First let’s understand just what compression ratio means and how it affects the internal combustion engine. Compression ratio is simply the volume of the cylinder and the volume of the combustion chamber of the cylinder head when the piston is at Bottom Dead Center (BDC) and the volume of the cylinder head combustion chamber when the piston is at Top Dead Center (TDC). Let’s use a hypothetical engine to make things a little simpler. If we have an engine, at BDC that has a swept volume of 900cc in the cylinder and a combustion chamber volume of 100cc, then this volume is reduced to the 100cc of the combustion chamber at TDC this would be a compression ratio of 1000:100, or reducing it fractionally, a compression ratio of 10:1.

Compression ratios can be a double-edged sword in many ways. First, the higher the compression the more power the engine will make. This is due to being able to extract greater mechanical energy from a given amount of air/fuel mixture that is created by its higher thermal efficiency. Higher compression ratios place the molecular structure of the fuel and air into a smaller area, along with the adiabatic heat of the compression, which causes a greater evaporation and mixing of the fuel droplets in the combustion chamber.

High compression engines make great power, but it needs to be understood that engines with higher compression require fuel of higher octane and grade. Low octane, low grade fuels can cause severe and irreparable damage to an engine due to detonation. Detonation is caused when the fuel self-ignites under compression—not during the firing phase of the ignition system. Detonation can be the cause of connecting rod failures, piston failures, and more.

Just as high compression wants better fuel, the other side of the coin is running higher octane fuels in low compression engines. Running high octane fuel in a low compression engine is, well, throwing good money down a black hole. You are not going to make any more power than you would using the correct, lower octane fuel due to the fact that the lower compression engine just simply does not have enough compression to support the higher octane fuel. Running high octane fuels in a low compression engine is many times the reason riders bitch and complain about tuning issues of carburetors, ignition systems, etc. In many cases the only reason that the operator feels more power is due to the fact the he has spent more money so it must be working!

A simple rule to remember is that the lower the octane the faster the burn, and the higher the octane the slower the burn. This is why high compression engines like higher octane fuels because they burn slower and are not as prone to self-ignition, or detonation. The same rule applies to low compression engines liking lower octane fuels; lower compression engines do not have to work as hard to light the fuel mixture due to the lower octane fuel burning faster with out a lot of compression.

*RESOURCE
DELKRON Inc.
Bedford, Ohio
440-786-8820/866-335-5766
www.delkron-mfg.com

Story and Photos by Steve “Posie” Pfaff, Delkron

Click Here To Visit The J&P Cycles Website

The nerves started the moment Mark Singer rolled his Bonneville into a slot beside a rusted-out Chevrolet Impala and a ramshackle Ford truck, and shut off the engine. He could hear the band pounding away through the dirty, stucco walls of the Tijuana night club. The song sounded something like “Born To Be Wild,” but played at the wrong speed. It was too fast and the vocals were grating and out of tune.

There were half a dozen other bikes parked up close to the entrance door, but they didn’t look like Singer’s vintage Triumph, or Jimmy Flynn’s ’98 Heritage, spit-polished with four hundred miles on the clock. The others were dusty and road worn, stripped and functional. The bikes looked mean.

To Singer, a fashion photographer from L.A., the vibes of the place felt all wrong.

“I’m not going in,” he said.

Flynn turned the key in his disc lock, ground his last Marlboro into the dirt with the tip of his ostrich skin, Tony Lama boot, and looked over his shoulder.

Asking, “You got your camera?”

Singer answered, “Yes.”

Flynn smiled. He was a theatrical agent. His smile was his weapon, his deal closer.

“You gonna miss a chance to get some real-life biker bar shots?”

Singer hesitated.

Flynn stepped closer. At six-one he was three inches taller than Singer, and buffed from the gym, he was dominant.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “We’ll go inside, have a couple cervezas, catch the scene. You get a few pictures and we’re gone.” Paraphrasing his $200 an hour shrink, by adding. “If it don’t scare you a little, it ain’t worth doing.”

Singer considered his friend’s infinite wisdom and allowed himself to be guided, by the shoulder, toward the door.

Into the heat of two hundred bodies packed into a room built for half that number, through the smoke and the stink of sweat mixed with spilled beer.

Deeper, toward the music.

Until they were on the edge of the dance floor.

Flynn shouted above the distortion of the blown Marshalls and screaming guitars. “Hang on amigo. I’ll get the suds.”

It was Jimmy Flynn’s fringed jacket that first caught Gina Dallas’ eye. It looked expensive and out of place. Then she clocked his curly black hair and neat, almost pretty features; he looked like a college kid, fresh and young.

He looked like salvation.

She walked a few steps closer to the bar, positioning herself about six feet from him, to his right, so, as he turned, with the two bottles of Dos Equis in his hands, he couldn’t miss her.

She stared at him.

Catching his eye.

She was thin and sexy in her tight black dress and looked ten years younger than any of the other women in the place.

She was looking at him.

He smiled, one of his best.

Gina lowered her eyes. It was the method she always used with younger guys. They were usually out to prove their manhood and liked to think of themselves as the aggressors, so once she established contact, she played it coy. But even as she looked at the floor and moved her hips to the beat of the music, she knew he was walking toward her.

“Are you on your own?” His voice was soft and polite.

She raised her head as if she were surprised. Up close, he was older than she’d thought and he smelled like money?designer jeans, new boots, the fringed jacket. She took it all in, making no effort to answer his question.

Thinking that, maybe, she didn’t understand him, Flynn tried in Spanish.

“Estas sola?”

There was another thing that attracted Gina. He looked like her idea of a Californian, smooth and tanned, like somebody off a TV series. He looked clean, and clean was what Gina Dallas needed.

“Estoy sola,” Gina replied, moving a little closer.

“Como se llama Usted?” He asked her name.

“Gina, y Usted?”

“Jimmy,” he answered. ‘Oh man, she’s beautiful, fucking beautiful,’ he thought.

“Jeemy,” Gina laid on her best accent. A lot of the times, straight guys liked fantasy, and Gina was an expert at the Spanish Rose.

Singer had been watching from where he stood; he’d seen the dark haired girl before Flynn had. Attracted to her gypsy looks and by the way the cheap dress clung to her full breasts. But there was something wrong. Something in the way she had surveyed the room, cold and calculating. Until she had seen Flynn. The girl was a hustler. And Flynn, hustler of hustlers, was buying her act. Singer opened his jacket, slipped the cap off the Nikon, and adjusted the lens. He wanted to record Flynn’s fall from glory.

“Tiene novia?” Gina asked.

Flynn dug deep into his well of college español and remembered that ‘tiene’ meant ‘to have’. ‘Novia’ was a blank.

He stepped closer to her, feeling the fullness of her breasts against his fringed chest.

“No comprendo,” he replied.

“Do yo have a girlfreend?” Gina was having fun, laying it on.

“No,” he replied, hoping that Singer was getting a few shots for posterity.

Gina reached up, placed both hands on Flynn’s shoulders and swayed gently in front of him.

“Quieres bailar?”

Flynn correctly assumed she meant “dance.”

He put both arms around her. “Si.”

She seemed to settle into him, finding the beat as she rubbed up against his groin, asking him a few questions in broken English. Standard, getting to know you stuff.

Flynn answered, closed his eyes, and barely moved his feet. He could feel the heat from between her thighs.

Singer noticed that, as they danced, the girl was making eye contact with someone at the back of the room. He turned. Through the herd of bodies he saw a man with dark, hollow eyes and a lion’s mane of hair. He was staring directly at Flynn’s dancing partner.

“Un momento, por favor,” Gina said, breaking away from Flynn.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Un momento,” Gina repeated and walked toward the door.

Flynn began to trail after her, but Singer elbowed his way through a throng of Indian women and intercepted him.

Insisting, “I think we’d better leave.”

“Why?”

Singer motioned toward the door and answered. “Her boyfriend’s jealous.”

Flynn looked. He caught a glimpse of the girl, talking to someone, but his view was blocked by the milling crowd.

“Bullshit,” he answered.

Singer insisted. “I’m telling you. This is very uncool.”

Flynn looked again. This time he saw him. Standing there, talking to the girl. The man shifted his head and, for an instant, their eyes locked, sending a dull warning to Flynn.

“OK, OK,” he said, turning back to Singer, covering for his sudden loss of courage. “Don’t look stressed out. Let’s have one more drink. Take it easy for a minute.” Hoping, by then, that the door would be clear.

The long-haired man gripped Gina by the arm and walked her outside the club. There, he pushed her up against the wall, resting his hand against her throat.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Making some money, isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?” Her words were defiant, but there was fear in her voice.

He pressed in against her windpipe with his fingers.

“Did you take care of Galiano?”

Mad Dog Galiano was the president of the Renegades M.C., a club affiliated with the long haired man’s club, the Sons Of Fire.

Gina lowered her eyes.

“Yes,” he answered.

They were in TJ on business and Gina was part of that business, like a party favor.

He continued. “I hope you treated him good.” Gripping tighter.

She could feel his nails, sharpened to points and hardened with lacquer, about to puncture her skin. She was covered in tiny scars from those fingernails.

“I did.. Please, Ray.” Using his real name. Beginning to plead. Looking down at his hand.

“Keep your eyes on me when I’m talking to you.”

Gina raised her eyes.

She was beautiful, but Ray ‘Wolf’ Armitage noticed that she had begun to fray around the edges. ‘Only a few good years left,’ he reckoned.

He pressured. “That asshole you’re dancing with, what’s his story?”

She tried to sound convincing. “He’s a city boy. He’s loaded.”

“Where’s he stayin’?”

Nervous. She racked her memory. ‘What had the guy said while they’d been dancing?’ Finally it came to her. She replied. “Hotel California.”

Wolf knew the hotel, and the owner, an old speed freak from San Diego.

“The place is a rat hole,” he answered.

Gina persisted. “I swear. The guy’s got money.”

“An’ you like him, don’t you?” There was the shade of possession in his voice.

Wolf had known Gina Dallas since she was a child. Since her father had run out on him, leaving him for dead on the floor of a Brownsville motel room, in the wake of a drug deal that had gone bad. Then testified against the club in federal court. He’d been a brother once. Now, he was an enemy. Wolf had feelings for Gina Dallas, but those feelings were poisoned. “Liking” was something that she was not permitted.

“No,” she lied.

“Then, why did ya hit on him?”

She repeated. “Cause he looks like money.”

Wolf studied her face. Noting the resemblance to her father. Not the skin coloring?that was olive, like her Mexican mother?but her features and her expression. Her eyes. She had the same denim, blue eyes. One day he’d find the bastard. Until then, he had a hostage.

Finally, he smiled, saying, “Well, you go and have your fun.” He released his grip and stepped away.

Gina pulled herself together and walked back toward the door of the club. About to open it when Wolf shouted.

“Hey, bitch!”

She turned.

“Get paid.”

The words hit her like bullets, shredding the remains of her fantasy. She was a whore, and Jimmy, from California, was business.

Mark Singer and Jimmy Flynn were both at the bar when Gina returned.

She was shaken, but, over the years, she’d learned to hide her feelings.

“Que tal?” she asked.

Flynn looked up.

“Quieres bailar?” Gina continued.

Singer met Flynn’s eyes. His message was simple. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Gina tried again. “Un baile, por favor?” Pressing her crotch into Flynn’s.

He looked around, toward the door. The long haired man had turned away from them, and appeared deep in conversation with two other men.

“El hombre?” Flynn questioned.

Gina laughed. Answering. “Mi padre.”

“Your father?” Flynn repeated.

“Si. Si.”

“I don’t buy this,” Singer said.

Gina looked at him, her eyes hard. Then, she turned back to Flynn and softened.

“Mi padre say bueno. OK. You look like a very nice man. OK if I dance with you. Muy bien.” She offered her hand, “Un baile?”

Flynn accepted her hand.

Singer snarled. “I can’t believe you’re buying this shit.”

“Just one dance,” Flynn said.

Singer watched them long enough to see Flynn slide his hands down, over Gina’s ass.

Anger overcame caution. Singer lifted his camera. As if it were a gun, firing it at Flynn, as he disappeared with the girl, into the moving crowd.

As if a photograph would serve as his indictment.

In the far corner of the room, Wolf handed Mad Dog Caliano a big, sand colored rock of crystal meth, sealed in a baggie. It was a sample from the club’s lab in Corpus Christie, and he was looking for distribution in Renegade territory.

Galiano held it a moment between his thumb and index finger, as if gauging its weight, before dropping the package into the top pocket of his cut-off jacket.

It was then that Wolf saw the reflection of light from the lens of Singer’s Nikon.

“Somebody’s taking pictures,” he said to Sam Johnson, his sergeant at arms, who was standing beside them. “Over there.”

Wolf pointed to Mark Singer.

“No problem,” Sam replied.

“You! Where the fuck you goin’?”

The voice was hard and cold, and Singer knew it was aimed at him. He was about to load the Nikon into the saddlebag of the Triumph. Instead, he froze.

“I’m talkin’ to you, asshole. Step away from the bike.”

Singer looked around, praying he’d see someone else in the parking lot, someone to help him. It was deserted. He looked toward the door of the night club. Closed. He could hear the band playing. It was an old Rolling Stones’ number, “Symphony For The Devil.”

Sam Johnson walked forward.

“You got something that belongs to me.”

Singer answered. “You must be mistaken.” His voice was trembling and his knees felt weak. He was aware of his heart, thudding against his chest.

“I don’t make mistakes,” Johnson stated, stepping closer. He wore his red hair shaved to a shadow, and his nose had been broken so many times when he’d boxed as a pro, that he’d stopped having it reset, leaving it to veer sideways along his right cheekbone. But it was his eyes that grabbed Singer. They were set close together, dark and unforgiving.

“Give me the fucking camera.”

Singer was terrified. He had a brown belt in karate, but now he felt powerless. This was real life, a million miles from a safe dojo, with padded floors and pulled punches.

“I won’t ask you again,” Johnson said, lining him up for a straight right hand.

Slowly, Singer handed over his Nikon. It had been a gift from his late father, ten years ago. He felt like he was surrendering his soul.

“Now, get the fuck out of here,” Johnson ordered.

Singer asked. “Can’t you just take the film and let me have my camera back?”

Johnson hated RUBS, and he could hear something in Singer’s voice, clear as a bell. Fear. That was the catalyst for his fury. He threw his right hand, with no chambering, no wind-up.

Singer never saw it coming.

Johnson put his shoulder behind it, grunting with the out breath and driving his fist through.

When Singer woke up his jaw was numb, the stars were out, the air smelled like dust and gasoline and he heard music, but he didn’t know where he was. In fact, he didn’t know who he was. That scared him the most. Being lost inside.

“Pleased to meet you

Hope you guessed my name”

“Symphony For The Devil.” He’d heard the song before. Now it seemed to fill the hollow inside his head. He sat up and saw the night club, the sign that read ‘LIVE MUSIC, DANCING.’ The place looked small and dingy, like the set of a B-movie.

A car door slammed and Singer heard voices. He couldn’t understand their words but he knew they were speaking Spanish. He got to his feet and looked around. Trying not to panic. The Triumph sat beside the cream and teal Harley, Jimmy Flynn’s Harley. Jimmy Flynn. His memory inspired anger. Then, it all came back, piece by ugly piece.

Singer brushed himself off and walked toward his Triumph. Looking one last time at the Harley, he said, “Fuck you, Jimmy Flynn.”

“Tu padre? Que!…? ” Flynn asked as Gina turned the key in the lock of the door, in the upstairs of the club. He wanted to know what her father would say about what they were doing, but he couldn’t put the Spanish together.

She turned toward him and smiled.

“Mi padre se fue a San Diego. No vuelve hasta manana,” she lied.

Flynn understood enough to know that Gina was telling him that her father was gone till morning. It made sense; he couldn’t remember seeing the long haired man when they’d left the club. Still, he was scared, moving into deep waters.

“Coca?” she asked.

“Coca?” he repeated, unsure of what she’d meant.

Gina reached into the top of her dress and removed the small baggie from between her breasts.

“Coca,” she said, extending her hand.

Flynn eyed the rock. There was a challenge here. A test of his manhood.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied. Telling himself that he could handle it.

Gina walked past him and sat down on the bed. Her handbag was sitting on the night table; she lifted and opened it, taking out a small mirror and a cardboard wrapped razor blade. She dumped the rock on to the mirror, unsheathed the razor and sliced a quarter from it, then she went to work, chopping it into powder.

‘Yes,’ Flynn thought. He was man enough. He had to be. Had to prove it to himself. Besides, if there was anything sexier than doing a line in a hotel room, it was doing a line in a hotel room with a strange woman.

“Un billete?” she asked, looking up, and raising her fingers to her nose while inhaling.

He slid a wad of bills from his pocket and slipped a five hundred peso note from the top. Noticing that his palms were sweating as he rolled it into a straw, then sat down beside Gina on the bed.

She offered him the mirror. There were four thick lines on the glass. Flynn leaned forward and inhaled the first in one swooping gesture. He felt the rush within seconds. The stuff was serious. His nerves heightened, but the edge was beginning to feel good. Like he was getting away with it. He just wasn’t certain what “it” was. He offered Gina the rolled bill.

“No, no. Un otra,” she urged.

Flynn vacuumed up the second line. The cocaine was hardly cut, and in seconds his teeth and gums were numb. Once, in L.A., he’d had some Peruvian flake. That had been pure, too. So pure that he couldn’t get a hard-on. He’d been with Maria Sanchez, a dancer from the Strip who’d wanted to get into TV commercials, and his dick had shrunk to the size of a bean sprout. His embarrassment had been excruciating. He worried that it might happen again.

Gina placed the mirror and razor blade on the night table and stood up in front of him. The band was playing another blues number, a bump and grind. She moved her hips in time to the pulse from the base and drums, slipping the straps from her dress off her shoulders.

Her tits were beautiful, full and round, with nipples the size of small acorns. Her left one had been pierced with a gold ring and “Property of S.O.F.M.C.” had been tattooed above it.

Flynn stared, feeling movement between is legs. Relieved to know that, in that department, everything was going to be a-OK.

Gina pushed the dress down, over her hips and kicked it away from her, keeping her high heels on. She wore no panties and her pubic hair was jet black and full, almost circular in pattern. Most of Flynn’s L.A. babes shaved, some completely, but this girl was absolutely raw, natural, untouched.

She took a step closer and he noticed that the hair grew thicker and darker around the lips of her vagina, but he could still see them, pink and glistening. He could smell the musky scent of her. This was real, realer than anything that had happened to him in a very long time.

Her ass. He had to see her ass. Flynn was obsessed with asses.

“Turn around,” he croaked, then motioned with his hands so that she’d understand him.

She knew perfectly what he wanted, and spun slowly in front of him.

“Perfecto,” he whispered. Standing to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans. Dropping them to his knees, leaving his fringed jacket in place. The pouch of his Armani’s stood out like a tripod.

Gina turned back toward him, reached forward and stroked him through the expensive cotton, then squatted in front of him, pulling his underwear down to his knees.

Jimmy Flynn was a connoisseur of good head and Gina’s was of vintage quality. She licked, she kissed, she sucked and moaned, all the time tickling his balls with the fingertips of her free hand, while her other hand was positioned on his ass, middle finger inserted. This was the real thing. A biker babe in a biker bar. A self-validating experience. One that his shrink, Earl Fishbine, would definitely approve. Then he remembered his handcuffs. Purchased from a sex shop in West Hollywood, they were an “on-the-road” necessity.

“Un momento,” he groaned, reaching down and digging them from the back pocket of his black, Aviatic jeans.

Gina used the time to stand up and slip a foil wrapped condom from her purse.

A Peruvian minute later and she was cuffed to the bed frame, legs open and Jimmy Flynn was encased in a pre-lubricated French tickler, performing like Hamlet in cowboy boots.

It took him three complete songs to come, and when he did, he was sure that Gina had screamed her applause in Spanish. The word she used, however, sounded a lot like “finally.”

He studied her face as he freed her from his cuffs. Something had changed.

“That was really nice,” she said, with no discernible accent. Meaning that it had been better than Mad Dog Galiano, who had been rough, sloppy, and had refused to wear the bag.

Singer stood dumbstruck.

Finally, asking. “What did you say?”

“I said that was nice,” she repeated.

Had the intensity of his love making caused her to become bilingual? He actually considered the phenomenon. Then, he quickly pulled up his underpants and jeans, before hitching his belt for security.

Gina made no effort at putting her clothes back on.

“I thought you were Mexican,” Flynn said, picking his fringed, Dennis Hopper look-alike jacket up from the bed. Wrapping himself in it. He suddenly felt very vulnerable.

“I am. Well, half-Mexican.”

“Why all the bullshit with speaking Spanish? “

Something about the way Flynn said “bullshit” annoyed her. There was arrogance in his voice. She studied him for several seconds. Who the fuck did he think he was? He wasn’t really even good looking. Not like a real man, anyway. More like a spoiled kid with a lined face. She eyed his weak jaw and mushy lips.

“That’ll cost you two hundred bucks, Señor,” she said, laying a lot of accent on “señor.”

He looked at her as if he’d been shot. “What?”

“You need me to break it down for you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Gina answered. “A hundred bucks for the ‘c,’ and a hundred bucks for me. Si, si, Señor?”

“Forget it.”

Gina stood up. He was beginning to anger her.

“I’ve never paid for it in my life and I’m sure as hell not starting with you,” Flynn stated. He was indignant.

Gina walked to the door and stood in front of it.

“My father likes me to get paid for my work.” There was a veiled threat in the word “father.”

“Yeah, and your father’s out of town, so when he gets back, give him my apologies.”

Gina crossed her arms in front of her. Her body didn’t look so perfect to Flynn anymore. He’d seen plenty better in L.A., waiting tables in restaurants.

“I’d like to leave now,” he said, walking toward her.

Gina shook her head and asked. “Do you really think I wanted to suck your pencil dick?”

The change in her voice scared Flynn. He stopped.

“Come on, be reasonable,” he said.

Gina was losing patience.

“Two hundred and fifty bucks, how’s that for reasonable?”

“Get real,” Flynn retorted.

Get real? This phony biker was telling her to get real. The idea infuriated her. She reacted by reaching forward and clawing downward against his face, so fast that he was unsure as to what she had done. Until he lifted his hands and felt the blood.

She spit the words. “Is that real enough for you?”

Stunned, Flynn reached into the pocket of his jeans. He touched the bills with his fingers. Everything inside him, every fear, self doubt, every inadequacy, was straining against the shell of his ego. If he handed over his money he would be invalidated. His bike, his leather jacket, his power job at the agency. He would dissolve, be nothing. He thought of his shrink. What would Fishbine say?

“Give me the fucking money,” Gina demanded, hating herself for being what she was. Why couldn’t she keep just one fantasy alive? A straight guy, a straight fuck. Why did Wolf control everything she did? Why did she have to do this?

Flynn lifted the bills from his pocket.

Gina stared him in the eyes, hating him for being scared, almost wishing he’d refused, and shook her head.

She said. “Asshole.”

The single word was like a trigger. Flynn clutched the wad in his fist and punched the fist forward. He had never hit anyone before in his life and he was surprised that the impact felt so soft, so giving.

A current of electricity surged through Gina’s legs, as her knees went slack and her nose broke beneath his knuckles. She dropped at Flynn’s feet.

He stared down. His first feeling was one of power. He’d struck a righteous blow. He was a man who packed a wallop. Assertive. Decisive. Then, as his senses cleared, a new reality gripped him. He was a Hollywood agent, and he’d just punched a prostitute in a Mexican brothel. A prostitute with dangerous connections. He was in big trouble.

“Are you all right? All right?” he asked, bending down over her, touching her arm.

Blood streamed from Gina’s nose and made a puddle on the floor.

He panicked then.

“Hey! Wake up. Wake up!” he demanded. “You want money, I got money. Here, take my money.”

He dropped the five hundred peso note onto her shoulder. It was still rolled in the shape of a straw. She was very still and the note fell from her flesh to the floor. He stared at her chest. Was she breathing? There didn’t seem to be any movement. ‘Oh no. Jesus Christ, no.’ Standing up, he backed away. “Please God, don’t let her be dead.”

Gina remained motionless.

Flynn stared at the door of the room. He would have to step across her to get out, maybe even move her body. ‘Fingerprints? Mexican jails?’ A host of desperate thoughts flooded his mind. The men downstairs, the bikers, the friends of her fathers. What if someone had seen him leave the bar with the girl? They’d kill him. He was going to die. He felt a sharp gnawing in his gut before it turned sour, and his mouth tasted like chalk. He was having an anxiety attack. Prozac. If only he’d stayed on the Prozac that Fishbine had prescribed, this would never have happened. Now he had to make a run for it.

He turned, ran to the open window of the bedroom and looked down.

It was a twelve foot drop to the parking lot. Oh, man, where the fuck was Singer? The bastard had deserted him.

Flynn climbed out of the window, one leg then the other, turning so that his body hung free as he held on to the ledge, first with his hands, then his fingers. He could hear his heart banging against his rib cage. His mouth had gone dry.

He screamed as he let go.

He hit the ground hard, his knees felt like they’d gone through his hips and up into his rib cage. He stayed down, trying to assess the damage, breathing in gasps, his adrenaline masking most of the pain. Then he heard it. A harsh, throaty laugh, coming from above him. He looked in the direction of the sound.

Gina was hanging out the window, tits and all.

“You even punch like a pussy,” she said. Then her voice went low, almost a growl. “You got no idea of what you just did. What you just got into.” After that, she was gone.

Flynn pushed himself to his feet and hobbled to his bike. His hands were shaking and he could barely fit the key into the lock. He was scared to the point of rigidity. If the bike would just start. If he could just get out of the parking lot. Away from the music. Away from the whore, away from what he’d just done.

The Heritage turned over on the second try. So far, so good. He was going to make it. Go get Singer. Get his stuff. Get out of town. Something to tell the boys about back in the office. A little real life. A slice. Hustled by a whore. Him. Jimmy “The Pitch Man” Flynn. King of the packaged film deal. Liar of liars. Oh man, he’d put a fuck on her. What was her name? Gina. Hell, would anybody believe him?

Then the door from of the club opened. Loud voices, drunken laughter, and he froze, almost shutting the bike off so as not to attract attention.

“No, don’t do that,” he told himself. “Just keep going, like nothing happened.” He started to move, relieved to see the man and woman who had just exited the club head toward a Dodge truck, never even glancing in his direction. Then he was clear of the lot, off the dirt and gravel, and onto the highway. Almost free. Almost home.

He rode fast. Seventy miles and hour on a lousy road. It was fast for Jimmy Flynn. The fringe on his jacket made a cracking sound as it smacked against the leather. He was Jesse James. He’d robbed the bank and made a get-away. Jimmy Flynn. The main man.

There was a twinkle of light in his mirrors. He stared. There were two of them, skipping like stones across water. Vibrating with the glass. They were coming toward him. Bike lights? He accelerated. Looking again. The lights were gone. ‘It was nothing,’ he told himself. ‘A car. A truck.’

He was traveling so fast that he shot past the hotel. It was easy to miss. The neon No Vacancy sign was broken and the light above the entrance gate was dim. ‘Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place.’ Suddenly, the words to the Eagles’ song began to play in his mind.

He slowed down, executed a tight turn with the soles of his boots dragging against the gravel by the side of the road and headed back up the highway. Turning left into the driveway and through the entrance gates, not stopping till he was behind the main building, out of sight from passing traffic. He hadn’t even looked to see if Singer’s bike was there. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get his belongings and leave, back, across the border.

He got off the bike and didn’t waste time locking it. Then ran into the rear entrance of the hotel, down the old tiled corridor.

‘Such a lovely place.. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.’ Good song. Great song.. His boots sounded loud, echoing. The place felt empty.

He dug the key from his jacket. It was big. Made of brass and tied by a string to a piece of wood that had been etched with, ‘Hotel California. Rm. 33.’ He examined it quickly. Comparing it to the number on the door. Yes, he was home and dry. ‘We are all prisoners of our own device.’ Now that the song had started, he couldn’t get it to stop. He was moving to the silent beat.

Entering the dark room, he closed the door behind him and fumbled for the light switch. Turning it on.

His eyes adjusted and the song died.

He couldn’t believe it. Not at first.

They were there. One sitting in the beat-up wood and leather chair beneath the window, the other sprawled casually on his bed.

Flynn had seen both of them before, at the club.

‘Oh Christ. Jesus Christ.’ This was a dream. A very bad dream.

Sam Johnson stood from the chair and walked quickly to the door, barring Flynn’s exit, while Wolf smiled. His teeth were stained a nicotine yellow, and his face was scarred, but his eyes were as alive as rattlesnakes.

He spoke, low and insinuating. “How’s it hangin’, big boy?”

Flynn tried to swallow, without success. Finally, he dredged up some words.

“Sorry, I must have the wrong room.” His voice broke like an adolescent’s.

Wolf smiled again. At least his mouth moved and his lips turned up, but it was more the gesture of a rabid animal. His eyes focused on Flynn, and his voice was dead flat.

“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.”

Time, for Jimmy Flynn, shifted down a gear, into slow motion, as he watched Wolf get up from the bed, his body lean and muscular beneath a black T-shirt, looking so relaxed, so fluid as he walked toward him. Slipping the buck knife from his belt. The long blade sparkled in the light from the bare bulb.

“Was it worth it?” he asked.

Early may sunshine gently warmed formerly frozen pavement as the old Electra Glide made its faithful way along the small, secondary South Carolina hwy. Dressed in only boots, Levs and thermal shirt, I relaxed into the finely forested scenery that lined either roadside. It was a good day to ride.

Winter always holds the Scooter Drifter to the far south and I never start the northern migration till early May. Well, May was upon me and this year it would begin with the Myrtle Beach rally in South Carolina. I’d arrive within the hour.

For 13-years I’d been committed to this long journey and experience taught that, as per the ways of the drifter, one must sometimes work hard and fast to build his capital then stretch that money across the long periods of travel and leisure that lay ahead. To date, two to three working months per year has always been sufficient. It was in this interest that I’d learned years ago to work for the vendors at motorcycle rallies across the nation. Hell, I was there anyway and had come to know so many vendors and promoters that work for them just seemed the next natural step.

Funds were again slim and work was now necessary. Fortunately, I was prescheduled to work the Metzeler truck this year. This custom built, two-story semi-truck had been outfitted as a rolling tire shop that traveled the country to sell, then install, the tires purchased by so many biking, rally-attendees. Well, they needed mechanics and the long years of repairing my own scooters had qualified me to this relatively straight-forward task. Myrtle Beach rubber jockey. It was a job I actually looked forward to, and the pay was good as well. Still, partying would surely be more fun. But little did I know that nothing could equal the time I’d soon spend among the crazy Metzeler crew…

The roadside forest widened and Myrel’s Inlet came into view. The large and terminally touristy beach town of Myrtle stretches north and south along the coast. Myrel’s Inlet is simply the southern end.

It was 11 am Thursday. By Saturday this world would be filled with blurs of chrome and the roar of engines. But for now the calm scene revealed only the many erect vending tents, and the efforts of those who still worked to set theirs up.

It was the calm before the storm.

After pulling to the curb I called Easy Eddy (my new boss) on the cell. Wanting to settle in and enjoy the rally for a couple days before hell week began, I agreed to start Sunday morn.

The next order of business was accommodations. Just past the southern end of town, a small and seldom used church sets some distance off a tiny side road. Behind it a fine and private plot lay nestled among tall trees. I’d make camp there. Farther into town a huge country club offered hot tub, pool, weight room and showers. A deal was soon struck that allowed me access to all these amenities.

Myrtle Beach was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.

Bikes began to arrive and the days passed in an easy blur of bars, restaurants, and the simple pleasure of old, and new, biking acquaintances. Relaxation and food was the order of the day. Although town became a noisy place at best, the tiny church offered nights as quiet as the open desert.

It was Sunday morning as I pulled the loaded down Harley onto one of the many huge parking lots recently converted into a shantytown of large vending tents. Set some distance back, and parked parallel to the highway, the huge Metzeler truck was nestled among the others; its large awning stretched taunt over the six motorcycle lifts set before it. Inside the trailer would be two pneumatic motorcycle tire changing machines and two spin balancers. I knew, ’cause I’d worked this gig at other rallies in the past. The crew, however, I’d not seen before. Parked in a single row near the working area, their bikes were in obvious contrast to the usual brand new and highly accessorized rides that now littered the lot. Most were older, showed signs of wear, and had obviously been often home repaired by the hands that loved them.

I backed the old FL beside a rusty, custom built, 1964 Sportster and leaned her onto the kickstand. After locking the ignition I strode threw the light crowd then stood for a moment to eye the men I’d be working with. Most Harley riders are older these days, but these were invariably young men. At 47, I’d probably be grandpa here. I turned to greet the boss. Easy Eddy is slightly tall, thin, heavily tattooed and sports a big belly below longish black hair and goatee speckled with gray.

The cat talks kinda funny and, as I’d soon learn, is somewhat of a lunatic genius. After introductions he told me to grab any lift I cared to work at. I retrieved the bag of tools from my own saddlebags then took position. But the week was still young and work was slow today. This job pays by the tire rather than the hour, therefore there’s no “busy work” to be done. When it’s slow you simply relax, drink sodas and bullshit with the guys. And so I came quickly to know most of our staff:

Ray and his wife were familiar since they live aboard the truck. Once their destination is reached a shop owner local to that area is then contracted to bring his guys to work the rally. Different area—different crew. That’s how it works. Both are good people and although Ray only wrenches on the days we’re swamped, he does barbecue lunch for all everyday.

Ken, Eddy’s lead mechanic, was young, handsome, friendly, talented, genuinely demented and the owner of that '64-sportster. There was K-2 (another Ken). Although a factory certified tech, K-2 makes his living as a house painter. Besides the fun of it, he was here for extra money to buy a riding-mower of all things.

Bear (another Sportster rider) was closer to my own age. Tammy, his red headed ol’ lady, would help tend the cash register. Zorro was simply young, fat and rode a crotch rocket. At 19-years old, Minnow would stay in the truck to mount new tires on the wheels we pulled. He was the biking equivalent of “Radar” from that old TV series and everyone kinda looked out for him.

Toby was a new salesmen. A natural bullshiter by trade, this guy was fun. For the topic of women he had only one thing to say, “Rich girlfriend,” and so he had. Haling from Colorado, Toby no longer had need to work. Yet, he enjoyed sales and came only for the action. Toby’d ridden motorcycles over much of the world and we’d come to swap many stories.

The characters were in place. Time passed easily.

Although Eddie and his wife Judy stayed elsewhere, they rented a house for the crew at the north end of town and I was invited to crash there. Sounded like fun, and at day’s end I followed Bear home.

It seemed a long ride. Eventually though, the bikes settled into the front yard of a fine two-story pad. It was clean. Upstairs offered large, wrap-around deck while below sported a hot tub. After dismounting, everyone settled in and the insanity began. Beer and loose talk flowed as easily as the crazy laughter. Those I’d not seen before showed up and it was soon learned that, besides the Metzeler truck, Eddie also had his own mobile mechanic’s spot at yet another location some miles north of town. These new faces worked up there.

Sheila (operator of Eddy’s northern cash register) was hot, compact and as extraverted as few women the world has known. Before long the rusty Sportster was wheeled inside, that she might strip brazenly for an amateur photo shoot atop Ken’s ride. It was nuts man.

Grease came thick around this job. After filling the washing machine I headed for the shower. Next was bed. For many years freedom had been my closest companion. Although it seems strange, for this love I’d been out so long that rooms now felt almost as boxes—four sides and a lid. I made camp in the yard.

The workweek rolled on as the bikes pounded us. This was good. At days end, the boys would often load our best “take off” tires into a truck for transport to the northern sight. A brief mystery to me.

There was always talk of the fun at Eddy’s northern spot. Almost every night the boys rode up there to raise a little hell. But they were young, and I was tired by days end. As the week wore on however, work at the Metzeler Truck slowed to leave me less frazzled at quitting time. The decision was made…

It was full dark when I pulled into the huge northern lot. It took no time to locate Eddy’s place nestled among the others. There, before his big 40-foot motor home, two lifts, many tools, a supply trailer and some chairs rested in the dimly lit gloom. Some distance off a huge, half-lit, crowd gathered around a large burnout pit.

I parked the bike.

Eddy sat shirtless; his tattoos and basketball belly exposed to all the world. Judy had the adjacent chair. Beside them, a tallish and well built young buck—his greasy shorts exposing one prosthetic leg—manhandled equipment with small mercy as he worked to mount one of our used, take-off, tires to his bike. I’d not seen him before. Judy told me to scoot inside the motor home and have some homemade ice cream with the rest of ’em. There was food too. I did. Some of the crew was there and demented comedy seemed the natural order this night.

Before long Ken and K-2 grabbed me for a brisk walk to the burnout pit. They said that the peg-legged dude was a crowd pleaser, and we didn’t wanna miss his show. Hell, put the front wheel against a wall then burn the rear tire off. I’d seen it a hundred times. Big deal.

After pushing through the heavy crowd we laid witness to one ludicrously large burnout pit. Bits of charred rubber coated the asphalt. The restless mob huddled close. I waited in slightly overwhelmed silence. Before long the sea of bodies parted and Mr. Peg Leg emerged with engine revs bouncing off the limiter. I yawned.

Then, rather than against the wall, Peg Leg positioned his bike at ring center and dropped the hammer. The back tire began to trail smoke. The stunts began. Eric’s bike came forward then fell into a long sweeping brodie. He dismounted then held only one hand to the throttle as his bike spun in small circles. Moving around the ring, he switched from one trick to another as great plumes of smoke bellowed from behind. Eventually the tire blew, the crowd cheered, and Peg Leg took his bow. Eric, I’d later learn, was Eddy’s right hand man and a good wrench as well.

Next up was Easy Eddy on his twin-cam bagger. Against the wall he went. At mid performance, he called me to come check the speedometer. A hundred and ten MPH against that wall. Crazy bastard.

On the return walk to the motor home I stopped to buy a couple cigars. Approaching the RV, I stopped to watch some big dude spin my boss over his head then set him easily to the ground. More comedy. I sat to light a stogie then endure the remainder of this insanity with some sibilance of serenity.

It was late when we finally started for home. In the lane to my right sat Ken aboard the rusty Sportie, while Boberry brought up the spot behind him on a Road King. The speed limit was 55.

All was smooth till the sound of scraping metal stirred me to check the rear view and find a meteor of sparks sliding rapidly up from behind. I hit the gas to avoid being run down. Ken moved to the lane’s far side for the same reason. Eventually the hunk of steel slowed to a stop and we pulled over to investigate. The broken Softail lay on its side in the left lane with most of its fancy chrome doodads now scratched or bent. Ken lifted the bike and we pushed it off the road. In a minute the rider staggered outta the bushes, his jacket scuffed and levis torn. Drunk. A crowd gathered now and one man said the cops were on their way. Immediately the Softail guy jumped on his bike, grabbed bent bars, started the engine, and was gone. Guess he figured a busted bike was bad enough. Why add jail time? This event supplied good material for later conversations back at the house.

Eventually the workweek rolled to an end and I readied myself for the coming dinner that everyone talked about. It would be a fine restaurant event and I intended to dress accordingly. Clean jeans, tee-shirt and engineer boots. Still, it was kinda weird to accompany such a motley crew into this fine establishment. Aged beef and lobster for me. The final bill neared $700. Bosses treat. Unbelievable.

After dinner my wages were paid. Work would not again be necessary for some months to come.

Freedom.

My bike had been running like hell even since before Mexico, and I was sick of it. Its problems would later prove somewhat severe. Easy Eddy’s H-D shop was in Huntersville, North Carolina (near Charlotte) and this seemed like a good opportunity. So I asked if he’d mind me showing up there to work on my own sled for a while. Eddy’s response was quick, “Here’s the address. See you there.”

Everyone filed out of the big house leaving only Minnow, K-2 and myself to enjoy the beachside pad for two quiet days more. But eventually they were gone as well.

Again, I began the slow migration north.