil fuels.”

Using food oils for fuel is not a new concept, according to the AP story. “Inventor Rudolph Diesel ran the first diesel engines on peanut oilin the 1890s, and Erwin Rommel, the crafty German general, putcooking oil in tanks when they ran out of gas in the Sahara Desertduring World War II.”

Some vehicles combine food oils and standard fuels, accordingto a fuel salesman, but Harold wanted to go where few had gonebefore. He attempted to make the standard aircleaner cover concealhis sideways engine. It works until he fires that sucker up. “Some guys just thought it was a Softail, until I start it.”

Harold grew up in the Great Lakes Region near Erie,Penn. “I started riding with a Harley Sprint when I was 14.”Although his wife thinks he’s nuts, they’ve stayed hitched for 11years. “We live five miles from Albion, which is a town of 2,500.We’re in the sticks. My neighbor thinks I’m building a space shuttlein my garage.” Harold worked for Detroit Diesel for 14 years beforejoining the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections’ VehicleRestoration Department. “We have 60,000 square feet and it’s packedwith vehicles to tinker with.”

Harold suffers from rider’s block (snow) from October untilearly April. “We still have snow on the ground fromHalloween, when it started. This year we had record count. Currentlywe’re up to 180 inches of snow for the season. I bought a ’92 Fatboyand was riding it when my neighbor suggested, ‘Your next bike willhave to be diesel.'”

Harold started thinkin’ and the snow started falling and thenext thing he knew he was buying a 2000 frame, transmission, frontend and controls. “The bike is Bozo-proof,” Harold said. “It operatesjust like a stock bike, no strange controls, levers or switches.”

Harold started playing with alternative fuels a decade ago. “I had adiesel generator that ran on soybean oil. I was generating my ownelectricity for nothing.”

There’s the story of Harold, a brother, an inventor and a manconcerned about the country’s fuel problems. We’ll keep in touch with him and see where he goes with this. Wonder if he can make whiskey…

–Bandit

Biketoberfest shot from Roque.

Biketoberfest is a wrap, and we have the story thanks mostly to Rogue our Florida imbedded moto-journalist for over 30 years. We’re hitting the news hard this morning. We made a pre-dawn run to the Sacred Grounds for a pot of 92 Octane coffee. We dropped the blonde off on her favorite street corner and picked up parts for the Shrunken FXR.

We’re busting our asses on a killer tech that should roll onto the site before the end of the weekend. Then we’ll kick back with a shot of Whiskey and read holiday fiction that will curl the toes of your boots, cause you to sit on the edge of your barstool and keep an eye on the exit sign for a month.

Let’s get to the news:

Photo from Rogue.

BIKETOBERFEST ROLLS INTO THE SUNSET–DAYTONA BEACH — Chalk it up to crisp, fine weather or the mechanics of chance, but bikers lingered Sunday, bringing Biketoberfest to a slow close.Daytona Beach’s Main Street was packed this weekend as Biketoberfest 2003 enjoyed four days of mild temperatures and clear skies.

Few vendors, bar owners or hoteliers were complaining.At 5:30 in the evening, Main Street clothing stores were packed with last-day deal seekers, and the sidewalks were brimming.

“We had a lot more foot traffic than last year,” said Chicago resident Matt Norskoy, who was selling T-shirts under a tent at Oleander and Main.

At the Full Moon Saloon, where turkey drumsticks were still moving and beer tubs still “womanned,” executive Brian Romain said he had hoped to attract a younger crowd this year — and did.Romain, whose company also owns Dirty Harry’s across the street, brought in 12 bands for a broad mix of music. Though decibel meters had to be used all weekend to keep the volume within the city’s noise limits, the strategy attracted “a lot of younger riders on crotch rockets” in addition to the Harley-Davidson crowd.

Down south in Samsula, the band played on at Sopotnick’s Cabbage Patch Bar, where both the patrons and bikes tended to have more miles on them.

Scott Hall, the pianist for the Massachusetts-based Drunk Stuntmen, said during a break that the band had loved Biketoberfest, as usual, but were wiped out after four straight nights.”And sick of beer, and sick of weed,” he added, before being collected by fellow band members to go on a helicopter ride over Samsula.

“Business is possibly bigger than last year,” said Cabbage Patch owner Ron Luznar, walking barefoot through the tent city around the bar.

His friend One-Eyed Red, meanwhile, sat at the bar’s front door, enjoying the cool air and showing off copper roses he’d sculpted. Inside the bar was a realistic, if enormous, cabbage he’d fashioned from motorcycle fenders as a gift to Luznar.

Red said he thought the bike-week events could benefit from a stronger artistic presence in addition to the T-shirts. And that the crowd on Main Street in Daytona Beach was a little too green and rich for his taste.

The richer ones did fill the Adam’s Mark hotel to capacity — including the presidential suite with its grand piano, jumbo Jacuzzi and views from river to sea.

As for the size of the crowd overall, event organizers could only guess, but said it looked close to last year’s estimated 100,000 — despite the recent Harley-Davidson centennial in Milwaukee, which some feared would steal thunder from Biketoberfest.

–By VIRGINIA SMITH
Staff Writer, Daytona News Journal

–from Rogue

ALL NEW PAUGHCO WEBSITE–If you need old school frames, narrow or wide springer front ends, or parts for Pans and Knuckles, check the Paughco site. They are rocking with tradition. In fact, if you read our latest East Bay history, in the Cantina, the Paughco family was there in the beginning. Check it out.

Shot from Jill Z.

BIKERNET STUDY, FEMALE HORMONES IN BEER– Yesterday, scientists for Health Canada suggested that men should take alook at their beer consumption, considering the results of a recent analysis that revealed the presence of female hormonesin beer. The theory is that drinking beer makes men turn into women.

To test the finding, 100 men were fed 6 pintsof beer each. It was then observed that 100% of the men gained weight, talked excessively without making sense, becameoverly emotional, couldn’t drive, failed to think rationally, argued over nothing and refused to apologize when wrong. Nofurther testing is planned.

–from Chris T.

WOMEN IN THE WIND — When Jennifer Chaffin climbed off the back of her husband’s motorcycle and onto one of her own, she had no way of knowing how many women she would influence.

Now, 20 years later, the Edgewater grandmother joins women from across the country in celebrating a defining moment in their lives, when they take control of their destinies and move from the back of a motorcycle as members of Leather and Lace Women’s Motorcycle Club.

“I have completed my goal,” Chaffin said. “Giving women the freedom to ride a Harley.”

And that’s exactly what she’s doing with her “sisters” during Biketoberfest.Chaffin is the founder and president of the Edgewater-based club, which has about 200 members nationally. The sisters — as they call themselves — are tall and short, thin and hefty, tattooed and not, boisterous and shy. What they have in common is a twin-angel symbol of Lace they wear on their back, a feminine bond that stretches across the miles, and a fierce independence.

These women may ride next to their men on occasion, but they are individuals willing to stand up for themselves and each other, Chaffin said. They are not going to ride in the back of the pack and make the potato salad, she added.

But this respect did not come easily.”We started this because the men said we could not ride on our own,” club member Kat Shaw of Melbourne said, talking about the attitude some male motorcycle club members showed toward women riding on their own. “They would cut off our patches with knives.”

Lace members were not the first women to take the handlebars. Women have been riding since these two-wheeled steeds were invented.

Effie Hotchkiss rode from New York to San Francisco and back — her mother in a sidecar alongside — in 1915. And Dot Robinson started the Motor Maids in 1930s, the oldest women’s motorcycle organization in North America.

According to a 1998 survey by the Motorcycle Industry Council, a California-based industry trade group, 8.1 percent of motorcycle owners and 17 percent of operators are female.

The 1998 study also showed the median age of women riders is 38.5 years; they have a median income of $52,730 annually; most work in professional or managerial jobs and more hold college or post-college degrees than their male counterparts.

Harley-Davidson’s 2002 buyer demographics show 9 percent of its customers are women.

Genevieve Schmidt, editor of Woman Rider Magazine, said women are the fastest growing segment of the motorcycle market, an explosion that started in the mid-1990s.”Women came into their own in our society, such as owning their own businesses,” she said. “Motorcycles are a way of expressing their self-confidence and self-esteem. Women are also seeing more women on bikes and saying to themselves, ‘If she can do that, so can I.’ “

–By MARK I. JOHNSON
Staff Writer, Daytona News Journal

–from Rogue

HORSE PROJECT EGO–We would love to see Geno’s new chopper, but he only sent a shot of his tank with the HORSE magazine partner’s name pinstriped onto the top. So what about the rest of the flaming machine? What gives? Suppose we must run out and steal the next issue off the newsstand? We’re waiting for answers.

BIKERNET HALLOWEEN PARTY– A couple were invited to a swanky family masked fancy dress Halloweenparty. The wife got a terrible headache and told her husband togo tothe party alone. He, being a devoted husband, protested, but she argued and said she was going to take some aspirin and go to bed and there was no need for his good time to be spoiled by not going.

So he took his costume and away he went. The wife, aftersleeping soundly for about an hour, woke without pain and as itwas still early, decided to go to the party. As her husband didn’t know what her costume was, she thought she would have some fun by watching her husband to see how he acted when she was not with him.

So she joined the party and soon spotted her husband in his costume, cavorting around on the dance floor, dancing with every nice “chick” he could and copping a little feel here and a little kiss there.

His wife went up to him and being a rather seductive babe herself, he left hisnew partner high and dry and devoted his time to her. She let him go as far as he wished, naturally, since he was her husband.After more drinks he finally he whispered a little proposition in herear and she agreed, so off they went to one of the cars and hadpassionate intercourse in the back seat.

Just before unmasking atmidnight, she slipped away and went home and put the costume away andgot into bed, wondering what kind of explanation he would make up forhis outrageous behavior. She was sitting up reading when he came in, so she asked what kind of time he had.

“Oh, the same old thing. You know I never have a good time when you’renot there.”

Then she asked,”Did you dance much?”

He replied, “I’ll tell you, I never even danced one dance. When I got there, I met Pete, Bill Brown and some other guys, so we wentinto the spare room and played poker all evening.”

“You must have looked really silly wearing that costume playing pokerall night!” she said with unashamed sarcasm.

To which the husband replied, “Actually, I gave my costume toyour Dad, apparently he had the time of his life.”

–Rogue

Old shot from Bob T.

COPS ROLL INTO BIKETOBERFEST– “Thefts of motorcycles is our biggest issue during Biktoberfest,” said Detective Mark Cheatham. “We use the bicycles because we have better mobility to get around the crowds. It’s much easier than cruising around in a car.”

The three detectives and two bicycle unit officers who make up the Biketoberfest detail said they mainly weave in and out on their mountain bikes among the pedestrians that clog the sidewalks. Their main objective is watching for anyone who is acting furtively around a motorcycle.

“You can tell who’s acting funny around a bike,” Quartier said. “Most of these bikes are pretty expensive.”

The crowds were thick Friday on Ridgewood Avenue in front of the Highlander Restaurant just south of the Police Department. Dozens of white tents crammed the sidewalks as merchants hawked everything from motorcycle parts to leather halter tops. They contrasted sharply with the moving sea of black leather and chrome.

–By LYDA LONGA
Staff Writer, Daytona News Journal

–from Rogue

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