Incredible. It’s been 15 years since we kicked off Bikernet.com. I had the audacity to believe someone might be interested in this history of an eternal search for freedom, the illustrious custom motorcycle holy grail, and the perfect woman. And since we had so many variations of our George Fleming-induced, 15th anniversary logo effort, I thought, what the hell. Let’s put down the searing saga of web site survival, virtually since the beginning of the internet, and the yellow brick road to the world wide web.

Here’s how it started. A crazy man web master approached the offices of Easyriders Magazine almost immediately after the internet exploded onto the scene. He was a long-haired scrawny biker and internet mastermind by the name of Steve Smidlen. Of course, he wanted a small fortune to change the face of Easyriders forever through the internet new age. In 1995, Joe Teresi (the owner of Paisano Publications) tried desperately to sell the company and retire. He didn’t want to invest more cash into the monster, and the internet wasn’t a proven commodity, so he turned the internet mastermind down.




I knew Steve, and of course he pled his case to me. I was a vice president and the editorial director of Paisano’s 14 magazine titles. I was also responsible for the quarterly video and involved in the events, predominately the bike shows and the coverage of the bike rodeos. I did what I could for the internet wizard, so he approached me about starting a web site as an example of his immense talent base and the capabilities of the internet. Since he wasn’t going to charge me an arm and a leg and we were all curious of the web reach, we moved ahead.




We kicked off Bikernet in 1996 with the help of Jon Towle’s black and white illustrations, due to slow-ass modems. We set the site up to sell products, including my paperback books and Bandit’s Bedrolls. We called it Bandit’s Bikernet, and we focused on the one editorial area my boss didn’t care for, fiction, the dreamy side of bikerdom. I didn’t want Bikernet to compete with Easyriders or any of our magazine titles at the time. I stayed true to my word and agreement with the boss to restrict Bikernet to mail order sales, fiction, and Jon Towle’s cartoons. For some unknown reason, the boss didn’t care for the sardonic self-attacking stubby little man with a wry sense of humor.




We banged along for a couple of years and sales were not startling, but brothers seemed to enjoy the site and asked for more. But Smidlen (not sure I have his name correct) didn’t think the vast Bandit empire grew fast enough or paid him enough, and we parted ways, and our crew began the frustrating hunt for a web master who understood business and the internet. I think I started to plug in chapters from my next book, Sam “Chopper” Orwell. At the time, Bikernet fell under the auspices of 5-Ball Incorporated, shared equally by my fifth wife, Rebecca Segal. I was busy as hell with the Paisano empire, Easyriders, and Joe’s efforts to sell the company. Life banged along and Bikernet grew slowly, sort of like notes in a dusty shop manual.








Then in 1999, Joe finally took Paisano Publications public, to become Easyriders Inc., with a partial sale to some heavy hitters who retired with millions from Taco Bell. I received a small bonus for my efforts and decided it was time to retire (escape), seek additional freedom, adventures, write some books and see the world. Sure, the notion was scary, but my timing was right on. Easyriders struggled with a new command structure and ultimately went bankrupt. I blew up my marriage with a psycho redheaded broad who lasted less than a year, and I bought a little house overlooking the Los Angeles harbor in San Pedro and embarked on a new freshly paved metallic road in life.




A couple of Bikernet fans pointed out the need to focus on Bikernet, including an Easyriders staffer, Mike Osborn. Bikernet expanded and I put my panhead desk in my dining room overlooking the main LA harbor channel, and we went to work building this motorcycle web kingdom. We started building bikes and covering every move on Bikernet. Each year, I rode to Sturgis on whatever bike we built. As I wrapped up the 1935 house remodel, I moved into this strange, blue collar union town on the edge of the port, I entered a new phase in life. The girl who said she wouldn’t move to San Pedro moved in, but then grabbed a job at Bartels’ H-D and moved to the more upscale Marina Del Rey.




The year was just turning toward treacherous 2000, and I rode with Agent Zebra to his digs around Point Fermin, then over to Long Beach to see my dear old ma and Dr. Nuttboy, who with his wife, helped me rebuild my home. Other than a couple of folks, I didn’t know a soul in San Pedro, but I loved every minute of my life on the coast. I would get up in the morning and ride to Ramona’s bakery for a muffin and a cup of coffee. I met a wild woman at Cannetti’s fish and chips who would have stormed my abode with her two kids if I didn’t watch my back. Life was good, and I started to build the Blue Flame to ride to Sturgis.




I don’t know if you can imagine this, but I was living in a motorcycle nirvana. I turned one bedroom into a gym and converted my garage into a bike shop. I carefully rolled motorcycles across new refinished hardwood floors in almost every room in the house. Each day consisted of tinkering with motorcycles or writing about them on the web. We started the Thursday news and for a couple of years, there were no images, just text. My psycho ex-girlfriend sent me scurrilous e-mails from time to time, suggesting tech upgrades to the site. I moved slowly, working through the bugs on a tight budget. I published my third book, Sam “Chopper” Orwell, wrote for several mags, including the HORSE, and I consulted for American Rider.


I rode the Blue Flame to Sturgis, but failed to rubber-mount the tank and Randy Aron from Cycle Visions helped me keep it alive to Spearfish. Then Paul Yaffe helped me upgrade the Flame to a better tank, properly rubber-mounted for the long road a couple of months later. We installed a new shapely stretched independent gas tank. What a terrific motorcycle and a great ride. Rumor has it, it’s still on the road in Texas.




Around this time, I met a girl in Harold’s Biker Bar, Nyla, and we started to date. She was a Pedro girl who was married to a mad biker for 15 years, until the abuse put her on the streets and back in Pedro with the support of her massive family of eight brothers and sisters. She lived with her fading, elderly longshoreman father and her three kids in a massive old crumbling clapboard home overlooking the main channel.




As the site began to grow, she worked at Epson Computers, in customer service, and took on part-time bookkeeping duties for Bikernet.



Around 2001, my mom stopped by the little house on Crescent Avenue and told me about her notion to take a ship around the world. At the time, we started on a Buell project to ride to Sturgis. Each time I spoke to my mom, she mentioned the only cruise line to circumnavigate the world. Unfortunately, it went out of business and she began looking into freighter world tours.

After one such visit, I called my 79-year-old mom.
“What’s the deal ma?” I asked in my most respectful tone. “You always mention this trip. Would you like me to go with you?”




“Yes,” she said confidently, as if she had this scenario planned for months. My mother has traveled the world all her adult life. My dad stayed home, drank beer, and went fishing while she roamed through Europe, Russia, and China. We started to make plans for a world tour.

Buell shot here

I was also modifying a Buell into a bitchin’ Joker Machine accessorized hot rod for the 2001 Sturgis run with Dr. Hamster and his girlfriend. It was a terrific ride and we hooked up with the Hamsters in Thermopolis, Wyoming for a party. I had a Wyoming babe in the next town over who always looked after me. She set up a book signing for “Chopper” Orwell, and I slipped out of town. I thought it was just five miles away, but it turned into 35. No problem for the fast Buell to slip through the countryside at over 80 mph.

We had a terrific time, and all the local riders showed up for books and wine in her beauty salon. Since I was involved with the lovely Nyla, I didn’t spend the night with voluptuous Wyoming Deb, stayed sober, and rolled out of Worland at midnight, heading back to the Hamster headquarters at the Holiday Inn in Thermopolis. I scooted along dark roads, comfortable aboard that Buell Lightning, when I spotted a road sign announcing just 8 miles to town. I quickly estimated a five-minute time window at 80 miles an hour. That’s when I spotted the first deer.



It was 50 yards ahead but its stationary eyes still glistened, reflecting the Buell headlight. I immediately backed off the quick Joker Machine throttle when another deer blocked my vision directly in front of me. Unable to even consider applying my brakes, I slammed into its hindquarter. It stopped me dead, totaled the Buell, and I was knocked out by the pavement. I broke several ribs and ended up in a Wyoming hospital for four days. Dr. Nuttboy flew out. Deborah and Dr. Hamster looked after me, and Nuttboy hauled me home.

Within a couple of months, I was back on my feet, flying to Houston with mom, and boarding the nastiest, rustiest tramp freighter in the Houston Ship Channel and prepared for a four and a half-month voyage around the world, with stops at 22 ports.





Mom and I spent Christmas in Hamburg, Germany, and New Year’s in Belgium. It was an amazing adventure thanks to the college professor Polish captain and his Polish officers, and a terrific group of Philippino crew members. Of course, we noticed that due to price of domestic labor, there weren’t many American sailors left, and the ship didn’t haul any American products overseas. The tramp freighter left stateside virtually empty.




So began 2002. The captain allowed me to set up a fixed antenna above the bridge, and I continued to write articles for Bikernet, the HORSE, and American Rider, handled the Thursday Bikernet news from afar, wrote World Tour chapters (somewhere here on Bikernet), finished my first Change Hogan novel, Harbor Town Seduction, and wrote chapters for my second Chance Hogan book, about Chance losing his girl to Chinese crime lords.




We passed on Sturgis for 2002 but built the Amazing Shrunken FXR. Nyla became a full-time staffer and we found, for the first time, a web master who understood the business, and was a biker, Jason Douglass. He built web sites for Atlas Frames and Joker Machine, and he set up Bikernet so we could launch our own articles. We were beginning to cook. We could publish the news weekly, publish full techs, bike features and event coverage.



Back in 2002 or early 2003, I was reading The Horse magazine at work and discovered an ad for Bikernet.com. I can still see the ad with the brunette riding the blue chopper with gray flames…tantalizing. My initial exposure to the web site was all it took, I was hooked. The bike reviews, Life and Times of Bandit, the girls, but most of all was the road tales. I read every one, some of them over and over. My favorite was a story called Neighborhood Watch, and another that’s name slips my mind, but the author was named Dowling; it was a Code of the West piece. I ate that shit up and it helped occupy my time working the night shift at the plant. Many a 12-hour shift was spent looking at Bikernet.com on one screen while I also watched the computer controls for the plant on the other. I had gotten so good at my job, the other operators would sleep because everyone knew I was up, either reading a magazine or looking at Bikernet.com.

In December 2004, I graduated from college and started writing more as a hobby now that my time was a bit more open. The kids were getting a little older, so sleeping was easier and I could devote some time to my passion, Harleys. Early in 2005, Bandit sent me an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in writing a few bike features for Hot Bike magazine. Now mind you, while I had been writing for Bikernet for several months, most of my stories were laced with a little bit of bullshit. As a good friend of my dad’s used to say, “Hey, Texans don’t lie. Texans just bullshit.” So, after having a limited amount of experience at writing, mostly bullshit, now I’m getting the opportunity to write for a magazine. Thankfully, there was plenty of great editing, because that relationship stands today and I occasionally still pen articles for Hot Bike today.

Later in 2005, I was able to make my first trip to Sturgis, riding alongside El Bandito himself. I learned a few things on that trip, but the one thing I will always treasure was watching that giant bastard riding through a rainstorm in Durango, Colorado freezing his nuts off! We had a memorable trip, and I have been back three times since. He started a tradition that I plan to partake in as many years as I can afford to.

Throughout the years, we’ve had several adventures, from him teaching me the ropes on judging at the Texas National Bike Show in Galveston to building my first custom motorcycle to give to my Iraqi veteran brother in 2007. We’ve been through lean times where I know every plug I can do for Bikernet is helping him keep the lights on, to the bountiful harvests where, on occasion, I’ll get a check for 20 bucks or so. Either way, I wouldn’t have traded any of it for the world. From the first custom part I ever wrote about, I always had Bandit leaning over my shoulder if I ever got stuck. Because of my relationship with Bikernet and Bandit, I realized I am really just another RUB with a bike, I just happen to have the talent and time to be able to write a few words about it…and that makes me just valuable enough to keep around.

So here I am now, a pathetic RUB who not only writes on occasion for Bikernet.com and Hot Bike magazine; but I am also a professional writer at my day job. I have been promoted to production specialist, where I spend my days writing SOPs, LOTO lists, standards, safety, training, etc. Basically, I have become a “paper biyatch,” so thanks again, Bandit!

I can’t wait to see what we do next at Bikernet, and while I am sure another 15 years seems like forever away, it’ll be here before we know it.

–Johnny Humble




We kicked off the Bandit’s Cantina department, and Nyla came up with the Sunday Post for Cantina members only, so I could never have a free weekend again. Good God! In our little shop, a small two-door garage riddled with termites, we blocked off the large doors to the street and used the small side door for bikes. When we went to work in the shop, we had to move four or five bikes into the back yard. I wanted to enlarge the shop and build an apartment above it, but city codes fucked with my ability to expand.








About this time, we started to modify a 2003 Road King as a celebration of Harley’s 100th anniversary, and to build me a touring bike for long rides. That bike was blacked out and it made several trips to Sturgis, including one with another Road King, the new 96-inch model ridden by Dale Gorman, a Hamster out of Boston. We rode to Sturgis, did our thing, then rode back to Salt Lake, where we hooked up with the lovely Nyla and her youngest son, Kyle. Kyle rode the 96-incher back, but didn’t follow returning instructions and collided with a car, destroying the King.




Nyla: Bandit’s full of crapola here. He and Dale did Sturgis in 2006 on two Road Kings, the blacked out ’03 and a new 96-inch ’06.



Shortly thereafter, we starting customizing a new 2004 rubber-mounted Sportster with the blessing of Harley-Davidson. A series of articles followed on Bikernet and in American Iron. Each modification was installed using primarily H-D components. We built a very slick customized Sporty. Ultimately, the lovely Nyla was intimidated by the power band and the tall sitting position , which of course we enhanced , preferring a Buell Blast instead. She wasn’t riding motorcycles. She was a passenger.




The Sporty collected dust in the shop until a long-time motojournalist from Easyriders was let go and his freelance revenue stream dried up. He was forced to sell his only running motorcycle, so I turned the Sportster over to a brother so he would have a reliable ride.




About this time, or maybe in 2003, we started to build a bike to support the Beach Ride, through George Hayward, the benefactor. It was a Custom Chrome kit bike, and a very sharp build. Dr Nuttboy helped with the operation. Jeremiah Soto dry-walled the shop, and I believe Jon Towle helped. I had been on the Beach Ride Board for years and always supported it and the Love Ride. I discovered something vast and wonderful about the Interplanetary Bikernet nerve center based in a large brass base anchored to the deck, and topped with a hazy glass globe. It told me that the Bikernet Empire could be used for the good of all bikers, so a code was born out of the globe’s radiant light.




We would do whatever we could to keep motorcycling alive, free, and the industry successful. On a daily basis, we helped spread the word, worked with and supported motorcycle rights groups, and fought for less legislation. Why not? What could be more beneficial to the world than more freedom? We started publishing the National Coalition of Motorcyclist’s Coast to Coast Legislative News, authored by Bill Bish, on a monthly basis. Right around this time, the one major drawback to internet access was replaced. The slow-ass modem was upgraded through cable modem supplied by the local SBC cable TV provider. Suddenly we could publish at warp speed. We thought that it would allow us to launch articles quicker and give us more time to chase broads and ride. Not so; it meant we could launch two and three articles a day on Bikernet and steam started to pour from our window. We were cookin’.





While shooting the Road King for American Rider on a back streets in Wilmington, the next town over and directly behind the port of Los Angeles, with famous photog Markus Cuff, I discovered an old rundown hotel for sale on the corner. An old man gave me a tour of this 1923 clapboard, lathe and plaster hotel. It had been gutted in 1981 and portions were refurbished to become an industrial building and a fish processing plant. The entire building was stuccoed and vast concrete rooms created. As I walked through this wild cavernous hideout, my imagination went wild.




Of course, I had to convince the lovely Nyla that this would be a step in the right direction. She was born in a small home in Wilmington, and never looked back. Most Wilmington residents drink margaritas and dream of how they can escape this third world country between Long Beach and San Pedro. It’s as industrial as a town can get. It’s bordered by the Port of Los Angeles, the Port of Long Beach, oil refineries, power plants, train depots, and more 18-wheelers roll through the streets daily than cars. Since this is not a white bread, upscale community, over 85 percent of the population is Hispanic. Hell, longshoremen haul ass to the dreaded Wilmington union halls daily to pick up their jobs, then scream out of down.



Since I was somewhat involved in some community efforts in Pedro, I made a couple of phone calls and was introduced to the Wilmington Waterfront Development Committee. I discovered that this building was at the corner of every future corridor to the water project being discussed. I made an offer. Nyla foolishly agreed, then panicked. We moved in and a new adventure began, plus we started to develop the Bikernet Independent Motorcycle Noise Study, since bikers were being harassed with roadblocks in Pedro and across the country. Suddenly we had a joint that allowed us a large shop. I was awarded the Silver Spoke award by the National Coalition of Motorcyclists, then inducted into the Motorcycle Hall of Fame in Sturgis for God only knows what. I have always supported the Sturgis Museum.




About this time, Jesse James called and asked me to be on the 50th Anniversary Monster Garage Team, building a wrecked Softail into a mighty fine custom chopper. The team was made up of Mark Rowe, the master welder and frame designer, John Reed the master Custom Chrome builder and parts designer, Don Hotop, one of the finest custom bike builders in the country, Carl Morrow, the master engine builder, who doubled the horsepower of this twin cam, and me, a so-so mechanic. I was the guy who recommended Jesse for his first Discovery Channel gig. We had a blast and built one very cool chopper.



A Word from the Bikernet Official Copy Editor :

Shit, when did I get involved with Bikernet? Must have been 2004 or 2005 near as I can figure. Like the Robert Hunter-Jerry Garcia song, The Wheel says, “You can’t slow down and you can’t stand still; if the thunder don’t get you, the lightning will.”

The last economic downturn about ten years ago found me divorced and unemployed for a year back in Allen, Texas, but I got the itch to ride again and bought a 2000 XL1200C Sportster anyhow. A couple of contract consulting jobs came my way that summer and put me in Columbus, Ohio. I swapped the Sporty for one of those rare (not), black, 2003, 100th anniversary edition FXST.

Jobs took me back south to Baton Rouge, Louisiana; north again to St. Louis, southeast to Raleigh, North Carolina, where I picked up a 2007 Road King. Currently, I’m still single and living and working in Colorado Springs.

Me and my big mouth; back in 2004 or 2005, I sorta broadsided Bandit one day about sloppy editing and missed deadlines. Next thing I know, I’m editing tech features, Cantina episodes, World Tour chapters, Building a Bonneville Salt Flats Racer, Harbortown Seduction, Bandit’s biography of the international president of one of California’s 1% clubs, and contributing articles of my own now and then.




Mostly, I do it for fun; it’s a welcome respite from the insufferable pricks and pompous asses that I have to deal with in my real job as a proposal manager for a defense contractor. But it has its perks, too, and it allows me the creativity that’s lacking when you make your living writing, editing and managing dry government documents.

And somewhere before and during all of it, I left an ex in Texas, lost a few girlfriends in Louisiana, Missouri and North Carolina, slid on my ass down a patch of black ice in Ohio, got splattered with bird guts on a Kansas highway, and got to ride and party with a lot of kick-ass brothers and sisters from around the country. On the flip side, I buried a father and a few friends, too, but I choose to celebrate their lives rather than mourn their deaths.

So, yeah, it’s been a helluva ride. I’ll be 60 next fall, and I’m looking forward to riding and celebrating the next 15 years with the Bikernet crew.

– Bruce Snyder, 2011, Colorado Springs, CO



In 2005, after spending a year as the editorial director of Hot Bike, Street Choppers, and another Primedia title, I started on the Sturgis Shovel, my first ground-up project in the new Bikernet Interplanetary Headquarters. We rode to Sturgis.




In 2006, I built the first Sportbike Panhead, with a partial Custom Chrome, John Reed-designed kit bike and an Outlaw 120 engine from Accurate Engineering, and we decided to ride to Bonneville. I met Valerie Thompson, a professional drag racer and a very pretty face in the motorcycle racing community. She wanted to race Bonneville, so I offered her my ride, the Salt Shaker. We didn’t know what the hell we were doing, but we did it. I believe our first pass grabbed us a speed of 152 mph and I was impressed. As it turned out that year, we took home a world land speed record at 141. That same year, we watched the World Land Speed Record for motorcycles broken for the first time in 16 years, from 321.5 mph set by the Easyriders team in 1990, and I was on that team. Interesting. I believe Dennis Manning took the record at about 345 mph. What a year! We were hooked!



After Sturgis 2006, I jumped into Dr. Hamster’s ’53 modified Lincoln and we drove to the bottom of Mexico, then raced in the 2006 LA Carrera PanAmericana vintage road race to the top of Mexico. Then with our 2nd class award in hand, we drove home. All the other teams had rigs, trailers, and tool sheds. We were the only bastards to arrive in our car and everyday, we threw our luggage in the back and went racing. What a ride!




In 2007, we decided to build an aerodynamic bike to fit Valerie, and go after a 200-mph Worlds Fastest Panhead Record. At the same time, Jeremiah Soto rolled into the shop and started his Shovelhead bobber project, and we went at it like mad dogs, building his bike and the Panhead. We hit a top speed at Bonneville at over 160 mph and set another partially streamlined record at around 156 mph. We knew the bike was capable of much greater speeds, but the salt conditions prevented strong runs.




In 2008, I finally published my first Chance Hogan book. We were also contacted by Tim Remus of Wolfgang Publishing to publish a book about our 2007 run to Bonneville, based on the rough chapters about the build on Bikernet. Every year, we were fortunate enough to sit back and make a list of goals we wanted to accomplish. As we rolled into 2008, I was turning 60 years old. I rode to Monterey with Billy Lane and the boss of Sucker Punch Sally Bikes for a vintage meet. Billy traded me a 1926 OHV 350 cc Peashooter engine for my 1913 Pope engine, and we started to build a vintage single cylinder engine bike for Bonneville the following year.




But the stars weren’t aligned for the 5-Ball Racing Crew in 2009. Barry Wardlaw forgot to send us a set of rings for the Assalt Weapan and we couldn’t take it back. We rolled to Bonneville with just the Peashooter and Ray Wheeler’s turbocharged Dyna. He had handling problems and we blew a head gasket with 14:1 compression. We had a great time, but stumbled home early.




I also jumped a jet for the annual meeting of the minds meeting produced by the Motorcycle Riders Foundation, a Washington D.C.-based legislative group that’s the federal arm of motorcycle rights groups across the country. Bikernet presented several efforts, including our popular Independent Motorcycle Noise Study, a freedom movie effort, and our effort to start an aftermarket motorcycle rights group to support the industry. We are a sponsor of the MRF and run their news releases often in the Bikernet news. We publish legislative reports from any state or national organization. Actually, Rogue, a brother and freedom fighter I’ve known since 1972, has sent me reports daily since 1999 from all over the country. He is now in the Sturgis Hall of Fame and still rides like a madman at over 70 years of age.




During this period, every extra dime we could muster went into refurbishing one room at a time in our vast 10,000-square-foot building. I started to build a Crazy Horse Indian engine, 5-Ball Factory Racer with primarily Paughco parts. The frame was initially designed by Rick Krost of US Choppers and he was having a problem getting his board track frames built, so I introduced him to the legendary Paughco family, and immediately he had frames whenever he needed them.




Somewhere along here, Mike Jones called me and invited me to be apart of his movie effort, Born to Ride. I tried to memorize a handful of lines and play a motorcycle journalist, asking the hero questions in an interview. This summer, the biker film will be released in Phoenix. Branscombe Richmond plays one of the slap-stick bad guys. Mike is already working on another film.



“Bandit was always the one who always got away, the one they could never catch or censor. May Old Glory wave over the Bikernet headquarters another 15 years.”




In 2010, we suffered through the economic downturn, but completely rebuilt Bikernet. I moved it to a new location in Columbus, Ohio within a family operation. They oversee over 300 web sites and said they could handle the vast Bikernet empire. We are still grappling with them to upload all of our features onto the new platform. Sure, it’s better, with more bells and whistles, but it means more work. We could work on this bastard 24/7. When one of the bosses, Joe, started to monkey with Bikernet, he called me.




“This site is amazing,” Joe said. “We have designed sites with millions of dollars and they don’t have a fraction of your content or your readership numbers.”








Every year, we made a list of adventures and goals, and flew at them like rabid dogs. In 2010, I was approached by Motorbooks to write a book about a 1%er, the international president of a club for 24 years. I was still writing features for American Iron, the Horse, Cycle Source, and Heavy Duty in Australia. A handful of righteous brothers in the custom motorcycle business, including Kiwi Mike and Billy McCahill were still trying to assist the industry by forming an aftermarket motorcycle organization to support motorcycle rights and motorcycle freedoms. Nevada is trying to repeal their helmet law. Other states are trying to pass helmet laws. California is trying to smog test motorcycles, and the noise battles are being fought all over the country.




I try to spread the word as much as possible, and we even considered trying to make a film about freedom in this country wrapped around motorcycling. That’s another adventure we may embark on as we move forward. I may have slipped in the above timeline and scrambled the dates, but that’s basically the story. I don’t want to go into the goals for 2011, since you see them mentioned every week on Bikernet, but I would like to thank about a thousands folks for their support, leadership, talents, and contributions over the years. I know I’m going to forget someone, but this is the internet, not a page in a magazine. We can correct or add to any aspect of an article, anytime night or day. Just ping me and I’ll make it happen–I hope.




I was interviewed last week by a writer from Random Lengths, the local newspaper. He mentioned that I was blessed to have created a pure custom motorcycle paradise and live smack in the middle of it. If anything is green, Bikernet is. We don’t destroy trees; we don’t even commute to an office. It’s fuckin’ amazing. Thanks for stickin’ with us, and maybe we’ll hook up on the ride to Sturgis 2011.



Bob T.
Chris T.
Jason Douglas
Chris Kallas
Doc Robinson
Johnny Humble
Paul Garson
Kirk Willard
Jeff Hennie
Sin Wu
Jeremiah Soto
Jon Towle
Peter Linney
Markus Cuff



Rebecca Segal
Uncle Monkey
Nyla Olsen
Eric Herrmann
Ray C. Wheeler
Cigar Marc B.
Joe Tripp
Tedd T.
CarlR
Bruce Snyder
Ladd Terry
River Rat
Vickster
Patty Hamster
Myron Larrabee
Agent Zebra
Tramp Scotty
Uncle Monkey
Barry Wardlaw
Holger Mohr
Richard Lester
Pepper Massey
Mike and Vicky Pullin
Jim Gufra
Rick Krost
Ron Paugh
Danny Gonzalez
Lorenzo Lamas
Branscombe Richmond
Edge
Robin Hartfiel
Bikernet Betsy
Genevieve Schmitt
Paul James
Charles P.
Jenn Gruber
Michelle McCarthy
Lisa Pedicini
Buster Cates
Wordman
Frank Kaisler
Dick Allen
Quick Throttle Art
Ian
Donna
Arlin Fatland
Marilyn Bragg
Charles Young
TBear
JoAnn Bortels
Buckshot

Continued from page 2…… With a couple weeks left, I called Joker Machine daily. I didn’t want to press, but I was going out of my mind. My contact, Geoff, had faced some health problems and decided that smoking was his cure. I didn’t want to add to the stress of building high-precision, very costly components that were already on back order. I considered myself a nuisance so I was trying to tread lightly. The staff at Joker was more than helpful and I finally got the call from Geoff. “Come on out and we can bolt on the parts right here. I’ve even found a guy around the corner at Greased Lightening who will make up the brake lines. We finally got the stuff back from chrome, but as usual, all the elements aren’t perfect. You’ll have to roll with one polished piece. The others were sent back to be rechromed.”       I respected his desire for perfection and that he had paying customers breathing down his neck, so I was perfectly happy to take whatever he had. Jay from Station 34 in San Pedro, a cool restoration shop built in an old gas station down the street, volunteered to haul me out to Azusa to the Joker Machine facility. Jay from Japan works with the Japanese Easyriders Magazine and wheels and deals with bikes back and forth to Japan. He was also building a rigid to ride to Japan until I helped him make a contact with the Harley-Davidson fleet center and he was able to borrow a Road Glide. The cheater. Anyway, we loaded the Blue Flame into the back of Jay’s ’79 ranchero and hauled it out to Joker, where we installed the forward controls. Then we rolled a couple blocks to Greased Lightening where the owner, Mike Ingle, custom made the hydraulic brake lines for the front and rear brakes. We bled and tested them and loaded the bike for the return trip to Pedro and the first start up. Mike’s shop is small, but his engine building facility is well equipped. He’s experienced and ready now to take on building engines for a larger clientele. He told us that when bleeding brakes, smearing a tad of grease on the threads of the bleeder nipple prevents air bubbles from creeping around the threads and results in a more positive bleed. An hour later, we pulled up in front of the hot rod body and paint joint around the corner from the headquarters. Henry the proprietor and Bob, the owner of one of Henry’s creations, came scrambling out of the corrugated steel building to check the metallic blue monster sticking way out of the back of the baby blue Ranchero. Using Henry’s driveway for an assist to Jay’s ramp, we unloaded the bike easily and fired it to life for the first time. In the back of my mind I planned to use Eddie Trotta’s break-in scenario where he rides the bike for one mile then tweaks, the next day he rides it for 10 miles and tweaks some more, then 50 miles, and so on. I liked the notion and the bike rumbled easily but idled too high. I rode it around the block and discovered a number of tweaks that needed to be addressed immediately. The formula was working. We pulled the bike into the garage as the dark-haired beauty arrived. We celebrated the occasion with more than just a drink. The night was gone in a blur of sex, sweetness and excitement at bringing the beast to life. I’ve been building bikes for 30 years and the exhilaration of a metallic accomplishment that can carry you across the country is still the same. It’s something like sex and winning the lottery. Although nothing compares to sex, like, well … more sex. We’ll leave that for another discussion. I had less than 10 days left when I took the bike for its 10-mile excursion. It ran fine, but the tightness of the belt was bothersome. Something was rubbing on the final belt. The rear wheel spacing was slack and there was still no speedometer. The rear fender was finding its home and the bolts needed to be tightened. The new front brake line needed to be secured and we discovered some industrial wire cable ties with rubber inserts that would do the trick. We removed the inserts and polished the aluminum, and we had a couple of custom hydraulic hose guides. I mounted one to the Weerd Bros. lower triple tree by drilling and tapping a small hole, but I made sure to go in about an inch so I had plenty of thread depth. I also made sure I had enough fasteners to have them match if and when I ran the speedometer drive. I had 10 days to put 500 miles on the bike and dial it in for the 2000-mile jaunt across the desert to the Black Hills. With another round of tweaking under my belt, I rode the bike down the coast for breakfast an put another 50 miles on it. I pulled into a gas station to refill and couldn’t get the gas cap off the Sportster tank. It was a carefully manufactured super clean custom cap that fit right down on the surface of the tank. Damn it looked clean, but the gripping edge of the cap was less than an 1/8-inch thick and a hair off the surface of the new paint. With little surface to grip, it wouldn’t budge. I stood in the station perplexed. I knew I would run out of fuel before I returned to headquarters. Unlike most of the stations in L.A., this one actually had a technician, and a wrench who spoke English. On top of that, the man was generous with his tools, another rarity. I borrowed his largest pair of channel-locks and a rag that I draped over the cap and the top of the tank. The cap came loose. Another item to be tweaked. When the weekend came for the calendar show, the bike had a couple hundred miles on it and I had less than a week until departure. There was still no speedometer but the bike was running fine. I had yet to respace the rear wheel, but two women wanted my company at the show and how could I possibly resist? The sun was ablaze as the girls followed me into the check-in area where I planned to display the bike with Joker Machine’s fine rides and then at the Mikuni booth, which sat alone on the edge of the water without any bikes or babes around it to draw the crowds to their product. I ran into a girl who I had once come very close to dating on a regular basis, Lexy, a blond bomb shell with tiny feet and a skirt that could have been made out of one of my Hawaiian shirt sleeves. She dripped with sexiness as I greeted her. The dark-haired beauty at my side stared at the youngster in the stretched-on skirt and her emerald eyes glistened with some mysterious feminine emotion. Sweat beaded on my forehead and the sun hadn’t even crested the horizon yet. The show was flawless and I escaped early to log on more miles and spend some quality time with the lovelies who chaperoned me through the bikinis and chrome. I continued to ride whenever I could while making arrangements for the trip. A noise nagged me and I suspected the BDL system, which is the easiest thing in the world to install if you watch the spacing and the initial alignment. If I ever install one again, I’ll know just how to go after it, and the thing will be a breeze. I also noted some aluminum shavings in the clutch basket. I kept riding, adjusting and tightening the Joker Machine mirror, which was very flexible and sturdy. The Joker controls worked perfectly and I found a couple CCI frame clamps to hold the clutch cable in proper alignment. Two days before departure I pulled the rear wheel for balancing and fixing the spacing. This time a neighbor had loaned me a flat belt and disc sander and I immediately took too much off the spacer and had to take it to the local shop for shims. The next morning I was at Century Motors first thing. When I asked about shims, the mechanic looked at me with disgruntled eyes, stroked his long beard and said, “I’ll check the washer drawer.” I jumped in the flamed Bikernet T-bird and hauled over to California H-D for an assortment of shims, which I quickly took back to Century Motors. With the proper alignment and the wheel carefully balanced, I returned to the garage for installation. Then I decided the noise was coming from the clutch and began to dismantle it. I couldn’t seem to knock the clutch nut loose and more loose ends began to appear. It was Wednesday, with a day left before a crack-of-dawn departure on Friday, but the signs were pointing at a postponement until Saturday morning. Thursday morning I had lists in my pockets and notes on the Panhead Desk. The spare bedroom was becoming the packing department with my bedroll, my HA leather vest, a Prison Blues denim jacket from Chrome Specialties, my ditty bag, extra sunglasses and shirts. The bedroll was rapidly being buried under shit I threw on the bed every time I wandered down the hallowed Bikernet hall.  With each new creak of the feeble hardwood floor, I thought of something else. Sun Block, bungee cords and the battery charger for the cell phone. Just before noon, as I was writing news for the Web site, the UPS man showed up with a small square box. It contained the Custom Chrome Speedometer. I stopped to sign for the package, confirmed what it was, then headed to the garage. The Blue Flame stood majestically in the dim light as I studied its sleek form. She was beautiful and gave off a sense of alertness and anxiousness to hit the road. I wanted to load up and cut a dusty trail that minute, but I had lists to check off, calls to make, the news to finish. I was waiting for Bikernet patches to arrive. The UPS man had already left. If I waited one more day, perhaps? I looked at the speedo and set it on the bench. I went back to the glass Panhead and kept hammering on the news, although my heart was heading for the door.

 

Ultimate Builder United States Championship in Daytona Beach, FL
 
The Ultimate Builder United States Championship of Custom Bike Building is held at the Daytona Progressive International Motorcycle Show during Daytona Bike Week, March 9-12, 2011. This elite competition crowns the definitive national champions in Free Style, Modified Harley and Performance Custom.
 
The winners of the series get an automatic bid to the AMD World Championship of Custom Bike Building in Sturgis, SD later this year.
 
 

 

Free Style Class
 
Kenny Williams wins the Free Style class of the United States Championship with Tantalizer, his 2011 KW Customs Bagger. Tantalizer sports a Mike Garrison 127ci mil, front and rear air ride suspension, Performance Machine 23” front wheel, and chrome by Chrome Masters. The flawless paint was provided by KW Customs.  

 
 Modified Harley
 
McPhiz out of LA Speed Shop wins in Long Beach and at the United States Championships. Chris Richardson’s bike is a 1953 H-D Panhead FL with paint by Headcase and chrome by New California Bumpers.
 
 
Chris Richardson wins Modified Harley, cash and a Harley-Davidson 120″ Race Motor
 
  

Performance Custom
 

Jack McCoy built the rowdy alter ego of the stock Suzuki B-King. Sitting in the state-of-the-art chassis and suspension platform is a dual turbo engine that pumps out 515HP.  The KING of the  B-King showcases an imposing engine that is really out there… for all the world to see.
 
 
  

 

MOB Rules  
 
 
Steve Galvin of Wikked Steel wins MOB RULES with 2010 Wikked Steel Area 51. Paint by Jason Trimbach, Chrome provided by Space Coast. The engine is a 120ci Ultima engine with extensive Wikked modifications.
 
 
Gary Maurer: 1st Year Recipient, Ambassador Award Winner
 
 
This award is for the individual that has provided support to the Ultimate Builder Custom Bike Show during the series. Gary promoted the show and assisted builders in getting their bikes to Indianapolis Dealer Expo as well as getting Bob Kay into the Slippery Noodle Inn, Indiana’s oldest continuously operating bar, having opened in 1850.
 

 

 
 
The United States Championship is an affiliate competition to the AMD World Championship of Custom Bike Building.
 
Free Style Class

1st – Kenny Williams, 2011 KW Customs Bagger
2nd – Steve Galvin, Wikked Steel, Area 51
 
3rd – Robbie Closson, CamTech Customs
 
MOD Harley Class

1st – Chris Richardson, LA Speed Shop, 1953 Panhead

2nd – Bob McAreavey, 2001 H-D Fatboy

3rd – Jason Bochniak, 2006 Harley-Davidson

Performance Custom
1st – Jack & Autumn McCoy, Inferno: 2008 Suzuki B-King
2nd – Jamie Luczak, 2006 Suzuki Hayabusa
 
3rd – Nick Visvardis, 2008 Suzuki GSX-R1000

Okay, you have the story behind this build, and Chris Kallas is refining the concept drawing. My engine arrived from the factory, and Eric Bennett immediately noticed the return address, in Viola, Wisconsin.

As it turns out, the factory hired the S&S crew to assemble their Evo line of engines. What a natural. I liked that notion all the way around the block. First, it means more American hands in my new engine. Plus, what could be better than to have the best performance engine company on the planet working with the factory on the last and most refined V-twin configuration?

For this crew, and lots of riders all over the world, the FXR Evo is the best of the best. So, for Bikernet, this became the year of the FXR and the Evo engine. I asked the factory about their Evo engine program and received the following information.

A Modicum of Harley Engine History
The first 74 cubic-inch V-Twin engine on the JD and FD models was introduced in 1921 and the 45 cubic-inch side-valve V-twin engine (later to be known as the Flathead) on the D model debuted in 1929. The Flathead engine proved so reliable that variations of it were available on Harley-Davidson motorcycles as late as 1973 (servi-car trikes).

In 1936, Harley-Davidson introduced the EL model with an overhead valve, 61-cubic-inch engine. With increased horsepower and bold styling changes, the motorcycle earned the Knucklehead nickname, due to the shape of its rocker boxes.

New features were added to the 61 and 74 overhead valve engines in 1948, including aluminum heads and hydraulic valve lifters. New one-piece, chrome-plated rocker box covers shaped like cake pans earned this engine the nickname Panhead. The engine introduced on the Electra Glide models in 1966 to replace the Panhead became known as the Shovelhead, again due to the shape of its rocker covers.

Spec Sheet

Owner: Chris Richardson/ LA Speed Shop

Website: www.laspeedshop.com

Make: Harley Davidson

Year: 1947

Model: FL

Type: knucklehead

Year:  1947

Fabrication:  Chris Richardson/ LA Speed Shop

Finish: Chris Richardson/LA Speed Shop

Time:    6 weeks

Assembler: Chris Richardson/LA Speed Shop

Clutch: Rivera Primo open belt drive                        

ENGINE:

Type: V-Twin Replica Knucklehead

Year:1947

Heads: Newly casted

Valves: Sifton

Pistons:8.5:1cast pistons with Hastingsrings

Cylinders: Cast iron 

Camshaft: Sifton lightning cam

Lifters: solid lifters

Pushrods: Sifton solid push rods

Carburetor/Injection: Linkert M 74

Air Cleaner: Vintage Buck Rogers BirdCatcher

Transmission: RevTec w/ jockey shift

Ignition: Distributor mechanical advance

Exhaust: Paughco

Finish: Chrome

Frame:

Type: Harley Davidson

Year: 1953

Builder: Chris Richardson / LA Speed Shop

Stretch:   stretched back bone 3 inches and stretched front legs5 inches

Rake:52 degree

Molding:

 Finish: Casey Johnson/Headcase Kustom Art

Forks:

Type:   Springer

Year: 1941

Builder: Harley Davidson/LA Speed Shop

Finish: Chrome

Triple Trees:Top tree and handle barsmade by LA Speed Shop

Modifications: rear legs are made out of1940 ford radius rods and narrowed 3 inches and lengthened 5 inches

 Wheels Front:

Rim: Excel

Size:21 1.65

Hub: Custom spool hub by LA Speed Shop

Builder: LA Speed Shop

Finish: chrome

Tire: Avon Speedmaster

Brake: no front brake

Wheels Rear:

Rim: dropped center

Size: 19” front rim 2.00

Brake: mechanical

Builder: LA Speed Shop

Finish: chrome

Fender: Vintage BSA

Tire: Replica Coker

Hub: Star

Handlebars: Custom made by LA Speed Shop

Risers: Custom made by LA Speed Shop

Headlights: 4.5” mini light

Taillights: mini bullet

Turn Signals F/R: My hands

Electric’s: Bike wired w/ cloth wire byMobile Custom Wiring

Seat: Riff Raff Leather

Footrest F/R: Front pegs and mid controlscustom made by LA Speed Shop

Oil Tank: Custom made by LA Speed Shopusing an Offenhauser 409 Chevy Valve cover

Fuel Tank(s): Narrowed & Tunneled byLA Speed Shop Sportster Tank

Paint, Chrome, and other  F/X’s:

 Colors: Metallic sea foam green basecoat, green micro flake with green candy and variegated gold leaf with limegreen pin striping

Type:PPG and House of Kolor

The Painter: Casey Johnson/ HeadcaseKustom Art

Address: www.headcasekustomart.com

Chrome: New California Bumpers

Australia has started a love affair with Victory motorcycles and after only two years they are the second highest-selling cruising motorcycle in the State of Victoria, where the first company store was opened about two years ago. At present their Melbourne store is the number two dealer in the world, but it is expected that within a year the recently opened Sydney store will overtake it. We are not talking Polaris dealerships. These are pure Victory supported stores, much like a Harley-Davidson dealership.

Currently the Melbourne and Sydney stores are the only company owned Victory dealerships in the world. The new store was opened on Saturday the 29th of January 2011. The dealership address: 554 Parramatta Road Ashfield.

Somewhat stunningly – in this old biker’s opinion – the clarion call for the opening of the Sydney facility was the sound of eighty Victory motorcycles that had been ridden 500 miles up from Melbourne to celebrate this event. This is a powerful demonstration of the brand loyalty Victory is building in Australia, as it required the owners to take several days off work in order to participate.

But make no mistake; this event was a very big deal for not only a heap of rabid Aussie enthusiasts, but also for a power pack of American executives who flew down under for the celebration. They included Bennett Morgan, President and COO of Polaris Industries Inc, Steve Menneto, General Manager, Victory Motorcycles, Mike Dougherty, VP Global New Market Development and Ross Clifford, Director International Motorcycles. This was also a big deal for the struggling American market. If these shop work out well down under, they are obviously destined for the United States, as soon as the economy is ready. It’s also a terrific indicator of the Australian marketplace, and the faith Polaris placed on this marketing gamble. Recently Kevin Alsop, the boss of Big Bear Choppers, mentioned that his largest market currently is located in Australia.

A highlight of the event was the unveiling by Steve Menneto of the new Victory Highball which was launched only one week earlier in New York, with Australia being the first country outside of the USA to land one. This is one hell of a cool motorcycle and I predict great things for it. Well done Victory.

You can check out video of the ride at the web site of the Victory Riders Network on http://vrnetwork.ning.com/ and it makes pretty entertaining viewing, even if you ride another brand.

Doc Robinson is the highly esteemed Tech Editor of Heavy Duty Magazine, the largest cruiser publication in Australia, and a regular contributor to Bikernet.

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

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.

The author, his motorcycle and his job for a week.

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.

The famous traveling Panhead Billy.

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.

Another mystery awaits.