The annual Arizona HOG Rally recently returned to the historic mountain settlement of Williams. The event moved around the state from year to year, but Williams is a HOG favorite, having returned to this northern Arizona town for a record tenth time.

Founded in 1881 as a trapping and logging camp, Williams is named after one of the town’s wooly settlers, mountain man Bill Williams. Riding by its handmade brick and clapboard buildings, it’s easy to get the feeling Norman Rockwell might be hanging around, leaning up against an oily Flathead, waiting for the next staged western shootout, admiring the period architecture, maybe planting his easel on the corner of Third and Main, more popularly known as Route 66.

Roughly 500 HOG members representing 13 Chapters statewide rode into this well-preserved piece of old west Americana to suckle on the tar teat of the Mother Road. According to a spokeswoman for the Williams Chamber of Commerce, “I think HOG likes our small town hospitality, and bikers are very welcome here. They also like being on Historic Route 66, the motorcycle-only designated parking throughout downtown, and, of course, all the great rides. We roll out the red carpet and they pretty much have the run of the town.”

When many motorcycle rallies across the nation are finding their host cities less and less hospitable, Williams is a home away from home. The town is helpful and authentic; there is a laid back and intimate feel that makes a biker feel at ease. There is this creeping greed elsewhere, where enthusiasts are too often treated like nothing more than commercial revenue and traffic ticket fodder. This old boomtown, population 3,200, about 3 ½ hours northwest of Phoenix and 30-minutes west of Flagstaff, appears to understand motorcycling is made of people.

Williams was the last town in America to submit to the interstate bypass. It stubbornly fought the highway, relenting only when the feds agreed to provide no less than three exits to the tiny town. Seems like there’s no better place to hold a biker rally than this rebel outpost. Harley’s classically styled motorcycles couldn’t be more at home, or in a better place to ride away from.

The Grand Canyon is less than an hour’s ride north of town. Within one- to two-hour rides from Williams, which is flanked by the biggest ponderosa pine forest in the nation, is the perky college town of Flagstaff, spectacular Oak Creek Canyon, the red rock wonderlands of Sedona, and the old copper boomtown of Jerome. Further northeast is Monument Valley and the great Navajo Nation, the country’s largest Native American reservation. The haunting Petrified Forest and parts of the vast Painted Desert can be reached in less than three hours. If Williams has the will and facility, it has the makings to become another Sturgis.

At an elevation of 6,800, June in this mountain town offers almost ideal biker conditions. Temps were in the 80s with low humidity and a soft breeze that sometimes picked up to a bluster. The event celebrated Arizona’s centennial by giving away free bags of commemorative swag during the bike games. There was also a free poker walk, guided and self-guided tours, a poker run, bike show, street dance, and a stirring bike parade that could bring a tear to the most grizzled eye. Wild Bill Hickok himself would have felt right at home here, thrown down his bedroll, played a little faro, and maybe sought a more charmed end.

Bobcats, Bikers and Bears…

Oh my. There is an unexpected, 158-acre wildlife park just east of downtown Williams. Bikers are heartily welcomed, and if you go they may even make you an exhibit. Bearizona is a drive-through wild animal preserve, featuring not only black bears but arctic and tundra wolves, American bison, white buffalo, burros, bighorn sheep, mountain goats and Dall sheep.

Motorcycles are dissuaded from the wild animal drive-through portion since the inhabitants have a strictly controlled diet and don’t digest leather very well. A courtesy car and GPS audio tour is provided free of charge. The drive takes about 30 minutes, although there is no time limit.

The road leads to a posse of black bears of various cuddly sizes and ages, although we’re often reminded to not hug the fluffy, man-eating wildlife. Fort Bearizona looms as the road exits through a large, gaping gate, leaving us to wonder what, exactly, is keeping the bears from the nearby concession stands.

Inside the wide-open Fort Bearisona, large pens contain bobcat, lynx, raccoon, porcupines, a barn animal area, and other forest creatures indigenous to North America, including the star of the show, cute little baby bears. A Birds of Prey show is presented at 11, 1 and 3 p.m. daily and is a treat.

Bearizona is open everyday from 8:00 a.m.; last vehicle admitted at 6:00 p.m. Closing hours vary with season and weather. Adults cost $20; seniors 62 and older, $18. For more information, call 928-635-2289; visit www.bearizona.com.

The Arizona HOG Rally will be reconvene in Yuma next October 24-26. For more information, contact Nick Feldaverd, Rally Coordinator, email nfeld@cox.net; call 602.206.1940; www.azstatehogrally.com.

For more on Williams, AZ visit www.experiencewilliams.com.

The Sheridan House Bed & Breakfast
460 East Sheridan Ave.
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-8991
 www.sheridanhouseinn.com 

I find when it comes to B&B’s, what they are not is as important as what they are. The Sheridan House Inn is not rife with Grandma’s fussy doilies and bric-a-brac. It strikes a balance between an inviting, come-and-have-fun vibe and serene environs snuggled in between the cool, towering pines. The suites offer a tidy, restful, minimalist décor. The luxury touches leaves one feeling pampered—unparalleled coziness of their pillows, and Elemis bath and body products that put their dewy kisses upon road and wind-weary tresses and parched skin.

Motorcyclists Claire and Nick Kirby are the vivacious proprietors. They seem to have been born to the task of cultivating an inn, but we were surprised to learn they’re new to the gig. The affable Kirbys hail from the U.K. and lucky for Williams, a post-9/11 officious bureaucracy didn’t thwart the pioneering spirit that landed them on the frontiers of northern Arizona. Their once run-down property is now resplendent in extensive renovations, artful taste, and fresh zeal under their ownership. The Brit visionaries have innovative ideas to further develop the grounds, and offer special packages to man and biker alike.

We arrived to what I can only describe as the “happiest” of happy hours, delightfully hosted by the Kirbys each Friday and Saturday. We saw a passel of buffed Harleys in the driveway, and knew it was time to put the keys away. With a toast to the Grand Canyon Brewing Co., our host’s delicious homemade chorizo nuggets, and the attending fellow riders, we pronounced Sheridan House our new hideout.

Breakfast on the patio is a selection of sweet and savory offerings made on premises. Their handmade, secret recipe Lincolnshire Sausages, a Lemon Chiffon confection, Sweetened Mascarpone Cheese with Fresh Berries and the regional Huevos Rancheros were outstanding.

Sheridan House puts you up into the quieter residential area, but just a quick ride down the hill into downtown and all the rally action. See their website and Facebook page for more details.

Considering the cut of our Baby Boomer relaxed jeans, it’s easy to see we have husky appetites. Here are a couple of places that won’t disappoint:

World Famous Rod’s Steakhouse
301 East Route 66
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-2671
www.rods-steakhouse.com

Rod’s Steakhouse is an icon, a surviving monument to Historic Route 66. The blazing Hereford cow sign is a beacon to the lost and hungry.

As you dip another shrimp in cocktail sauce, take in all the country kitsch—dishware accented by the sturdy bovine, paper cow cookie-cutter logo menu, and tell-all placemat detailing the rich history of the eatery. For the duration of the rally and maybe beyond, staffers dress in H-D regalia. No surprise the owners have been HOG affiliated for more than 20 years.

The present owners are Lawrence and Stella Sanchez. The missus has a warm smile for the customers and puts her love into the house specialties, such as Pasole, a nurturing elixir of exquisitely spiced pork and hominy soup. Her husband rose through the ranks in true American dream fashion, from dishwasher, busboy, manager, head chef, then new proprietor. A Sanchez is always on property to accommodate the needs of their guests.

The concise menu is heavy on the beef offerings with chicken, fish, and shrimp options. Appetizers and sides round out the menu, and the Cherry Pie makes for a nice finish. Their steaks are best-cut top sirloin, and their mesquite broiler imparts a really nice flavor. Cut options will fit the daintiest to manliest appetites. We enjoyed the thick and juicy Filet Mignon ($27) and the Ladies Lite Cut Prime Rib Au Jus ($21). Entrees come with Soup or Salad, Baked Potato, Fries, or Green Beans, and Rolls w/ Butter. The meat was fork tender and beautifully cooked to order.

See their website for photos, souvenirs, detailed history, cuisine offerings, and more.

Grand Canyon Brewing Co. & Cruisers Café 66
233 West Route 66
Williams, AZ 86046
928-635-2168 (Brewery)
928-635-2445 (Café)
www.grandcanyonbrewery.com
www.cruisers66.com

Brew crafters aspire to achieve beer’s ideal “taste and balance.” Strangely enough, those two qualities are lost on heavily imbibing consumers, who then not only ruin a beautiful brew, but maybe their future if they get back on their bikes. Beer is a terrible thing to waste, especially if it’s from Grand Canyon Brewing.

The beer menu changes with the availability of harvest time ingredients, but often there are pilsners, pale ales, wheats, stouts and seasonal brews in the rotation. Beer aficionados are watching this tasty microbrewery with great interest, and expansion appears on tap. A Grand Canyon beer may be coming to a bar or restaurant near you.

Attached to the brewery is 1950s’ theme Cruisers Café 66, hard to miss from the street with its elevated hotrod, Marlon Brando mural, and beer girls barely in bikinis. The restaurant has an outdoor patio and stage, and seems to be the hub for rally revelers. The girls pop tops while musicians rock and wail. This is an ideal spot to people watch, dance, and enjoy the American café-style cuisine. Portions are ample and provide that Mother Road burger, barbecue chicken, and old-fashioned, strangely satisfying Chicken Fried Steak goodness.

A full cocktail bar, four HD flat screens, gift shop, and nostalgia decor comprise this venue. The fruits of the on-property brewery are on draft.

Author’s note:
This event took place sometime in the mid, or maybe late, ’90s I think. To date (2009) I still maintain no permanent address and have stayed nowhere longer than two months.

The motorcycle rally in Daytona, Florida had been a good time but it was over now. It was still early March which, as anyone knows, is much too early a season for riding a bike into the north. The money in my pocket was running dangerously low ($230) and my high mileage FLT (full dress Harley Davidson) had a multitude of mechanical problems in need of attention very soon. Knowing almost no one in the Sunshine State I decided to just enjoy a slow ride south and see what happened next.

If one visits either coast of Florida he will find himself mostly immersed in city traffic. The center of the state, however, offers an abundance of small towns and lush backcountry roads. The choice was obvious. In Florida, pine and palm trees often grow side by side in the thick forests that lined the small secondary highways I chose.

The winter had been long and cold for a man who lives outside and travels by motorcycle, and as the air grew warmer with each days ride south, so did my excitement and anticipation of the coming spring-time travels.

Eventually I arrived in alligator alley (many ’gators) and the seemingly endless swamplands of the southern Florida Everglades. Besides overpriced Airboat swamp tour rides, a modest roadside town offered a small gas station. There, a man told of a free campground located on the shore of a little ’gator filled lake only a mile from where we stood. I decided to check it out.

The dirt road that led to this isolated lake circled its sandy shores before turning back on itself. The friendly camp-host who greeted my arrival said to pick any spot, enjoy myself, and stop by his camper for coffee in the morning if I liked. I thanked him kindly then fired up the old Harley to circle the lake in search of a good camp-spot. Besides a few alligators, the campground was home to only a handful of RV and tent campers.

On the first pass I was stopped at a very large, primitive, and yet somehow elaborate camp to become quickly acquainted with a big family of hillbillies who told me (and I believed them) they were from the back woods of Arkansas. They numbered seven strong, and all agreed that I would have to stay as their honored guest.

Thirty-something was the approximate age of the oldest son—the obvious leader—and his word seemed as law among the rest of the family. Everything about this guy reminded me of Brad Pitt’s character as a trailer-trash psycho-killer in the movie “Kalifornia”. Nevertheless, they all treated me as family and cooked up a big dinner of steaks and freshly caught trout over their open fire in celebration of my visit. A strange sort of fame to be sure; but undeniably fun as well. I put up a tent against the mosquitoes that night and slept on the bank of the little ‘gator filled lake.

Next morning psycho boy took his mini truck and headed into town for supplies. The family remained behind. His wife was a woman crippled by a rare condition that promotes severe curvature of the spine. Although her mind was clear (well, sort of), her body was a torturous thing of obvious pain and disfigurement.

Before long she and Brad’s mom handed me their camera and asked if I’d take a few pictures of them perched on my bike. When the amateur photo shoot was over, I bent down to help the sweet natured, handicapped woman from the motorcycle seat. Just when I had her lifted a foot in the air the family mutt decided to move on this opportunity. So there I stood bent over my bike with a cripple in my arms and a dog latched onto my ass screaming like a woman in labor! Too bad no one got a picture of that.

When Brad returned, and with the promise of some great pictures, he asked me to move my bike to the waters edge. I did. He then produced a fishing pole and started casting a lead sinker at the noggin of an innocent alligator who was minding his own business way out in the lake. Once Brad had pissed the big lizard off sufficiently, he reeled the line in as the toothy beast followed his lour to the bank beside my bike. When the ’gator arrived, psycho boy began beating him with the pole while yelling, “Shoot the picture now!”

His mother’s voice quivered with obvious fear as she begged him to stop or at least be careful.

“Oh Maw,” Brad replied as the alligator snapped yet again at the pole he continued to beat it with, “it’s just an ol’ gator being a ’gator.”

Next morning my new friends cooked up a tasty breakfast for which they insisted I stay. But the little campground lay in the middle of nowhere and I was ready to move on. When the food was gone, I said goodbye then returned to the little highway and my slow ride across alligator alley.

The landmass of southern Florida rests atop a bed of ancient coral. This prehistoric coral bed extends beneath the oceans surface for many miles beyond the southern most coastline. The result is a chain of small coral based islands known as the Florida Keys. They extend beyond the southern shores of the mainland and are surrounded by a sea of exceptionally shallow water. It’s these shallow waters enabling 130 some-odd miles of bridges connecting this string of islands to be built.

Eventually I pulled onto Highway-1, which led south across these magnificent concrete structures. The mid-March air temperature was in the middle 80s, as I cast my gaze to the changing scenery all around. Aside from the shops and houses, the islands were made up mostly of thick forests under a clear blue sky. But the water…

Sweat ran from my brow as a carefree breeze blew me from island to island. To my left was the Atlantic and to the right the Gulf of Mexico. The seafloor lay just below the surface of the very shallow salt water contained a dark, military green vegetation. Still other areas were a white color where the bottom was only finely ground sand. From high atop the bridges, the water below just looked like a huge patchwork quilt that continued on forever. Smaller islands could be seen on both sides with an occasional boat thrown in, to break the monotony. With very few cares in the world to interrupt this experience, I rode on.

Hwy-1 ended at the exceptionally crowded island of Key West (90 nautical-miles from Cuba), and it was just after sunset as I entered the Tourist Info Center to pick up a free map and ask directions to the action. The sweet young receptionist sent me to Duval Street. This narrow street starts at the Gulf of Mexico and runs all the way to the Atlantic Ocean (about 2 miles). I was soon to learned their huge tourist trade is the mainstay of the Key West economy. Duval Street (lined with restaurants and dinner places, tittie bars and extravagant nightclubs offered live bands and dancing every night, coffee houses, and an array of T-shirt and other souvenir shops) is a major south Atlantic party zone/tourist trap.

The crowd was thick and live music poured into the street as I backed the FLT against the Duval Street curb and leaned her onto the kickstand. Before long a big guy pulled an old Superglide into the parking space beside mine and quickly struck up a conversation. Doc stated that he owned THE PIRATE’S DEN; the island’s only biker friendly tittie-bar. He invited me to stop by later for a complimentary lap dance. With a promise to show, I thanked him kindly before he rode off.

Not ten minutes later four drunken tourist chicks materialized from the Duval Street crowd to snatch me from the parked FLT’s pilot seat. After an hour of dancing they invited me for a dip in the Jacuzzi that bubbled among the thick foliage of tropical plants in the beautifully landscaped, yet very private, pool area of their luxury hotel.

It was late when I arrived at The Pirates Den. As closing time approached, Doc offered use of the bar’s side yard to make camp in if I liked. I did.

The first order of business on that sunny, tropical-island morning in Doc’s yard was food. After locating an inexpensive breakfast, I decided it wise to search out a more permanent home.

The small island of Key West was much too crowded for a traveling vagabond to successfully hide his camp. Obviously, the solution could only be found on one of the other islands. Boca Chica Key was two islands north and still only six miles from downtown Duval Street. With exception of a large military base, the land was mostly vacant. Shooting into the woods just off Hwy 1, a well hidden walking (or riding in my case) trail led to a beautiful clearing only a short distance in. The place was completely surrounded by pine, mangrove, palm, and other tropical trees. Perfect!

In the swamp 30-feet from my camp an old refrigerator lay on its back rusting. On the fourth day, I began to use the hollow compartment inside as a closet. The Key West locals just smile at the constant parade of “Tourons”, as some like to call them, and politely take their money. The great piles of gear bungee-corded to my bike had made it clear to everyone that I was a tourist. Time and again, the locals had greeted me with scant interest or even contempt. It’s just the way the island people are. The newfound ability to stash my gear at home helped to change their attitude toward me almost immediately.

After some negotiations I worked out a window cleaning trade with a local health club owner. That deal granted complete access to their facilities including weight room and hot showers.

The island was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.

I began to settle in. Being a stranger in a strange land, I’d come to this place alone and the constant festivity of Duval Street attracted me like a moth to flame.

It was a lazy afternoon as I sat drinking Java on the front porch of one Duval Street coffee shop. In casual conversation I mentioned my background as roofing contractor in a former life. A big family man named Scott (easy to remember) quickly told of a very bad leak that had been watering his bedroom for years. He said that no roofer (he’d hired many) had been able to fix it.

The next day I checked his leak then said, “It’s no problem Scott. I want $250 labor, plus materials which we haul over here in your car.”

“You got it,” he replied.

The job took only three hours and the garden hose test proved that the problem had been corrected. We were both happy guys.

Four days later my clutch cable broke. After calling around I ended up at ADVENTURE SCOOTER—a motorcycle and mostly scooter repair shop.

Many who live on tropical islands these days drive only scooters or even bicycles and Key West was no exception to this rule. The island is 2 x 4 miles across and there’s no road capable of allowing speeds in excess of 35mph here. The weather is almost always good. Roads are small and these mini bikes are compact, maneuverable, and squeeze easily through the sometimes heavy traffic. The tiny roads were littered with them.

Adventure Scooter was one of the local companies that rented these mini, munchkin machines to tourists. However, their repair shop was separate from the rental department, and the boys there were well equipped to handle motorcycles too. The manager was a Harley rider named John. There’s an unwritten law adhered to by all old-school bikers that insists one never leave another—even a perfect stranger—broken down alongside the road unless extenuating circumstances take unavoidable precedence. For many, this law is etched in blood upon the very walls of their hearts. John was no exception. Seeing my need he got the parts then agreed to let me wrench on my old battle-wagon in his shop.

When the dust finally settled, I handed him the cash, shook his hand and said, “I need a job John. You need a wrench?”

He looked me over thoughtfully for only a moment then said, “You might be in luck. I just lost a man last week. Seems like you know your way around machines well enough… Tell you what; be here Monday, 8 a.m. sharp. See you then.” It was Wednesday.

It’ll never cease to amaze me the way the road will take care of a man if he is willing. He need only walk through his fears of destitution (easier said than done), be prepared to exchange some of his pampers (luxuries) for real-life adventure, trust the Highway God unquestioningly, remain honest, and do his best.

There was nothing left to do but enjoy island life and wait.

Key West is a tough place to make a living and for insult-to-injury housing prices are astronomical as well (not much land). It’s for this reason that many of the locals live on boats. To moor a boat offshore costs nothing. Cast your gaze across the emerald green waters that gently pelt the sandy shoreline and you’ll see a small city of boats anchored there. Some are beautiful while others are rough; some are sinking or sunk in the chest deep water, and many are no more than pontoons with a wooden box built atop them that serves as house. If one’s not in the mood to row his dinghy to shore, there’s a water taxi that’ll take him to and from his ocean estate for a small fee. Many of the friends I made on the island were boat dwellers.

I settled in some more.

Scooters are simple mechanisms and I took to fixing the micro machines like fish to water. After the first week John gave me a raise.

The lead mechanic was a tall guy from North Carolina. Steve’s accent had never truly left and he remained a constant reminder that I was a very long way from where I’d begun. We took a fast liking to one another and on most weekends went bombing around town on scooters together. In the evenings we’d just hang out wherever or sometimes help to close the Duval Street bars.

Part of Steve’s job as lead mechanic was to maintain the Sea Doos for a local water-toy, rental company. On occasion we’d head for the dock, grab a couple of King Neptune’s crotch rockets and head for the open sea. Being the mechanics for these elaborate toys, we rode for free. For me this was a new experience. After getting over the apprehension of the first ride, I soon found that the overpowered mini-craft act more like a dirt bike than a boat. In this light, it took about ten minutes practice before I was bouncing across the tops of the large swells at a conservative full throttle with Steve in the background yelling, “Slow down you ungrateful fuck!”

Sometimes I’d stop and look across the emerald sea of huge rolling swells to the island shore beyond. There I could see the clowns, jugglers, acrobats, food vendors, and other assorted circus acts performed by a variety of freelance entertainers. Most of them come from the north to spend the winter entertaining the great crowds of tourists that gather on the shore in anticipation of the show at sunset.

Jeff worked in the Adventure Scooter rental department. He and best buddy Peter where hardcore sailors. They spent many hours on the water either racing or just enjoying the wind in their sails and I was always invited. The shallow sea seemed to go on forever as we’d cruise round the islands. Many times I saw dolphins’ jumping the ocean swells in their eternal search for food.

Every man has his own reality. You know his job, woman, friends, family, and home. The things he loves and things he only tolerates in his world. In this way a man’s life is forged of the people and objects around him. One of the strangest facets of a drifter’s life is that he has almost no permanent reality of his own. In my case the only things that remain familiar are my bike and body. Everything around these two staples is in a state of almost constant change. Life had become a perpetual visit into other people’s worlds. Looking across the bow of Jeff’s reality to the brilliant colors of the setting sun beyond, I wondered at the beauty of his world. What an interesting life.

My bike still needed work. After four weeks of collecting regular paychecks the parts John had ordered for me at a considerable discount finally showed up. I promptly put my FLT on the lift then quit my job. For the following week I came in everyday to wrench on my own bike. In the meantime, John lent me a scooter to get around on. At week’s end my Electra Glide was roadworthy again, and by Monday I’d been rehired back to spinning wrenches on mini-bikes.

It was 2 a.m. at my home in the Boca Chica mangrove jungle when I came awake to the blinding glare of a high output flashlight centered on the door of my tent. Then, in a tone commanding great authority, a voice boomed, “Island police. Step outside please.”

After unzipping the door I squinted into the blinding beam. A glance beyond the cop to the highway in the distance revealed the moonlit image of five patrol cars. Must’ve been 15 cops surrounding my little home. Looking flashlight man in the eye I said, “All this for little old me?”

It’s always the same with these guys. Being unsure if they’ve stumbled across an armed convict or something, they always start with a bad attitude. Then, after realizing my paperwork’s clean, I ain’t drunk or belligerent and in general am a sorta nice guy, they invariably mellow out. More often than not they just say goodnight and split. After all, sleeping alongside the road is not a felony. Generally, it isn’t even a big deal. In the case of these boys though, my camp was too close to their military base. I had ’a go.

As I slowly broke camp a few cops stood around holding flashlights on me and asking questions. Once they learned of my slightly eccentricity lifestyle the men got real curious. Then, at their insistent prodding, I told a few stories (not unlike the one I’m telling now) while sleepily rolling up camp. When finished, they compared me to an old Key West resident named Ernest Hemmingway. Very flattering. In the end they called me friend, shook my hand, and then threw me the fuck out. Very strange.

I soon showed up on the porch of a doublewide trailer located on Stock Island just one mile to the south. A well built and dark haired, German girl opened the door and invited me inside. We’d been friends for over a month and had spent some time cruising the islands aboard my bike and talking. In a heavy accent Coral had told me that Germany is no place for a sun worshipper like her. Said she’d known she was born in the wrong place even as a little girl. At the age of 20, Carol had left Germany and had lived in many parts of the world since—always traveling alone. She spoke four languages fluently and was only 36 years old. I found her fascinating. But love had presented itself here on the islands, and along with it, Carol decided on a few college courses as well. She’d been settled here for over two years now. But graduation had come and gone some time ago, and the man had been in prison (I never asked) for almost as long. Carol was kind of in limbo.

Recently she’d offered me the use of a spare room at her place if I’d cared to use it. I hadn’t…till now. The tiny room was hot and stuffy. In recent years freedom and the wide-open outdoors had become my almost constant companion, and by now a room often felt as only a box. Four sides and a lid. Suffocating. I made camp in the yard.

Next day I became acquainted with my new housemate. Kelly was an old fisherman with failing health whom Carol allowed to stay free and seemed to care for very much. For the better part of a lifetime the old man had worked aboard the many old and beat up commercial fishing boats that line the Stock Island harbor. I was told the job is hard and that drug addiction runs ramped there. And although an undeniably nice fellow, of Kelly’s plight he talked little. And I did not ask.

In the two weeks that followed Carol and I spent much time together. Our constant babble of far off lands and the adventure that goes with them only added fuel to each other’s fires. Carol bought a one-way ticket to Cancun, Mexico then sold or gave away all her worldly possessions. She left the house to Kelly and me, stating that the rent was good for three weeks more and we could stay till they threw us out for all she cared.

It was mid May now and the southern air was growing hot. The Myrtle Beach Rally was scheduled to begin soon in South Carolina and I had planned to crash that party on my slow migration north. The Keys had been good to me but it was time to go.

After collecting my last paycheck from Adventure Scooter, I turned my back to the island and twisted the throttle.

–Scooter Tramp Scotty

Today I’m going to becovering on your ride, how to see things better — and more importantly —how motorcycle light bulbs can help you see and be seen better. But in order todo that, I’m going to have to toss around a few electrical terms. You know,like watts and volts and amperage.

Wait! Don’t hit the Back button,because I’m going to try and make this as easy to comprehend as possible.A watt is a unit of measure that takes into consideration themathematical relationship of volts and amperage. What it looks like is this:Watts = Volts X Amps.

The standard motorcycleheadlight that comes attached to most of today’s models has a rating of 55/60.That means the low beam draws 55 watts (12 V X 4.5 A), while the high beamdraws 60 watts (12 V X 5 A). The higher the wattage, the more light issupplied.

How we doing so far? Still with me?Good. Now a great number of halogen headlamps are using a two-piece system thathas a reflector with a changeable bulb. These changeable bulbs are givennumbers like H3, H4, H7 and H13. There are higher wattage bulbs available inthis type that can provide even more illumination.

For instance, J&P Cycles offersGerman Rally bulbs in 55/60, 80/100 and 100/130 wattages. But I digress. Goingback to our formula, a 100W low-beam bulb draws 8.3 amps (12V X 8.3 A = 100W)while a 130W high-beam bulb draws a whopping 10.8 amps (12V X 10.8 A = 130W).

These bulbs add new meaning to theterm bright! However, this is acceptable up to a point. Higher wattages requireheavier components to handle the higher current load. These higher wattagesincrease the amount of heat produced and require a metallic or glass reflector.Some lower-priced halogen reflectors are made of plastic, and these high-outputbulbs can easily melt the unit. In addition, the wiring on your bike is onlydesigned to handle a specific amount of power.

Changing to one of these Rallybulbs will most likely require an increase in the size of the wire going to thelamp in order to keep it from melting or burning up. Sounds like a lot ofeffort in order to get a brighter lamp.

But this brings us toa neat solution engineered by the PIAA Corporation. What PIAA has done, isincrease the light output, without increasing the wattage required. These bulbsare a bit more expensive, but modifications to your bike are not required. Andthat’s a good tradeoff, if you’re asking my opinion.

Another thing to consider withthese super bright bulbs is the effect they have on the bike’s charging system.All ’66-’84 Shovelheads come with 15-,17- and 22-amp alternators, and  ’84-’88 Evo Big Twins have 22-ampalternators.’67-’79s Sportsters have 10-amp charging;’80-’84s have 13 amps;’84=-’90s have 19 amps; and bikes between ’91 and ’05 have 22-amp systems.

Upgrading to thehigher-wattage bulb is impossible on the smaller-amp charging systems. Toupgrade, the 22-amp system would be the lowest amp output recommended. Therejust isn’t enough current output to run everything required, and keep yourmotorcycle battery charged. Big Twins built from ’89 and onward have a healthy32-amp alternator, so this isn’t a challenge.

Now, what’s your opinion of LEDlighting? This acronym stands for Light Emitting Diode, and these little guysprovide a lot of light with minimal wattage requirements. Used as a taillight/brakelight on our bikes, no changes are required. However, when used as a turnsignal, we’ve got issues.

In applications that have aself-canceling turn signal, a load equalizer is required. Since the LED lightchanges the wattage in the circuit, the difference in current draw will confusethe original processor into thinking that the bulb is burned out.

This can cause a no-flash ordouble-flash condition and believe me, we get a ton of calls about this. A loadequalizer, like those from Badlands, will correct this condition by fooling theprocessor into thinking the stock bulb is still in the circuit. Your new LEDturn signal will flash and cancel normally. A load equalizer is also requiredif a small, marker light is used as a four-way flasher.

Due to possible heat buildup in theunit over a longer period of time, it’s a good idea to keep usage down to aminimum. And just a reminder: While these small, marker lights look good on ashow bike, they should not be used on the street, because they can’t be seen aseasily as a DOT-approved light, especially in the daytime.

I certainly hope this sheds somelight on today’s subject, and hope I set things out in an understandablemanner. If not, the friendly and savvy tech staff at J&P Cycles is alwaysavailable to answer any questions that you may have.

Yet another true solid professional is to be found in Jason Ferguson. He will do the actual building of the Bikernet/Cycle Source Giveaway Chopper, sponsored by Xpress, frame, designed by Jason and Gary Maurer of Kustoms Inc. As a second generation bike builder, Ferguson caught the bug at an early age. He grew up around dirty old bikers going to bike shows and rallies.

Ferguson has built bikes for guys like Billy F. Gibbons (ZZ Top), Hulk Hogan and Bo Jackson. After serving apprenticeships with various builders, Jason started Texas Bike Works, LLC in 2006 and the business has grown steadily.

Ferguson, an expert welder, machinist, fabricator and custom fitter said, “It’s kind of a tough time to come up with new products.” Although true, he’s currently working on oil tanks, gas tanks, handle bars, and “all kinds of old ‘70s stuff.”

“Time and effort makes a great frame, “ stated Ferguson. And quality materials definitely help. All of his frames use 1020 DUM tubing steel.

He assures me that the biggest difference between a Chopper and a Bobber is the neck height. It usually takes him 20 hours of due diligence to come up with an outstanding creation. And, with this attitude, he got involved with the Giveaway Chopper program because the quality builders and manufacturers that are part of the build.

Jason Ferguson is the owner of Texas Bike Works. Michael David Milatovich of Bikernet.com interviewed the frame builder and shot him 13 questions.

13 Questions with Jason Ferguson

Bikernet: Besides yourself, who are your heroes in the motorcycle industry?

Ferguson: Well, I’ve always looked up to Arlen Ness. It’s just the bikes. My dad was a big fan of his. And just watching him over the years and having the chance to meet him….A great role model for bike builders…. Very professional, always coming up with new ideas for the industry.

Bikernet: EVO or PAN or Twin Cam or Knuckle or Shovel, and why ?

Ferguson: I like Shovelheads because they make a distinct sound. I can’t really explain why, but I’ve ridden flat head, pan head, knuckle, but I just seem to like Shovelheads best. They’ve got more power than older motors, but they still have that nostalgic feel to them.

Bikernet: Katy, Perry, or Taylor Swift?

Ferguson: I don’t even know who Katy Perry is. The only reason I know of Taylor Swift is because all my friend’s daughters go to her concerts. (laughs)

Bikernet: Bud or Jack Daniels ?

Ferguson: Jack Daniels. I hate Budweiser.

Bikernet: If you could ride only one bike, what would it be?

Ferguson: Only one bike? A Ducati….one of the newest Ducatis that’s out.

Bikernet: Who are you listening to on your iPod?

Ferguson: This is starting to sound like a Cheryl Hughes interview. (laughs) I don’t even have an iPod, but I listen to a lot of Metallica. Kind of an old school metal fan, stuck in the ’90s.

Bikernet: MotoGP, NASCAR, IndyCar, Flat track Motorcross, Superbike?

Ferguson: I would say Motorcross, I like that best.

Bikernet: Which one event do you always look forward to and why?

Ferguson: Sturgis is the best one for me. You’ve got the best of both world’s there. You got the best riding…..You can go ride and have fun and see all kinds of cool things, monuments. And then you’ve got the best bike shows. Usually a bike show every day that’s got the best bikes in the world. Plus all the people. I get to see all my other shop buddies from all over the country that I talk to on the phone all year.

I get to see them in person because everybody goes to Sturgis.

Bikernet: What reading material is in the bathroom?

Ferguson: I don’t know, man, probably Bikernet on-line magazine.

Bikernet: What is your favorite adult beverage?

Ferguson: Jack and Coke.

Bikernet: Favorite motorcycle ride?

Ferguson: Riding around the Black Hills.

Bikernet: Favorite bike movie?

Ferguson: Probably, Road Warrior.

Bikernet: Favorite TV show?

Ferguson: I don’t know, I don’t watch much TV, but probably the Biker Build-off show.

817-326.0288
http://www.texasbikeworks.com/

OK, you’ve definitely got some choices ahead of you when it comes to hopping-up your engine. And since the most popular and cost-effective plan is to swap the stock cam, carb, ignition, and exhaust components with high-performance aftermarket items, the combinations seem endless. Well, aside from the business of choosing the right setup, there is also the matter of installing them, and what I want to do here is show you how easy it really is. There’s a feeling of satisfaction that comes with doing a job yourself, and doing it right. For the most part, almost all of the components bolt on the engine. If you read the cam installation story, you’ll see what it takes to properly install a camshaft, and here, we get the rest of the job done. The key parts that were chosen to complete this power combo were the Andrews EV-57 cam and adjustable pushrods we installed in the last story along with JIMS Machine roller-tip rocker arms, a Mikuni HSR 42 carb and intake, a Dyna 2000 HD-1 single-fire ignition with Dyna coils, and Cycle Shack bologna-cut pipes.
Photo 1	Photo 2
We’ll start with the intake manifold and carburetor. Mikuni’s carb kits come complete with the intake manifold, air cleaner, cables and all the hardware and spare jets you’ll need to get running. The intake installs using the stock flanges and o-rings, and has a flange mount. The Mikuni carburetors have spigot-type mounting, so a rubber flange-to-spigot adaptor is provided in the kit. This easily bolts to the flange on the intake manifold (photo 1). Now the HSR 42 carburetor is slipped into the spigot, and a clamp secures the carb firmly in place (photo 2). The Mikuni/K&N air cleaner assembly (not shown) completes the carb’s mounting, and secures to the cylinder heads.	Photo 3
Photo 4	The dual Dyna ignition coils are bolted up to a Yankee Engineuity engine mount and coil bracket combination (photo 3). When this engine is installed in the bike, a polished stainless steel coil cover, also from Yankee, will finish the job. Dyna’s 2000 HD-1 ignition is an excellent system that features four different advance curves for various engine combinations. Dyna has eliminated the need to run a special rotor and pickup, and now the 2000 HD-1 utilizes the stock pieces, cutting down on the extras you’d normally have to buy. The stock pickup is re-installed (photo 4) and the timing will be adjusted once the engine is fired up.
Cycle Shack bologna-cut (pn PHD 114A) pipes were chosen for their exceptional performance in past dyno runs, and are well-suited for this power combo as well. These pipes have channel mount bolts for a clean look and mount easily to stock or custom aftermarket exhaust brackets. Pipes are probably one of the true bolt-on components that anyone can install (photo 5), but care should be taken to wipe them clean with acetone to remove any fingerprints. If you don’t do this, you’ll end up with little blue prints all over the pipes, so make sure they get wiped down before the engine is started.	Photo 5
And there you have it (photo 6). The installation of these parts shouldn’t take more than one weekend day to complete at the outside. All of the parts used here come with excellent instructions for both installation and tuning to help you get the most from your engine and to minimize the downtime. With the tech tips shown here and in the cam installation story, you should be well armed to handle this task yourself. After you have this new found confidence and ability, you’ll have to decide if you want to tell your friends, ’cause once they know you’re able to work on your ride, they’ll probably want you to have a look at theirs. If they do, just smile and tell ’em where you read about it.
Photo 6
…Wordman SOURCES:
Andrews Products, Inc. 5212 N. Shapland Ave. Rosemont, IL 60018 (773) 992-4014 (773) 992-4017 fax	JIMS Machine 555 Dawson Drive Camarillo, CA 93012 (805) 482-6913 (805) 482-7422 fax
Dynatek 164 S. Valencia St. Glendora, CA 91741 (818) 963-1669 (818) 963-7399 fax	Mikuni 8910 N. Mikuni Avenue Northridge, CA 91324 (818) 885-1242 (818) 993-7388 fax
Yankee Engineuity 1520-A West San Carlos San Jose, CA 95126 (408) 275-0203 (408) 275-0204 fax	Cycle Shack 1104 San Mateo Avenue South San Francisco, CA 94080 (650) 583-7014 (650) 583-9154 fax

Back to the Garage…

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