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Read More Entertainment, Flag Waving and False Patriotism: Bikernet’s “Telling it how it is” Report
By Bandit |
It’s been said in the past that the biker might be one of the last bastions of hope in defending our freedoms in America. Since the start of our grass-roots movement in the early 1970s, the American biker has proven a resolve and resiliency in doing battle with government agencies trying to regulate every aspect of our lifestyle. Of course, when this movement started, motorcycle registrations were hundreds of thousands less than what they are today. The motorcycle community was much smaller and inundated with veterans and progeny of the protest era. The motorcycle rights movement was alive and flourishing.
Today, it seems there is more attendance at poker runs and chili cook-offs than there is at legislative endeavors. Thousands show up for breast cancer rides or similar good causes, but only hundreds or less for freedom rallies or lobby efforts. Even more concerning is the abandonment of the watch-dog mentality that challenged every encroachment of our rights.
On November 15, 2015, something happened in Milwaukee that exemplified the surrender of the American bikers’ rights activist. A call went out urging riders to form a motorcycle welcome for the USS Milwaukee, coming to the port for its commissioning ceremony. The notice came from Rolling Thunder Chapter 2 in Milwaukee. Right at the top of the mass email was this:
NOTE: Absolutely NO WEAPONS allowed. Please leave at home or you will just need to stay home. THANKS! This is a directive from the U.S. Navy and Milwaukee County Parks.
My immediate response was, “by what authority are they using this directive?” I had an extended phone conversation with the chairman of the board of Rolling Thunder Chapter 2, and it was apparent he was going to honor the request of the Navy and Harbor Park for what he considered a good event honoring veterans. If you don’t see the problem with this way of thinking, you probably shouldn’t read any further because you won’t understand any of the reasons this is so wrong.
We’re facing an onslaught of anti-motorcycling sentiment from the government, law enforcement agencies and the media. Motorcycle profiling is at the top of the list of problems we’re dealing with. Bikers and veterans are considered a domestic threat by many agencies, including the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI. Is this the reason the Navy requested no weapons at the USS Milwaukee event? It’s not hard to fathom that such a request might be put forward, but what is absolutely mystifying is why such a request was agreed to. Defining bikers as a threat group and using our own resources to disarm our community is proving to be a successful tactic by the anti-biker, anti-gun advocates. It is not a trivial matter. Agreeing to give up or abandon a Constitutional right in order to attend an event like the commissioning of a naval ship is a disgrace and dishonors all the brave Americans who sacrificed for our freedoms.
Rights are like chastity: you cannot surrender just a little
The problem with agreeing to “not carry” is much deeper than first glance. Would such a request be made of any other group? Is it a coincidence that the Navy would single out bikers to make such a request? Right now, motorcycle club members are being considered domestic terrorists and should not be allowed to possess weapons. Don’t be misled by some in the biker rights movement who might claim this is a 2nd Amendment problem, not a bike issue. This is totally a motorcyclist profiling problem and ABATE should have issued an immediate press release condemning the fact that bikers were being asked to surrender their right to concealed or even open carry during the ceremony. Foolishly, some people I spoke to said they intended to covertly carry their weapon, thinking they were somehow getting one over on the authorities. That meant nothing and achieved nothing. The fact that no protest was made over the no-carry rule made the Navy, the Harbor Park or whoever issued the request the big winner.
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The biggest enemy of the Constitution is apathy!
Real patriotism is the defense of all of our rights and total refusal to relinquish any of them. These bikers, although thinking they were honoring a ship being commissioned, were really pawns being used to make the ceremony look pretty while at the same time agreeing to an invalid request. Equally disturbing is, after a careful reading of the email string, it appears an apparent request came from the Navy and/or Harbor Park authorities (I saw nothing official to substantiate that claim), but the mandate came from Rolling Thunder Chapter 2 in order to ensure a good participation by the apathetic riders who were out to have a good time while thinking they were being patriotic. The event was attended by riders from Rolling Thunder, two area H.O.G. chapters and ABATE of Wisconsin members. I can understand the lack of understanding coming from some of the riders, but the ABATE members should have been well aware of the problems with motorcycle profiling issues. Whatever happened to the mantra, Question Authority?
As I see it, we have inherited the rights we hold so sacred, without having had to fight for them. Does that make it easier to overlook asserting our rights when there is the prospect of doing something pleasurable? I think Thomas Paine described this very eloquently in December 1776 when he wrote these words in The Crisis: “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly.”
Unless we stand together, speak out and refuse to submit to illegal transgressions of our rights, we will lose even more of them. In the above referenced instance, I cannot blame the Navy or Harbor Park for presumably issuing a request to leave weapons at home. The blame falls squarely on the shoulders of the Rolling Thunder chapter leadership and the riders who blindly followed a request to participate in the disintegration of personal rights while others around the country are fighting to end this sort of discrimination.
Tony “Pan” Sanfelipo Co-founded of A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments of Wisconsin (ABATE) in 1974 and Bikers of Lessor Tolerance (BOLT) in 1992. In 2002, he was the first person inducted into the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum Freedom Fighters Hall of Fame.
ESCAPE TO THE COLORADO MOTORCYCLE EXPO
By Bandit |
Nothing better than old friends to help the winter disappear. When January closes out and the weather forces everyone inside, bikers look for any excuse to get out and party. The Colorado Motorcycle Expo is a terrific excuse. Like clockwork the CME is held the last weekend of January at the National Western Stock-show Complex.
For two days the facility is filled with steel horses, leather and chrome. Touted as the largest indoor motorcycle swap meet in the nation, it met the challenge. With approximately 200,000 square foot of space and 800 vendor spaces, all of them full, with action and bling.
Everyone has a specific reason for peeling to a swap meet. Small/Independent shops attend to make some money, and hold themselves over till riding weather and business picks up. Big shops need to get their names out and generate active leads. It will be bike-buying season soon. Builders bring their latest bikes to show off and hope to earn some bragging rights by taking home a trophy.
Shade tree mechanics scour the aisles for that special brand new innovation, or inspirational antique they need to launch their project closer to completion. Riders go to see old friends and make new ones. MCs meet for their winter get together and to maybe find a new prospect or two. Me, well I go for all of the above and to capture the essence of the event and bring it to you. Whatever your reason, the CME is a great show.
This year I meet up with some great vendors and quizzed them about their experience. My old friend Johnnie from J10 Leathers couldn’t keep his display full. Every time I stopped by he had a handful of customers looking at his biker wallets and other fine leather work. He said it was a great show, and thanks to the great attendance he will be back. I couldn’t even get close enough to his table to grab a photo.
Arlin and Donna Fatland of 2-Wheelers kicked off their 45th anniversary at the show. Old friends of Bikernet we wished them the best and congratulated them on achieving such an amazing milestone. They were working the crowd and visiting with everyone who came by their booth. Arlin has rolled with the custom world through thick and thin. Donna and Arlin also have shops in Daytona during Bike Week and on Main in Sturgis during the rally. Their shops are full of quirkiest shit on the planet. You can’t miss them.
Diesel Life and Greasy Bikers were on hand selling their sweet t-shirts and accessories. Both gave the same reviews as J10. Diesel Life even made some contacts for getting her line into some local stores. When your a start up company every little bit helps.
Wicked Influence sold their excess parts and Frank had a constant massive smile on his face. When I asked how he was doing he said, “Bills are paid in full for the month!” You can’t beat that.
Almost anything you could want in the way of motorcycle parts or accessories could be found. This is what a swap meet should be like. Watching one vendor, I caught him opening new tour-pak boxes and displaying them on his table. In a few minutes they were sold and he unwrapped some more. Chatting with him later he said he had to send his wife home to load more tour-paks. He sold out. That’s the perfect problem to have.
As the day rolled on the crowds stayed strong. At one time I even had trouble walking through the isles. But at about 3:30 the crowds thinned out as everyone made a b-line for the stadium. Jack Portice was on the loud speaker calling all able body bikers to come and enjoy the wet t-shirt contest. After its hiatuses for a year, it was back by popular demand. This year the girls did not disappoint.
Wherever you may live I am sure sometime during the year you will face a local swap meet. It may not be as big as the CME, but it’s always good time. Grab some buddies and go. If you can make it to Colorado at the end of January come down to the stock-show complex and join in some of the fun.
Eulogy for Dale Sheppard
By Bandit |
Dale Shepard died recently (November 16th). His passing was unexpected.
For those unfortunate enough not to have known him, Dale was the man who owned Biker Dale’s Bike Shop in Groves Texas where I replaced Betsy’s engine only weeks ago.
It was at the Galveston Motorcycle Rally last weekend that Dale ate two bad oysters. For whatever reason, these caused an infection in his blood that somehow complicated an already existing medical condition. It was one of those times when something that should not have killed a man did. I’ve seen this before. I have also seen men survive things that should have killed them 10 times over. Go figure. Some say that when your number’s up, it’s just up and nothing can change it. So it would seem.
When a man dies those who knew him often get to saying a lot of nice things—even if the guy was a complete asshole. I have no intentions of doing that here and will only talk about the man as I did when he was still alive.
Until the end Dale dedicated his life to the motorcycle. Although grumpy at times, he had one of the biggest hearts of anyone I’ve known. He was a biker through and through. He was my friend.
It was a sunny day the first time I met Dale. After being turned away at two other shops, I’d pulled into his yard with my clutch problem to ask if it’d be okay to pull my bike apart in his lot. Of course I’d buy any needed parts from him. I also secretly hoped to barrow any special tools I might need, and maybe get a little technical advice too. I was on the road with a mechanical problem, not too much money (as usual), and nowhere else to turn. So I looked hopefully at this stranger as he said, “Let me ride it.”. This seemed an unusual request but, with little choice anyway, I said, “It’s not locked.”
So I watched all the possessions I own in this world ride off with a man I’d first laid eyes on only moments before. When 10 minutes had passed, and to my surprise, Dale walked out of his shop and told me to come inside. There, sitting on his personal lift, Betsy was already strapped in and jacked up. Without my knowledge Dale had brought her in through the back door. “You can work on it there,” he offered, “That’s my tool box,” one hand pointed to a huge roll away, “Use those tools and ask if there’s anything you need.”
When evening came and Betsy was still on that rack (where she’d remain for an entire month), Dale offered me the shop’s back room or “guard shack” to stay in. For transportation Dale gave me one of his own bikes and often loaned me the shop truck. To date no one had been able to diagnose my clutch problem, but Dale determined it was inside the transmission itself. I located another trany and began the shipping process. During this particular stay I worked sporadically on the shop’s customer bikes, painted the ceiling, and installed a little water heater. In the end Dale charged me only for the small parts I bought; and even then it was at his cost. But by then we’d become friends.
I later learned Dale was building a motorcycle around the broken—now fixed—transmission I’d left behind. Since my ability to run down inexpensive used parts was sometimes better than his, he’d occasionally call to hit me up for something needed on this new bike build and I always found it for him. First it was a clutch; then came other parts too. Very weakly that cheap fuck would ask what he owed me, but I never let him pay a single dime.
My good fortune here was not exclusive. This is another example: Dale’s birthday party was held at the shop every year with a big BBQ and beer fest. Having ridden the 100 miles from Houston to be in attendance, Chadd’s Shovelhead blew an engine not far from the shop. After Dale picked the bike up, Chadd threw it on one of the lifts and soon learned that the front cylinder had suffered an internal meltdown. When time came to leave, Dale gave Chadd one of his own FXRs for the ride home. Although I don’t know how that story ended, I do know that, although acting like this may not always have been the best for business, it was definitely the best for creating close, long lasting friendships and Dale was an extremely wealthy man in that arena. To my surprise, this kind of generosity did not seem to hinder business much for whenever I made return visits to the shop the place had always been expanded. Wanting for the ability to do complete engine work, Dale was recently putting together a machine shop in one of the shop’s adjacent bays.
With a standing invitation to use of a complete shop to see to the needs of ANY problem Betsy might develop, I returned many times over the years and, among so many others, have certainly spent my share of time in the guard shack. While there I was always given a lift and access to tools. Bryan, Dale’s sole employee and a Harley-Davidson mechanic of 30 some-odd years, would be busy working on customer bikes as I slaved over Betsy. Dale had a tendency to sit working at the computer in his little office. Now and then he’d come out all bitchy and gripe loudly at us over some tedious bullshit. I learned that this was just his nature and so I’d tell him, “It’s a good thing I’m here ’cause it gives you more to bitch about.” and he’d not argue. Next I’d tell him that if we did everything perfect he’d still make up shit to gripe about. To this he’d also agree. Other times he’d surprise me with sarcastic comical outbursts that seemed to come out of the blue. Sometimes I’d tell him of the parts or information I needed while he completely ignored me and simply went about his own business. Then Dale would surprise me again by quickly ordering the parts, finding them in the shop, or working out a solution to my problem. It was fucking amazing really.
Always, and especially on my last visit, Dale put many hours of his own time into getting my beat up old bike back on the road. I often wondered how he could afford this when there were so many real-customer money jobs that required his attention. And because of this I always did my best to pour time and effort into any project I was capable of handling for him. He accepted my offers quickly and with no regret.
Sometimes I’d ask how he made that motorcycle go so fast or pump him for other mechanical information (us gear-heads are always hungry to learn more) and he’d refuse to give a fucking answer. Other times that man would go out of his way to teach me something; as in the case of a customer’s chopper I recently worked on. This chopper needed the transmission reassembled and installed into the bike. It became pretty apparent that, although I might get the guts put back in that thing eventually, I really had no idea what the proper procedure for the job was. Seeing this, Dale told me to leave the fucking thing alone. Later, he came outside to get me and made me stand there watching as he put it together properly. Dale wanted me to learn and this was his way of giving a lesson. When he’d finished, I installed the trany, clutch, etc. and ultimately completed the job.
Whereas some shops usher customer bikes in and out as quickly as possible with only nominal thought or attention paid to detail, these guys were very good and very attentive mechanics who used their extensive knowledge and experience to do their absolute best at solving the customer’s problems. I was there. I saw. For them, this whole deal was an act of passion.
Another interesting thing is that Dale was extremely literate. He often complained about the terrible spelling and bad grammar of my writing (I carry only a fourth grade education) and sometimes helped to fix it.
As a young man of 20’ish, and long before the “new age” biker scene came to pass, it was men like Dale who’d originally attracted me to the biker culture. For not only did these guys share the same passion as I, but most extended a kind of real friendship I’d seldom seen before. But such men were not molded by that era, they seem instead to have been born that way. I believe, and so have seen, that they will always exist among us and it is to this day that I hold in high value the existence of people like Dale.
I have lived long enough to truly know that this world is only temporary. Every year some of those around me just keep popping out of here until the day arrives when it’ll finally be my turn. So it is that I seldom take the world too seriously anymore; for in the end we will all leave this place together and everything left behind will simply return to the dust. And once on the other side I’ll be among those many friends who gather at Dale’s table and talk of the times we shared together in this life.
So it’s not so much Dale’s death that bothers me. We’re all going there. It’s the fact that I’ll not be seeing him again for the duration of this life that puts an ache deep into my heart. And so I say…
“Goodbye my friend.”
Powwow of Native Iron American Heritage Motorcycle Party
By Bandit |
It’s never too late to party especially on the coat-tails of America’s Independence Day celebration, so when Deus ex Machina, L.A.’s popular gathering spot for bikes, surfboards and a great cup of java, threw a day-after-July 4th celebration of Motorcycles Made in the U.S.A., all flavors of red, white and blue bikes showed up. Plus plenty of burgers and hot dogs, cold brew and hot tunes served up by the San Diego band LowVolts.
Strategically located on the corner of Venice Blvd. and Lincoln Blvd., the Deus shop is easy to find and just a couple minutes from the Santa Monica Pier and beach. It throws bike parties with various themes twice monthly. Inside the shop several bikes were on display including a fire engine red Indian “on loan” from the prestigious Los Angeles Petersen Museum as well as a 1942 Big Tank Crocker, rare as dragon’s teeth, brought over by the new Crocker company.
As the event’s organizer Ryan summed it up, “Today we at Deus wanted to tie something in for the Fourth of July so it was the perfect opportunity to spotlight vintage American bikes… Harleys, Indians, Victory, Crocker…and everyone else is welcome, too. We’re all about two wheels and having fun.”
Ryan, in addition to being assistant manager at Deus, happens to be the apprentice for Deus ex Machina’s in-house bike builder Michael “Woolie” Woolaway who crafts one-off masterpieces of all shapes and forms. “What I love about it is working with your hands and stepping back at the end of the day and see what you’ve built.” Ryan also rode his very rare and iconic “Fatz Noriega” 1972 Iron 900 Iron Head Sportster, literally a time machine that he found in storage where it had sat in near mint condition since 1974.
Another of the highlights of the gathering was a trio of bikes brought by Scott Jones from his Santa Ana, CA shop Noise Cycles. One was freshly minted, orange and black 2009 Dyna powered by a 120R motor that he won in the bike builder contest at last year’s Born Free rally. The bike’s concept was to pay homage to Harley history circa 1920-1970 with parts from all those decades integrated into the build with a special nod to Scott’s favorite bike, the 1940s Harley WR. Another Noise Cycle’s bike looked like it’s wearing a welder’s mask for its fairing along with #5 racing plate. A third bike was a classic Panhead chopper with kind of a giraffe pattern paint job.
Says Scott when asked when he first starting making noise, he laughs and says, “Probably about nine years with a blog I started. About 2 ½ years ago it turned into a full-blown business. Fabrication is our specialty, a lot of ground up bikes, mostly Harley, but others as well. We also have a signature line of parts including handlebars.” Shortly Scott’s heading for Milwaukee for a bike movie premier and for Factory’s Knucklehead Reunion.
Many of the customs rallying up for the party were wrenched together by their owners with a little help from their friends, including a home brewed hardtail ’89 Sporty owned by Ed from the South Bay area featuring a multi-hued prism painted coffin gas tank, Paughco frame, six-over girder and a sticker that reads, “This Machine Kills Hipsters.” One of Ed’s buddies, Justin Dehaven aka “Uncle Jonzy” rode in with his buddies on his ’93 Evo, stretched out on 14-over girder forking by Franks. Justin makes custom seats under the banner High Noon Classics, several bikes at the party saddled up with his work.
Bikes rumbled in and out all day long enjoying the SoCal perfect riding weather and the chance to check out a wide range of custom bikes. They don’t call America the melting pot for nothing!
Expendables 3 – Sneak Peek
By Bandit |
Expendables 3 to be released August 15th, 2014
They are back and its a bang! This mission starts with the rescue of 8 year hellhole prisoner Wesley Snipes to be rescued off a military train transporting him to worse hell. If you think the fireworks and fighting in these first 10 minutes is spectacular – well this was just an errand while their primary mission is to stop an arms deal in Somalia.
All hell breaks loose and there is a thrilling “car” chase using military vehicles. The target is a surprise. A dead man from Stallone’s past is alive and well. Enter MEL GIBSON. He is mesmerising and totally a cool cat as the villain. He easily beats out the Expendables 2 villainous turn by Van Damme. Clearly Mel Gibson breathes the life into this sequel of the franchise.
Battered and out-gunned the Expendables chief calls it a day. He tells the guys that they are officially over. No more missions. The guys don’t take it very well but they have no choice.
Stallone meanwhile runs into his CIA Boss. No, no Bruce Willis this time. Enter Harrison Ford. He plays it cool as he did in his previous roles in Tom Clancy novel adaptations. He tells the old man Stallone to complete the mission. Stallone goes out to recruit new blood – young blood. Kelsey Grammar comes along as the HR Department for Stallone. Together they pack up a team of 4 young ones including a feisty MMA gal as their team. Arnold Schwarzenegger is the pilot.
Mission: Bring in Mel Gibson alive to be tried at the Hague as a War Criminal.
The jokes on Stallone as the young ones laugh at his plan. The gal says it best when she says, “It would be a great plan if it was 1985”.
The young ones use technology to control security and electric wiring and easily capture Mel alive and into a van for transport to Hague. He is wearing a GPS tracker and Stallone’s crew doesn’t get too far with their hot package. It is revealed that Mel Gibson is a founder member of Expendables who quit after “America eats its own babies” incident in one old mission.
Stallone survives the rocket into the van while others are captured alive as hostage and bait for Stallone and CIA.
Broken and defeated again, Stallone wants to go in all Rambo-commando all alone. Arnold tells him the truth – suicide. Antonio Banderas who was rejected earlier by the HR shows up in time and convinces Stallone to take him on the one-way trip to hell. It is known that Antonio Banderas is the sole surviving agent from the Benghazi massacre where no back up ever arrived.
The old crew of Stallone shows up – Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Wesley Snipes and Couture. Stallone is grateful and takes them on board. One way ticket indeed.
The 4 kids are strapped as bait in a brokedown city in a defunct nation. The entire building setup with C4 explosives. A normal team would have 90 seconds to get out. So Mel Gibson offers them 45 seconds to survive the blast. The young ones step in and jam the receivers from getting the blast signal. The defunct nation army therefore has to set loose upon these 9 Expendables.
What follows is an epic battle and gunfire. It is an education in weaponry and assault. If you thought you knew all about war and guns, here is something to jog the memory and add some more to your collection.
Harrison Ford really does want his target alive. He recruits Arnold and Jet Li to get to the target and support Stallone. Few know that Harrison Ford in real life is a registered rescue pilot and really does know how to handle a helicopter. He does well as the pilot while Arnold has his favourite big guns to blast holes into the heads of pawn soldiers of defunctistan.
An epic climax awaits with one on one unarmed combat between Mel Gibson and Stallone. The building blasted through shells of military Tanks is about to go up in the wired C4. The only way off is the roof and Ford collects them all except Stallone duking it out with Mel Gibson.
Well, the epic nail biting finish is picture perfect as the entire building goes down while Stallone runs up the roof and jumps to hang on to the chopper.
The Expendables are back home and safe and now a big team with average age dropping like extras in an action movie. Yes, the new young ones get their tattoo and even Antonio Banderas is an Expendable now.
Arnold however has not retired and instead poached off Jet Li who now works for him.
Thrilling and massive and spectacular. Watch it to believe it.
Partying, Fighting and Biking
By Bandit |
The common thread of the following books is a passion for motorcycles and adventure. Adventure can be found in riding great distances and crossing state and national borders and finding yourself. Adventure can be more localized and involve urban turf wars against other clubs and law enforcement agencies and finding yourself in jail or prison. What is it about the two wheeler that attracts the outsider, the weird, the loner and the misfit? Does the general dislike and mistrust of the motorcycle and its rider by normal society push the outsider into the motorcycle fold or do they naturally go there on their own? Is it a conscious decision or a process of elimination? Is it a fascination with the mechanical aspects of the machine itself? Is it an early imprint of a parent’s reaction to a loud machine on a child’s developing psyche? Is it a case of: My parents hate motorcycles therefore, to bother the shit out of them, I will like motorcycles? I don’t know. Maybe I just think too much.
Soul On Bikes The East Bay Dragons MC And The Black Biker Set – Tobie Gene Levingston- with Keith and Kent Zimmerman– A car clubber turned motorcycle clubbers life story. Starting in the fifties, Tobie relates the trials and tribulations of guiding a group of black Harley riders through the turbulent sixties and into the funky seventies and beyond. Soul relates the philosophies and insights of the founding member and president of The East Bay Dragons MC.
Publisher: Motorbooks.
Paperback: 272 pages. (Black and white and color pictures.)
Phil Cross Gypsy Joker to a Hells Angel by Phil and Meg Cross.
The life and times of Phil Cross. An attractive collection of black and white and color photographs interlaced with tales of fightin’, fuckin’and bikin’. The photographs really make this book interesting with tons of pics from the old days. Phil relates his life story from the streets of San Francisco to a spot on the FBI’s most wanted list.
Publisher: Motorbooks.
Hardcover: 240 pages.
Down and Out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu – Greg Frazier’s Round and Round and Round- the World Motorcycle Journey by Dr. Gregory Frasier.
Down and Out is a long and rambling narrative from Dr. (of Economics ) Gregory Frasier’s tales of his endless round the world motorcycle journey. Beginning with his recollections of riding in a push car as a one year old and ending with fond memories of bullying his only round the world passenger (who suffers from Parkinson’s) the weird Dr. Greg makes his way around the world in his own unique way; Self admittedly the hardest way possible. Plan ahead? Why? What fun would that be? The self-described ‘eccentric elitist’ relates his life story in clunky prose in chapter after chapter after chapter that made me not want to continue reading. But I did. It is full of color pictures of exotic lands captioned with an annoying cursive style print. If you enjoy reading about another’s misfortune and want to learn from his mistakes, grab Down And Out off the shelf. If not there are plenty of books out there that will offer advice about motorcycle touring.
Publisher: Motorbooks.
Hardcover: 224 pages.
The Essential Guide to Motorcycle Travel Second Edition Planning, Outfitting And Accessorizing by Dale Coyner
The title says it all. The Essential Guide To Motorcycle Travel guides you on the path to an excellent motorcycle journey. Dale Coyner starts out with three questions relevant to any journey: Where to? How long? How much? From the answers to those questions he proceeds to lay out how he plans his trips. Dale goes into gear for the rider and bike in great detail, keeping up with the newest developments in material and technology for the ride. Full of color photos of people, places and things related to the text and plenty of illustrations. Motorcycle Travel is a great book for touring pros and beginners alike.
Publisher: Whitehorse Press.
Paperback: 189 pages.
Hell On Wheels An Illustrated History Of Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs -Bill Hayes.
From the first organized motorcycle club in America in 1903 to the outlaw clubs formed in the forties and fifties to the televised saga of SAMCRO in the oughts Hell On Wheels is a comprehensive history of outlaw clubs worldwide. Packed with color and black and white pictures of outlaw bikers riding, partying and getting arrested. Bill Hayes does a good job of cramming a lot of facts into a readable format. There are plenty of movie posters, news clippings, police reports and memorabilia between the covers of Hell On Wheels. From Hollister to Altamont to Laughlin, Hayes chronicles the bad boys of the motorcycle world in one easy to read and easy to look at book of knowledge.
Publisher: Motorbooks.
Softcover: 192 pages.
(Photos from www.amazon.com)
What the Hell is 5-Ball Racing?
By Bandit |
It all started when my mother ran over my metal- flaked Honda 55 Super Cub with a single shotgun pipe. She stormed into our tiny stucco house in Long Beach and announced, “Get that damn thing out from under my car.” Her car was a massive ’59 Ford station wagon. It was 1964 and I was 15.5 years of age. That Honda was my first motorcycle.
Mom and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on a couple of issues. The day after I graduated from high school, I joined the Navy and was shipped to a heavy cruiser off the coast of Vietnam for three tours. I fell in love, and got married, to my mother’s chagrin (my loves have always played a major part, as you will see). During that time, I bought my first Harley, a ’69 kick-only XLCH with a magneto and no battery.
And so began a life of running wild, building motorcycles, ditching wives, and being involved in Bonneville racing. One of the first bikers I ever met was on a small destroyer, the USS Maddox. Andy Hanson was also building his first ground-up big twin in 1970, and his mentor was the late Bob George. Bob was an engine builder and an innovator. He taught me how to build engines. When I slipped away from the Vietnam War, honorably discharged, while dodging a pot-smuggling bust, I returned to civilian life. I was innocent, I tell ya.
They let me out early if I took a trade course, so I took a welding class at Long Beach City College, so I could rake frames. I took the certified welder course. Once clear of the Navy, I enrolled at the liberal arts campus at LBCC and started taking classes. I worked part time at US Choppers in Inglewood, and built engines and bikes on the side. One of the bikes, a Knucklehead, belonged to a high school buddy, Brad. As we were about to finish this wild chop, a new magazine appeared on the racks, Easyriders.
I wrote the publisher a note about Brad’s Knuckle and Lou Kimzey, the publisher, came to see it. The next thing you know, I was the manager of ABATE, the first grass routes organization fighting for motorcycling freedom in America. Then I became an associate editor of Easyriders magazine. Long story short, I worked for this publishing company off and on for 30 years and built a few bikes during that time. Okay, so during that stretch, I introduced Bob George to the Jammer Cycle bosses, Joe Teresi and Mil Blair.
Bob built a streamliner with two 90-inch Shovelhead engines and wanted to go after Don Vesco’s 314 mph motorcycle world land speed record (the granddaddy of records), but he needed financial backing. He couldn’t do it alone. It became the Jammer, then the Easyriders streamliner always piloted by Dave Campos. About this time, I ran off on my first wife and hooked up with a biker broad, who became the second Mrs. Ball and we had a son. That didn’t last long, either.
I became more of a crazed bike builder, joined a club, wrote more articles and hooked up with a club sweetie, the third Mrs. Ball. That was the era of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Nothing lasted more than a minute, and she was gone, but what a party we had.
Then in the mid ‘80s, I met the most beautiful redhead on the planet and fell in love. I ditched five girlfriends and married the fourth Mrs. Ball. About the same time, Joe Teresi took over the streamliner effort and Paisano Publications. Keith Ruxton became the engine builder/crew chief and Easyriders readers went after that world land speed record. In 1989, we set a major record at 284 mph, but that wasn’t good enough.
We returned in 1990 with Micah McCloskey, Dean Shawler, Kit Maria, and a solid bunch and brought the land speed record back to America at 321 mph. We held that record for 16 years, longer than any of my marriages, so number four was history.
I took a break and then met number five, Rebecca and so 5-Ball was born as a tribute to her and to all the Mrs. Balls in my life. I finally came to the dire conclusion: Marriages weren’t for me. There would only be five. I started writing motorcycle fiction books and they all fell under the 5-Ball brand. Then as the Internet fluttered to life, I started Bikernet.com, also a 5-Ball entity.
At the time, about the mid ‘90s I would build a motorcycle each year and test it on the roads to Sturgis, often with a bunch called the Hamsters. Then in 2006, we established the 5-Ball Racing Team and returned to Bub’s Bonneville with the first sport-bike Panhead based around John Reed’s V-Bike and Berry Wardlaw’s 120-inch Panhead engine. It was a pure fluke, but Valerie Thompson rode this monster into the record books at a top speed of 152 mph. I was standing on the salt the day the ER record was snatched by the Ack Attack streamliner, 16 years later (342 mph).
We learned so much that year that we decided to return in 2007 with another Panhead. This time, we built an aerodynamic bullet and our notion was to build the World’s Fastest Panhead. We did set another record in our class with a top speed of 162-mph during horrible salt conditions.
I pulled away from the magazine world, but continued to write wild fiction books, and then a Bonneville book around our second Panhead World Record, while building Bikernet.com. Hell, we didn’t know what we were doing. But we did know we were having the time of our lives, writing about motorcycles, building motorcycles, and living the two-wheeled dream.
I wasn’t much for trophies or organized sports. I liked to sit alone and write a story, or tinker in my shop. I didn’t ride with groups much, but enjoyed the open road alone, in search of the next redhead and bottle of whiskey. I’ve tried to live by the code of the west and always be available to a downed brother or sister. And I endeavor to help folks in the industry, and with Chris Callen we promote the Motorcycle Riders Foundation Industry Council.
So, a couple of years ago, a young man approached me and wanted to build an apparel line around Bikernet. I leaned back in my tattered leather chair and kicked my boots up on my Panhead desk. After a shot of Single-Barrel Jack the 5-Ball Racing brand was born. I told him there was no money in it, but Andrew Calogero persisted, while the 5-Ball team prepared for another run at the salt.
While we grappled with designing and building the first streamlined Belly Tank trike for Bonneville, I hooked up another positive element to the growing team, Bob Kay, a man who has lived and breathed the motorcycle business as long as I have. Andrew is the operations and sales arm (rolled 5-Ball apparel into the J&P catalog), while Bob designed a carefully thought-out line of leather goods, and suddenly we had a 5-Ball Racing line of riding leathers.
So, there you have it. We were just a handful of brothers and sisters living the chopper dream, snorting racing fuel, drinking whiskey and running amuck. This year, we hope to roll back to the salt with Ray Wheeler’s 124-inch, turbocharged, Hayabusa-suspended Twin Cam; the 5-Ball 1940 45 flathead with a K-model top end (featured in Cycle Source with an engine built by Departure Bike Works in Richmond, VA), and the JIMS Machine, Paughco, Lucky Devil, 5-Ball streamlined trike. Hang on, because there’s never a dull moment around Bikernet or the 5-Ball Racing headquarters.
Photos by Markus Cuff, Chris Callen, Scooter Grubb and…
Arizona HOG Rally 2012 Rocks Williams, Arizona
By Joshua Placa |
The annual Arizona HOG Rally recently returned to the historic mountain settlement of Williams. The event moved around the state from year to year, but Williams is a HOG favorite, having returned to this northern Arizona town for a record tenth time.
Founded in 1881 as a trapping and logging camp, Williams is named after one of the town’s wooly settlers, mountain man Bill Williams. Riding by its handmade brick and clapboard buildings, it’s easy to get the feeling Norman Rockwell might be hanging around, leaning up against an oily Flathead, waiting for the next staged western shootout, admiring the period architecture, maybe planting his easel on the corner of Third and Main, more popularly known as Route 66.
Roughly 500 HOG members representing 13 Chapters statewide rode into this well-preserved piece of old west Americana to suckle on the tar teat of the Mother Road. According to a spokeswoman for the Williams Chamber of Commerce, “I think HOG likes our small town hospitality, and bikers are very welcome here. They also like being on Historic Route 66, the motorcycle-only designated parking throughout downtown, and, of course, all the great rides. We roll out the red carpet and they pretty much have the run of the town.”
When many motorcycle rallies across the nation are finding their host cities less and less hospitable, Williams is a home away from home. The town is helpful and authentic; there is a laid back and intimate feel that makes a biker feel at ease. There is this creeping greed elsewhere, where enthusiasts are too often treated like nothing more than commercial revenue and traffic ticket fodder. This old boomtown, population 3,200, about 3 ½ hours northwest of Phoenix and 30-minutes west of Flagstaff, appears to understand motorcycling is made of people.
Williams was the last town in America to submit to the interstate bypass. It stubbornly fought the highway, relenting only when the feds agreed to provide no less than three exits to the tiny town. Seems like there’s no better place to hold a biker rally than this rebel outpost. Harley’s classically styled motorcycles couldn’t be more at home, or in a better place to ride away from.
The Grand Canyon is less than an hour’s ride north of town. Within one- to two-hour rides from Williams, which is flanked by the biggest ponderosa pine forest in the nation, is the perky college town of Flagstaff, spectacular Oak Creek Canyon, the red rock wonderlands of Sedona, and the old copper boomtown of Jerome. Further northeast is Monument Valley and the great Navajo Nation, the country’s largest Native American reservation. The haunting Petrified Forest and parts of the vast Painted Desert can be reached in less than three hours. If Williams has the will and facility, it has the makings to become another Sturgis.
At an elevation of 6,800, June in this mountain town offers almost ideal biker conditions. Temps were in the 80s with low humidity and a soft breeze that sometimes picked up to a bluster. The event celebrated Arizona’s centennial by giving away free bags of commemorative swag during the bike games. There was also a free poker walk, guided and self-guided tours, a poker run, bike show, street dance, and a stirring bike parade that could bring a tear to the most grizzled eye. Wild Bill Hickok himself would have felt right at home here, thrown down his bedroll, played a little faro, and maybe sought a more charmed end.
Bobcats, Bikers and Bears…
Oh my. There is an unexpected, 158-acre wildlife park just east of downtown Williams. Bikers are heartily welcomed, and if you go they may even make you an exhibit. Bearizona is a drive-through wild animal preserve, featuring not only black bears but arctic and tundra wolves, American bison, white buffalo, burros, bighorn sheep, mountain goats and Dall sheep.
Motorcycles are dissuaded from the wild animal drive-through portion since the inhabitants have a strictly controlled diet and don’t digest leather very well. A courtesy car and GPS audio tour is provided free of charge. The drive takes about 30 minutes, although there is no time limit.
The road leads to a posse of black bears of various cuddly sizes and ages, although we’re often reminded to not hug the fluffy, man-eating wildlife. Fort Bearizona looms as the road exits through a large, gaping gate, leaving us to wonder what, exactly, is keeping the bears from the nearby concession stands.
Inside the wide-open Fort Bearisona, large pens contain bobcat, lynx, raccoon, porcupines, a barn animal area, and other forest creatures indigenous to North America, including the star of the show, cute little baby bears. A Birds of Prey show is presented at 11, 1 and 3 p.m. daily and is a treat.
Bearizona is open everyday from 8:00 a.m.; last vehicle admitted at 6:00 p.m. Closing hours vary with season and weather. Adults cost $20; seniors 62 and older, $18. For more information, call 928-635-2289; visit www.bearizona.com.
The Arizona HOG Rally will be reconvene in Yuma next October 24-26. For more information, contact Nick Feldaverd, Rally Coordinator, email nfeld@cox.net; call 602.206.1940; www.azstatehogrally.com.
For more on Williams, AZ visit www.experiencewilliams.com.
Sleeping In
The Sheridan House Bed & Breakfast
460 East Sheridan Ave.
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-8991
www.sheridanhouseinn.com
I find when it comes to B&B’s, what they are not is as important as what they are. The Sheridan House Inn is not rife with Grandma’s fussy doilies and bric-a-brac. It strikes a balance between an inviting, come-and-have-fun vibe and serene environs snuggled in between the cool, towering pines. The suites offer a tidy, restful, minimalist décor. The luxury touches leaves one feeling pampered—unparalleled coziness of their pillows, and Elemis bath and body products that put their dewy kisses upon road and wind-weary tresses and parched skin.
Motorcyclists Claire and Nick Kirby are the vivacious proprietors. They seem to have been born to the task of cultivating an inn, but we were surprised to learn they’re new to the gig. The affable Kirbys hail from the U.K. and lucky for Williams, a post-9/11 officious bureaucracy didn’t thwart the pioneering spirit that landed them on the frontiers of northern Arizona. Their once run-down property is now resplendent in extensive renovations, artful taste, and fresh zeal under their ownership. The Brit visionaries have innovative ideas to further develop the grounds, and offer special packages to man and biker alike.
We arrived to what I can only describe as the “happiest” of happy hours, delightfully hosted by the Kirbys each Friday and Saturday. We saw a passel of buffed Harleys in the driveway, and knew it was time to put the keys away. With a toast to the Grand Canyon Brewing Co., our host’s delicious homemade chorizo nuggets, and the attending fellow riders, we pronounced Sheridan House our new hideout.
Breakfast on the patio is a selection of sweet and savory offerings made on premises. Their handmade, secret recipe Lincolnshire Sausages, a Lemon Chiffon confection, Sweetened Mascarpone Cheese with Fresh Berries and the regional Huevos Rancheros were outstanding.
Sheridan House puts you up into the quieter residential area, but just a quick ride down the hill into downtown and all the rally action. See their website and Facebook page for more details.
Dining Out
Considering the cut of our Baby Boomer relaxed jeans, it’s easy to see we have husky appetites. Here are a couple of places that won’t disappoint:
World Famous Rod’s Steakhouse
301 East Route 66
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-2671
www.rods-steakhouse.com
Rod’s Steakhouse is an icon, a surviving monument to Historic Route 66. The blazing Hereford cow sign is a beacon to the lost and hungry.
As you dip another shrimp in cocktail sauce, take in all the country kitsch—dishware accented by the sturdy bovine, paper cow cookie-cutter logo menu, and tell-all placemat detailing the rich history of the eatery. For the duration of the rally and maybe beyond, staffers dress in H-D regalia. No surprise the owners have been HOG affiliated for more than 20 years.
The present owners are Lawrence and Stella Sanchez. The missus has a warm smile for the customers and puts her love into the house specialties, such as Pasole, a nurturing elixir of exquisitely spiced pork and hominy soup. Her husband rose through the ranks in true American dream fashion, from dishwasher, busboy, manager, head chef, then new proprietor. A Sanchez is always on property to accommodate the needs of their guests.
The concise menu is heavy on the beef offerings with chicken, fish, and shrimp options. Appetizers and sides round out the menu, and the Cherry Pie makes for a nice finish. Their steaks are best-cut top sirloin, and their mesquite broiler imparts a really nice flavor. Cut options will fit the daintiest to manliest appetites. We enjoyed the thick and juicy Filet Mignon ($27) and the Ladies Lite Cut Prime Rib Au Jus ($21). Entrees come with Soup or Salad, Baked Potato, Fries, or Green Beans, and Rolls w/ Butter. The meat was fork tender and beautifully cooked to order.
See their website for photos, souvenirs, detailed history, cuisine offerings, and more.
Grand Canyon Brewing Co. & Cruisers Café 66
233 West Route 66
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-2168 (Brewery)
928-635-2445 (Café)
www.grandcanyonbrewery.com
www.cruisers66.com
Brew crafters aspire to achieve beer’s ideal “taste and balance.” Strangely enough, those two qualities are lost on heavily imbibing consumers, who then not only ruin a beautiful brew, but maybe their future if they get back on their bikes. Beer is a terrible thing to waste, especially if it’s from Grand Canyon Brewing.
The beer menu changes with the availability of harvest time ingredients, but often there are pilsners, pale ales, wheats, stouts and seasonal brews in the rotation. Beer aficionados are watching this tasty microbrewery with great interest, and expansion appears on tap. A Grand Canyon beer may be coming to a bar or restaurant near you.
Attached to the brewery is 1950s’ theme Cruisers Café 66, hard to miss from the street with its elevated hotrod, Marlon Brando mural, and beer girls barely in bikinis. The restaurant has an outdoor patio and stage, and seems to be the hub for rally revelers. The girls pop tops while musicians rock and wail. This is an ideal spot to people watch, dance, and enjoy the American café-style cuisine. Portions are ample and provide that Mother Road burger, barbecue chicken, and old-fashioned, strangely satisfying Chicken Fried Steak goodness.
A full cocktail bar, four HD flat screens, gift shop, and nostalgia decor comprise this venue. The fruits of the on-property brewery are on draft.
Scooter Tramp Scotty Escapes the Winter to the Keys
By Scooter Tramp Scotty |
Author’s note:
This event took place sometime in the mid, or maybe late, ’90s I think. To date (2009) I still maintain no permanent address and have stayed nowhere longer than two months.
* * *
The motorcycle rally in Daytona, Florida had been a good time but it was over now. It was still early March which, as anyone knows, is much too early a season for riding a bike into the north. The money in my pocket was running dangerously low ($230) and my high mileage FLT (full dress Harley Davidson) had a multitude of mechanical problems in need of attention very soon. Knowing almost no one in the Sunshine State I decided to just enjoy a slow ride south and see what happened next.
If one visits either coast of Florida he will find himself mostly immersed in city traffic. The center of the state, however, offers an abundance of small towns and lush backcountry roads. The choice was obvious. In Florida, pine and palm trees often grow side by side in the thick forests that lined the small secondary highways I chose.
The winter had been long and cold for a man who lives outside and travels by motorcycle, and as the air grew warmer with each days ride south, so did my excitement and anticipation of the coming spring-time travels.
Eventually I arrived in alligator alley (many ’gators) and the seemingly endless swamplands of the southern Florida Everglades. Besides overpriced Airboat swamp tour rides, a modest roadside town offered a small gas station. There, a man told of a free campground located on the shore of a little ’gator filled lake only a mile from where we stood. I decided to check it out.
The dirt road that led to this isolated lake circled its sandy shores before turning back on itself. The friendly camp-host who greeted my arrival said to pick any spot, enjoy myself, and stop by his camper for coffee in the morning if I liked. I thanked him kindly then fired up the old Harley to circle the lake in search of a good camp-spot. Besides a few alligators, the campground was home to only a handful of RV and tent campers.
On the first pass I was stopped at a very large, primitive, and yet somehow elaborate camp to become quickly acquainted with a big family of hillbillies who told me (and I believed them) they were from the back woods of Arkansas. They numbered seven strong, and all agreed that I would have to stay as their honored guest.
Thirty-something was the approximate age of the oldest son—the obvious leader—and his word seemed as law among the rest of the family. Everything about this guy reminded me of Brad Pitt’s character as a trailer-trash psycho-killer in the movie “Kalifornia”. Nevertheless, they all treated me as family and cooked up a big dinner of steaks and freshly caught trout over their open fire in celebration of my visit. A strange sort of fame to be sure; but undeniably fun as well. I put up a tent against the mosquitoes that night and slept on the bank of the little ‘gator filled lake.
Next morning psycho boy took his mini truck and headed into town for supplies. The family remained behind. His wife was a woman crippled by a rare condition that promotes severe curvature of the spine. Although her mind was clear (well, sort of), her body was a torturous thing of obvious pain and disfigurement.
Before long she and Brad’s mom handed me their camera and asked if I’d take a few pictures of them perched on my bike. When the amateur photo shoot was over, I bent down to help the sweet natured, handicapped woman from the motorcycle seat. Just when I had her lifted a foot in the air the family mutt decided to move on this opportunity. So there I stood bent over my bike with a cripple in my arms and a dog latched onto my ass screaming like a woman in labor! Too bad no one got a picture of that.
When Brad returned, and with the promise of some great pictures, he asked me to move my bike to the waters edge. I did. He then produced a fishing pole and started casting a lead sinker at the noggin of an innocent alligator who was minding his own business way out in the lake. Once Brad had pissed the big lizard off sufficiently, he reeled the line in as the toothy beast followed his lour to the bank beside my bike. When the ’gator arrived, psycho boy began beating him with the pole while yelling, “Shoot the picture now!”
His mother’s voice quivered with obvious fear as she begged him to stop or at least be careful.
“Oh Maw,” Brad replied as the alligator snapped yet again at the pole he continued to beat it with, “it’s just an ol’ gator being a ’gator.”
What a fucking wing-nut.
Next morning my new friends cooked up a tasty breakfast for which they insisted I stay. But the little campground lay in the middle of nowhere and I was ready to move on. When the food was gone, I said goodbye then returned to the little highway and my slow ride across alligator alley.
The landmass of southern Florida rests atop a bed of ancient coral. This prehistoric coral bed extends beneath the oceans surface for many miles beyond the southern most coastline. The result is a chain of small coral based islands known as the Florida Keys. They extend beyond the southern shores of the mainland and are surrounded by a sea of exceptionally shallow water. It’s these shallow waters enabling 130 some-odd miles of bridges connecting this string of islands to be built.
Eventually I pulled onto Highway-1, which led south across these magnificent concrete structures. The mid-March air temperature was in the middle 80s, as I cast my gaze to the changing scenery all around. Aside from the shops and houses, the islands were made up mostly of thick forests under a clear blue sky. But the water…
Sweat ran from my brow as a carefree breeze blew me from island to island. To my left was the Atlantic and to the right the Gulf of Mexico. The seafloor lay just below the surface of the very shallow salt water contained a dark, military green vegetation. Still other areas were a white color where the bottom was only finely ground sand. From high atop the bridges, the water below just looked like a huge patchwork quilt that continued on forever. Smaller islands could be seen on both sides with an occasional boat thrown in, to break the monotony. With very few cares in the world to interrupt this experience, I rode on.
Hwy-1 ended at the exceptionally crowded island of Key West (90 nautical-miles from Cuba), and it was just after sunset as I entered the Tourist Info Center to pick up a free map and ask directions to the action. The sweet young receptionist sent me to Duval Street. This narrow street starts at the Gulf of Mexico and runs all the way to the Atlantic Ocean (about 2 miles). I was soon to learned their huge tourist trade is the mainstay of the Key West economy. Duval Street (lined with restaurants and dinner places, tittie bars and extravagant nightclubs offered live bands and dancing every night, coffee houses, and an array of T-shirt and other souvenir shops) is a major south Atlantic party zone/tourist trap.
The crowd was thick and live music poured into the street as I backed the FLT against the Duval Street curb and leaned her onto the kickstand. Before long a big guy pulled an old Superglide into the parking space beside mine and quickly struck up a conversation. Doc stated that he owned THE PIRATE’S DEN; the island’s only biker friendly tittie-bar. He invited me to stop by later for a complimentary lap dance. With a promise to show, I thanked him kindly before he rode off.
Not ten minutes later four drunken tourist chicks materialized from the Duval Street crowd to snatch me from the parked FLT’s pilot seat. After an hour of dancing they invited me for a dip in the Jacuzzi that bubbled among the thick foliage of tropical plants in the beautifully landscaped, yet very private, pool area of their luxury hotel.
It was late when I arrived at The Pirates Den. As closing time approached, Doc offered use of the bar’s side yard to make camp in if I liked. I did.
The first order of business on that sunny, tropical-island morning in Doc’s yard was food. After locating an inexpensive breakfast, I decided it wise to search out a more permanent home.
The small island of Key West was much too crowded for a traveling vagabond to successfully hide his camp. Obviously, the solution could only be found on one of the other islands. Boca Chica Key was two islands north and still only six miles from downtown Duval Street. With exception of a large military base, the land was mostly vacant. Shooting into the woods just off Hwy 1, a well hidden walking (or riding in my case) trail led to a beautiful clearing only a short distance in. The place was completely surrounded by pine, mangrove, palm, and other tropical trees. Perfect!
In the swamp 30-feet from my camp an old refrigerator lay on its back rusting. On the fourth day, I began to use the hollow compartment inside as a closet. The Key West locals just smile at the constant parade of “Tourons”, as some like to call them, and politely take their money. The great piles of gear bungee-corded to my bike had made it clear to everyone that I was a tourist. Time and again, the locals had greeted me with scant interest or even contempt. It’s just the way the island people are. The newfound ability to stash my gear at home helped to change their attitude toward me almost immediately.
After some negotiations I worked out a window cleaning trade with a local health club owner. That deal granted complete access to their facilities including weight room and hot showers.
The island was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.
I began to settle in. Being a stranger in a strange land, I’d come to this place alone and the constant festivity of Duval Street attracted me like a moth to flame.
I was down to 50 bucks.
It was a lazy afternoon as I sat drinking Java on the front porch of one Duval Street coffee shop. In casual conversation I mentioned my background as roofing contractor in a former life. A big family man named Scott (easy to remember) quickly told of a very bad leak that had been watering his bedroom for years. He said that no roofer (he’d hired many) had been able to fix it.
The next day I checked his leak then said, “It’s no problem Scott. I want $250 labor, plus materials which we haul over here in your car.”
“You got it,” he replied.
The job took only three hours and the garden hose test proved that the problem had been corrected. We were both happy guys.
Four days later my clutch cable broke. After calling around I ended up at ADVENTURE SCOOTER—a motorcycle and mostly scooter repair shop.
Many who live on tropical islands these days drive only scooters or even bicycles and Key West was no exception to this rule. The island is 2 x 4 miles across and there’s no road capable of allowing speeds in excess of 35mph here. The weather is almost always good. Roads are small and these mini bikes are compact, maneuverable, and squeeze easily through the sometimes heavy traffic. The tiny roads were littered with them.
Adventure Scooter was one of the local companies that rented these mini, munchkin machines to tourists. However, their repair shop was separate from the rental department, and the boys there were well equipped to handle motorcycles too. The manager was a Harley rider named John. There’s an unwritten law adhered to by all old-school bikers that insists one never leave another—even a perfect stranger—broken down alongside the road unless extenuating circumstances take unavoidable precedence. For many, this law is etched in blood upon the very walls of their hearts. John was no exception. Seeing my need he got the parts then agreed to let me wrench on my old battle-wagon in his shop.
When the dust finally settled, I handed him the cash, shook his hand and said, “I need a job John. You need a wrench?”
He looked me over thoughtfully for only a moment then said, “You might be in luck. I just lost a man last week. Seems like you know your way around machines well enough… Tell you what; be here Monday, 8 a.m. sharp. See you then.” It was Wednesday.
It’ll never cease to amaze me the way the road will take care of a man if he is willing. He need only walk through his fears of destitution (easier said than done), be prepared to exchange some of his pampers (luxuries) for real-life adventure, trust the Highway God unquestioningly, remain honest, and do his best.
There was nothing left to do but enjoy island life and wait.
Key West is a tough place to make a living and for insult-to-injury housing prices are astronomical as well (not much land). It’s for this reason that many of the locals live on boats. To moor a boat offshore costs nothing. Cast your gaze across the emerald green waters that gently pelt the sandy shoreline and you’ll see a small city of boats anchored there. Some are beautiful while others are rough; some are sinking or sunk in the chest deep water, and many are no more than pontoons with a wooden box built atop them that serves as house. If one’s not in the mood to row his dinghy to shore, there’s a water taxi that’ll take him to and from his ocean estate for a small fee. Many of the friends I made on the island were boat dwellers.
I settled in some more.
Scooters are simple mechanisms and I took to fixing the micro machines like fish to water. After the first week John gave me a raise.
The lead mechanic was a tall guy from North Carolina. Steve’s accent had never truly left and he remained a constant reminder that I was a very long way from where I’d begun. We took a fast liking to one another and on most weekends went bombing around town on scooters together. In the evenings we’d just hang out wherever or sometimes help to close the Duval Street bars.
Part of Steve’s job as lead mechanic was to maintain the Sea Doos for a local water-toy, rental company. On occasion we’d head for the dock, grab a couple of King Neptune’s crotch rockets and head for the open sea. Being the mechanics for these elaborate toys, we rode for free. For me this was a new experience. After getting over the apprehension of the first ride, I soon found that the overpowered mini-craft act more like a dirt bike than a boat. In this light, it took about ten minutes practice before I was bouncing across the tops of the large swells at a conservative full throttle with Steve in the background yelling, “Slow down you ungrateful fuck!”
Sometimes I’d stop and look across the emerald sea of huge rolling swells to the island shore beyond. There I could see the clowns, jugglers, acrobats, food vendors, and other assorted circus acts performed by a variety of freelance entertainers. Most of them come from the north to spend the winter entertaining the great crowds of tourists that gather on the shore in anticipation of the show at sunset.
Jeff worked in the Adventure Scooter rental department. He and best buddy Peter where hardcore sailors. They spent many hours on the water either racing or just enjoying the wind in their sails and I was always invited. The shallow sea seemed to go on forever as we’d cruise round the islands. Many times I saw dolphins’ jumping the ocean swells in their eternal search for food.
Every man has his own reality. You know his job, woman, friends, family, and home. The things he loves and things he only tolerates in his world. In this way a man’s life is forged of the people and objects around him. One of the strangest facets of a drifter’s life is that he has almost no permanent reality of his own. In my case the only things that remain familiar are my bike and body. Everything around these two staples is in a state of almost constant change. Life had become a perpetual visit into other people’s worlds. Looking across the bow of Jeff’s reality to the brilliant colors of the setting sun beyond, I wondered at the beauty of his world. What an interesting life.
My bike still needed work. After four weeks of collecting regular paychecks the parts John had ordered for me at a considerable discount finally showed up. I promptly put my FLT on the lift then quit my job. For the following week I came in everyday to wrench on my own bike. In the meantime, John lent me a scooter to get around on. At week’s end my Electra Glide was roadworthy again, and by Monday I’d been rehired back to spinning wrenches on mini-bikes.
It was 2 a.m. at my home in the Boca Chica mangrove jungle when I came awake to the blinding glare of a high output flashlight centered on the door of my tent. Then, in a tone commanding great authority, a voice boomed, “Island police. Step outside please.”
After unzipping the door I squinted into the blinding beam. A glance beyond the cop to the highway in the distance revealed the moonlit image of five patrol cars. Must’ve been 15 cops surrounding my little home. Looking flashlight man in the eye I said, “All this for little old me?”
It’s always the same with these guys. Being unsure if they’ve stumbled across an armed convict or something, they always start with a bad attitude. Then, after realizing my paperwork’s clean, I ain’t drunk or belligerent and in general am a sorta nice guy, they invariably mellow out. More often than not they just say goodnight and split. After all, sleeping alongside the road is not a felony. Generally, it isn’t even a big deal. In the case of these boys though, my camp was too close to their military base. I had ’a go.
As I slowly broke camp a few cops stood around holding flashlights on me and asking questions. Once they learned of my slightly eccentricity lifestyle the men got real curious. Then, at their insistent prodding, I told a few stories (not unlike the one I’m telling now) while sleepily rolling up camp. When finished, they compared me to an old Key West resident named Ernest Hemmingway. Very flattering. In the end they called me friend, shook my hand, and then threw me the fuck out. Very strange.
I’d lived in that clearing for six weeks.
I soon showed up on the porch of a doublewide trailer located on Stock Island just one mile to the south. A well built and dark haired, German girl opened the door and invited me inside. We’d been friends for over a month and had spent some time cruising the islands aboard my bike and talking. In a heavy accent Coral had told me that Germany is no place for a sun worshipper like her. Said she’d known she was born in the wrong place even as a little girl. At the age of 20, Carol had left Germany and had lived in many parts of the world since—always traveling alone. She spoke four languages fluently and was only 36 years old. I found her fascinating. But love had presented itself here on the islands, and along with it, Carol decided on a few college courses as well. She’d been settled here for over two years now. But graduation had come and gone some time ago, and the man had been in prison (I never asked) for almost as long. Carol was kind of in limbo.
Recently she’d offered me the use of a spare room at her place if I’d cared to use it. I hadn’t…till now. The tiny room was hot and stuffy. In recent years freedom and the wide-open outdoors had become my almost constant companion, and by now a room often felt as only a box. Four sides and a lid. Suffocating. I made camp in the yard.
Next day I became acquainted with my new housemate. Kelly was an old fisherman with failing health whom Carol allowed to stay free and seemed to care for very much. For the better part of a lifetime the old man had worked aboard the many old and beat up commercial fishing boats that line the Stock Island harbor. I was told the job is hard and that drug addiction runs ramped there. And although an undeniably nice fellow, of Kelly’s plight he talked little. And I did not ask.
In the two weeks that followed Carol and I spent much time together. Our constant babble of far off lands and the adventure that goes with them only added fuel to each other’s fires. Carol bought a one-way ticket to Cancun, Mexico then sold or gave away all her worldly possessions. She left the house to Kelly and me, stating that the rent was good for three weeks more and we could stay till they threw us out for all she cared.
Then she was gone.
It was mid May now and the southern air was growing hot. The Myrtle Beach Rally was scheduled to begin soon in South Carolina and I had planned to crash that party on my slow migration north. The Keys had been good to me but it was time to go.
After collecting my last paycheck from Adventure Scooter, I turned my back to the island and twisted the throttle.
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
(Scotty Kerekes)
For more STS stories check: www.scotty.wordpress.com
Powerflo II Up-Sweep Pipes from Samson
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