That afternoon, I finished the weekly update and jammed for the tilting garage. Nuutboy had already broken under the extreme pressure and hauled ass for foreign shores. Wrench checked into rehab for the 24th time. He had been awake for three weeks and was beginning to look like the guy from the “Living Dead.” Japanese Jay threw up his hands, jumped on the bike from the Harley fleet center, and hauled ass for the border. Renegade bitched and moaned, but under his breath, after smoking several joints, said, “Nice bike.” We knew then I was good to go. I dialed Giggie in a frenzy, “Could I have knocked the clutch hub loose?” “Don’t sweat it,” he said, “It’s tight, but what about the plates?” We had installed a plate wrong and metal-to-metal grating was taking place. With that fixed, I moved on to a shim to prevent the starter jackshaft from peeling away the aluminum on the inside of the BDL support bracket. I was beginning to feel that tight feeling of a motorcycle without any loose ends, except for the speedometer, which I was holding in my hand behind the top triple tree. It seemed to fit and I ran the cable. No problem except the cap holding the cable into the bottom of the speedo didn’t seem to work. It came with another cap and that didn’t work either. My mind raced with options. Throw it into the street and forget it? Find something with the correct thread size and make a cap? That seemed to be an option and I jumped into the flamed T-Chicken and roared to the marine store.  The threads were fine and the same size as any toggle switch nut, except nothing was available except toggle switch waver nuts. I tried the hardware store. The owner who never smiles, then the employees, the Asian with one bad arm who doesn’t speak, and the Hispanic who is always eating burritos no matter what time of day it is pointed at the fastener wall and ignored me. I searched and searched until I had to ask for help. They shook their heads and I searched some more. I screamed, they hid behind paint cans. I couldn’t believe that they would have every size 1/2-inch nut except this one. I roared off to Neptune’s electronics. The owner, in the shop that hadn’t changed since the ’50s, looked at me and said, “Yep, had some of those, but I don’t know where.” He didn’t and I left feeling dejected. It was almost 4:30 as I tore along the harbor while dialing the cell phone. “Phil,” I said gritting my teeth, “You know anything about speedo cables?” “Yep,” he said, as he eyed my CCI cable, “it’s easy to get these things wrong,” and referred me to Drag Bike Engineering on Artesia Boulevard in Gardena. I drove up Western Boulevard, which sucks. It runs north and south through the middle of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. It’s a four-lane boulevard that’s bordered by every goddamn franchise jip joint, fast food place, square boring store front on the planet. The only item it contains more of is stop lights. So I drove, and stopped and drove, and the street narrowed.  I rolled out of San Pedro into Lomita, then Torrance and into some places I had never heard of when I finally hit Artesia. I hung a left and there was Drag Bike Engineering, a clean, well-stocked shop. Phil told me to ask for Jim and I did. Only two knowledgeable riders were in the pristine shop and one said, “Don’t I know you?” I looked at him hard and thought about all 30-some years I’ve been riding and stumbling in and out of events, parties and runs. I hadn’t a clue. “Yeah, a couple of years ago at Kern River,” he said, smiling. The most vivid memory of the Kern was hitting a guy in the face with a bottle of Cuervo Gold ’cause he pulled a knife on one of our guys for the second time. I warned him the first. It wasn’t him, thank God. I introduced myself again, apologized for not remembering anything except what was on my check-off list for Sturgis and asked about the cable.   Jim came out from the back. “Yep, those cables are tough to match.” He wandered over to his rack, pulled off another CCI cable and tossed it on the counter. “See if this will do the trick.” I pulled my knife and began to slice at the plastic wrapper, immediately slitting my thumb wide open. Maybe the pressure was getting to me. The cable was perfect and I bled all over his counter. Jim gave me a Band-aid as his partner put a plastic coating over the braided cable and I hit the road. Good byes are tough, sometimes, and we bounced joyously into the wee hours before she slipped from my arms and into the harbor night. Blissfully high on several stimulants, I attempted to mount the speedo. I had to drill a 3/8-inch hole in the top triple tree. I did so crooked and with that disappointment dampening a near-perfect evening, I went to bed. I was beginning to cut into overtime. Had the Agent left from the east coast? I could care less. He had his bike a month ago. If he chose to dick around, well that was his problem. I had my list to contend with. The final nights were spent saying goodbye to a woman who had made my summer come alive. She was different than so many women I had met. There was no pretense. She had been born and raised in San Pedro and she could give a shit less about Hollywood, stardom or money. She lived a simple life as a single mother of three kids while looking after her aging father. She had roots and was securely attached to them. There appeared to be no agenda, although since splitting from her abusive biker, druggie husband of 15 years she felt ripped off by him and life. She wanted the family /husband and ordinary home and hated the fact that it all was torn from her.         There was also something nasty about this woman who seemed to glide along on tender feet. Her dark wavy hair looked wonderful no matter how she combed it. It seemed astonishing that if she grabbed it and shoved it into a rubber band she suddenly took on a whole new look, yet just as beautiful as the one before. She also had a thirst that once unleashed seemed to permeate her being. If I cared for her, she blossomed, like a brilliant sunlit bloom. And so her sexual appetite was replanted in fresh soil to flourish. It’s as if a woman needs only to have the door carefully opened and the bud goes wild. As I sat back and watched this flower bloom again and again, I relished the minutes we had together. Although my body was floating on air, my mind was aghast with the trivial elements of the trip. I awoke with a start. Only 24 hours to go. She held on as I threw socks over my shoulder into the pile burying the Bandit’s bed roll and began a hectic countdown. The morning began with calls to the patch maker. He gave me some bullshit story about a supplier overseas after the son of a bitch told me they did all their work in-house. I made my way to the garage and reinstalled the speedo several times, corrected the clutch and then hit the spare bedroom and the pile of laundry over the bedroll. I loaded it and unloaded it, checked and rechecked. Then I slipped the heavy bag above my headlight. Tie wraps usually work well to hold it in place, but sometimes not well enough. It seemed to shift six inches off center as soon as I stood the bike upright. I fired the loaded bike in the late afternoon and headed for a refueling station. The Blue Flame had less than two miles on the new speedo when I pulled it back into the garage for final tightening. It was good to go and she was about to come. I locked the back door. The next time I would open it would be to head out at the crack of dawn the next morning. I had planned to wake up at 4 a.m. and leave at 5, but when she rolled on top of me, for some reason I couldn’t move or toss her aside. I didn’t struggle, but as the sun broke above the harbor like a fresh egg cracked into a hot frying pan, I pushed the rigid into the growing warmth and fired her to life. I pushed off with a full tank of gas and no idea of my capacity or mileage. I rolled along the harbor as the 18-wheelers were beginning to rumble in and out of the teeming container docks. The tug whistle blasted above the sound of my modified drag pipes as I rolled onto the freeway heading north to the 91 and north again to the 605 and north again to the 10, where I would set for 430 miles, heading east to Phoenix. I have a code, that I like to cut through at least 100 miles the first leg out. Depending on the length of the day, I slice off smaller chunks as the day dwindles. You know the saying: “Let’s ride, we’re burnin’ daylight.” My first stop was 101 miles out and the tilted, 3.2- gallon gas tank took 1.841 gallons. That was 54 miles to the gallon. I stopped just past Yucaipa, and I thought of Rip and all his trips from Yucaipa to the Valley. ‘Bout 100 miles in rush hour traffic to work on a motorcycle is nothing to sneeze at, and it’s surprising that something other than motorcycles killed him. As I fueled, I started to strip off the outer layers. Since it was cool when I left, I had on thermal undies, Wranglers, an Excelsior-Henderson sweatshirt, the Prison Blues denim and little Joe’s leather vest, except this one I ordered in brown. I had to wear something different and it was cut larger than the first black one. I would like to be able to afford another lambskin shirt out of brown, also. In the process of stripping off the jacket and strapping it to my bedroll along with a spare primary belt, I bungeed the bedroll to the trees and bars and it quit bouncing around.         I rode another 30 miles and came across Hadley’s, a famous spot for date shakes. Unlike my usual gotta-get-there demeanor, I pulled off the freeway and took a break. Already I was feeling solid about the bike as I stood and watched the sun turn up the amps. The outlook for flat Phoenix was 115 degrees of misery, and I would be riding into the pressure cooker just when the flame reached its max. Behind the scheduled departure time by one hour, I felt both the pressure to keep moving and the release of being on vacation. Yet was this competition with the bastard on the far coast a vacation? Or was it an endurance contest to test my cracked and bruised bones to the Black Hills on a rigid? A rigid? I pondered the question. I hadn’t noticed any discernible terror permeating my 52-year-old muscles or frame by the rigidity of the structure I was riding. Was I deceiving myself about the ride or was it acceptable? Without checking a damn thing on the bike, I gulped down the mixture of dates, bananas and ice cream and hit the road. Damn, that was delicious, but I had a desert to cross on a new motorcycle, through a no-man’s land during the sizzling summer. I kept telling myself that this Sturgis would be different. I was riding a rigid. I would take it easy. The bike needed a break-in period, it needed to be checked out, watched over and I wasn’t no spring chicken. Fuck all that shit. I had worked hard all summer building two bikes. I’d been riding bikes before I drove a car so I wasn’t going to change my style. I rode hard and the bike was going to be forced to handle it. I kept moving up the freeway, through Palm Springs toward Blythe, on the border of the sunshine state and Arizona. For me, Blythe represents reaching the outskirts of Los Angeles and escaping into the forgotten lands of a desert, of Indian reservations and not much else. I like that. I enjoyed the two-lane road that meandered through the low shrubbery and intermittent cactus, surrounded by miles of fine white sand that stings your eyes and catches in the sweat on your sunburnt brow. There’s a silence out there, a solitude that’s hard to find in L.A. Sure, once out of the city there are other counties, other communities, but it’s all the same. One franchise after another, shouting at travelers from the sides of the freeway. I needed to get away and I don’t feel as if I’ve gone a mile until I hit Blythe. It’s a small, sun-bleached truck stop in the middle of nowhere where a biker can refuel and have a meal, then ride a mile to the border and shit-can his helmet. The remainder of the trip would be helmet free. I pulled in under a canopy at the Chevron and refueled. It was hot and I took my slicker, spare drive belt and Prison Blues jacket off my bedroll and unzipped the tool pouch. I have a pack of Allen wrenches in the pocket. I went in the station after refueling and stretched in the cool air of the interior. The two girls behind the counter gawked at the road warrior standing before them and hurriedly gave me the change for my jug of chilled water. I could feel them checking me sideways as I walked into the sun. I had passed a caravan of VW drivers on some sort of product test. The group of Europeans compared notes about the cars and tried to discuss my stretched chopper with me. I don’t speak German. Hell, even my Spanish is rough, but I made do.         I tried my best while adjusting the peg angle on the Joker machine forward controls, to tell them the code of the west and how choppers had taken California from the Spanish. They wandered off pointing at the Blue Flame in amazement. The bike was handling well and the ride was superb. For A rigid, I seemed to be floating on air. I must give the H-D folks the credit and Nuutboy, the man responsible for narrowing the seat pan and building a support frame under the seat. There was no side-to-side slack. The up and down movement was unhampered and the springs carried my weight without a problem. When I first hit the road, I was concerned about my fat-assed weight on the two spindly coil springs and tried to sit forward on the seat to prevent fatigue and over extending their life. I realized before long that there was no way I was going to put my riding position behind the longevity of the springs. I couldn’t stay focused on preventing trucks from running over me. The Joker Machine pegs were well designed and executed. The were designed to allow me to change the angle in case my feet were vibrating off the pegs and change the pivot angle. I made one of the pegs flat and slightly lifted the heel rest on the other. It was a test. The polished chrome surface of the pegs was slick and my old Niki hiking boots were dancing off the surface, precariously close to bouncing off the brutally abrasive concrete below. I chose to wear these leather, low-cut boots for a couple reasons. I generally wear leather cowboy boots. Here’s why: If you wear tennis shoes or rubber soled boots and need to put your foot on the pavement while the bike is rolling, anything that sticks will shove off to the rear and you’ll immediately find yourself bouncing along on your knee. If you can’t put your foot down in an emergency, what the fuck good are you? Many riders wear rubber-soled boots for a specific reason: They’re resistant to oil and chemicals. If you’re in dust or dirt and trying to push your machining around, you get better traction (you should be riding, not pushing). But that’s slow-speed shit. To me, it’s the fast shit you need to concern yourself with. Your boots should have tough but slick leather soles for serious survival. So when picking my wardrobe for the run, I wanted something with some give for the slick foot pegs. Leather soled boots would glide right off. On the other hand, I wanted something hard enough to be less than tire-sticky on the pavement. These hardened Nikis seemed to do the job. Fortunately I never had to test their high-speed capabilities. With the pegs adjusted and enough water in my gullet to keep me from passing out in the heat, I rolled out from under the shade of the gas station canopy and back into the blistering sun. I pulled off the side of the highway under a sprawling billboard welcoming me to the Arizona desert ahead. The sign said freedom to me. I wanted to yank off the jockey-styled helmet and throw it in the gulley with the creosote, tumbleweed and empty junk food containers that line Interstate 10 all the way to the east coast. I let my helmet go a couple of years ago in Utah on my way to the rally, but this year my budget was tight. It took every dime to build the bikes and pay the bills before I headed out. I left Los Angeles with only a $100 bill in my Wrangler pocket. My brother in Phoenix would refill my run fund because I had put our Sturgis motel on my credit card. I would take his cut in cash. Enough cash to keep me going, I hoped. With 160 miles left to make the 429 to Phoenix, I kept rolling. I was already confident that I could make 100 miles without hitting reserve, so I cleared the trip gauge before I left each gas station and it acted as my gas gauge. As I rolled into the desert, the sun was reaching noon high and I thought about the machine beneath me. There’s a sense of fight and might or doom and gloom in each machine I ride. You just know after a couple hundred miles whether the bike is good for the long haul, hanging on for dear life or crumbling under your feet. It’s a matter of sound, vibration and a feel for the driveline balance. I had worked hard to keep the driveline poised, but I had no concept of how the Daytec frame, the Weerd Bros. front end or the Road Wings wheels would stand up under the continued strain. I had been disturbed at the poor pre-load spacing of the Timken bearings in the wheels. The company seemed to be floundering. A collapsed wheel at 80 mph would make me wish I had skis strapped to my ankles. I had allowed a longtime friend of mine and a man who understands and owns long bikes ride my bike during the break-in period. I rode along side him on his black West Coast stretch. I concentrated on watching the frame and front end on the uneven surface of the Santa Monica Freeway. I was surprised to see a 14-over front end work that well. The polished aluminum tubes glided effortlessly up and down after I had installed six ounces of heavyweight Rev Tech oil in each already-wet tube. If the front end had been dry, we would have poured eight ounces in each. The wheels were hard to read. I hadn’t balanced the front, but it didn’t seem to hop on the grated concrete. When the pavement was smooth, the bike appeared to glide along. As I reached the California border, I knew I had over 500 miles on the engine and could raise the speed limit. Until that point, I had kept the revs alternating and not locked on any particular speed, but now it was time to start checking the vibration barriers. I wanted the engine and driveline to hang tight up to about 80 mph and so far the vibration was minimal past 70, so I worked up the speed slightly to test the resonance. Some 20 miles past the border, I began a 75-80 mph test.  The adjustment to the foot peg angle worked perfectly. No longer was I forced to put slight pressure on the outside of my feet to hold the hiking boots on the pegs. The back and forth pivot adjustment seemed to afford me a better position for resting my feet. At times though, I wished for mid controls. I could push it to 80 mph and my feet stayed on the pegs. I began rolling at a constant 75-85 mph range. The driveline appeared to be tight. I would need to check fasteners once I rolled into Phoenix. They would tell me how the frame felt about the ride.  Something else milled around in my feeble brain cells, besides my melting forehead and Agent Zebra on the east coast with a two week head start. I knew how he rode, how he abused motorcycles. He would be lucky to make it to the Florida state line. Aside from a mental check list of a myriad mechanical considerations, there was another woman seeping into my consciousness. A silky-haired Asian woman with dark eyes and a taller-than-average form. We had never discussed a relationship like I had with the dark-haired beauty. Sin would just stop by from time to time at lunch and crawl into bed almost without a word. She was emotionally soft and timid. She studied at Cal State Long Beach, something about sea life, seals, otters and such, but she grew up in San Pedro. She was young, in her late 20s, and I knew she would be moving on when the summer ended. She was a bashful volcano, waiting to erupt on several fronts. As Sturgis neared, I had become so caught up in what had to be done that I didn’t pay attention to what was going on around me. Sin became suddenly sullen about a month out. She didn’t say anything as I babbled about the bikes, the Web site and the trip. At first she seemed preoccupied with a buxom blond named Coral, whom she met at the beach a half mile away.  Coral was obviously bi and aggressive and was tempting Sin into a fling. The encounter became hot bedtime talk and our love making hit an all-time fevered pitch. Sin was aware that she was attracted to the hot blond with the bubbly personality and tits to match. Sin wanted me to watch out for her and began to talk about a tryst at the headquarters. Although quiet and bashful, Sin had a complete back tattoo with a Geisha girl at the center. A mermaid covered one shoulder, but the Geisha girl, fully clothed with a gown that flowed down her spine, was the center of intrigue. The woman in the tattoo seemed torn, yet proud and centered. As Sin bent over the bed, she talked about Coral’s body and her touch. I looked at the permanent illustration of the Geisha and could see the questioning in her eyes. I had told Sin about the dark-haired one and she respected my involvement and didn’t pressure me. This was all supposed to be fun but I sensed her attraction to Coral was growing, and I knew from Coral’s e-mails that she was hungry for Sin’s tall form, milky skin and big boob-job tits. The mixture was pure ecstasy for me. I was dancing on a dangerous cloud and as I headed across the desert, gradually twisting the Joker machine throttle farther and farther past the 85-mph line, I realized that emotions were beginning to reach a collision point. Coral was introducing herself into my life, one that was being shared by the unknowing dark-haired beauty with a quiet stillness about her and Sin, a women so beautiful I knew the thought of keeping her was out of the question. It was a firy bouquet that couldn’t bloom for long.  An 18-wheeler retread exploded and pieces of tire jettisoned in every direction. The truck directly behind the offending vehicle veered and for a few treacherous moments it acted as a steel snake slithering in and out of my lane. I may fall apart in some situations, but in an impending accident I become calm and watchful, hoping to make the appropriate maneuvers. I kept my eyes open for a slight movement, an escape hatch, or another idiot to become involved. I blasted through a cloud of dust and returned to my thoughts of Sin’s tits bouncing below me, her sleek youthful fingertips taunting her nipples, and her words of lust toward another woman drawing me to the brink. Many times I craved for the bikes to be completed so I could have Sin over more. Tonopah finally showed up on a sign as I careened past at 85 mph and the ambient temperature passed 100 degrees. I pulled in and refueled. I was still pulling down 50 mpg, which blew me away. Theoretically I could get 150 miles out of this shapely 3.2-gallon Sportster tank. One of these days, I would like to take two weeks to get to the Bad Lands. I’d like to ride like a fuckin’ tourist, taking all the small roads, gawking at the tundra and pulling off at the viewpoints to check out the majestic canyons. Instead, I ride like I have one day left to live, like I will receive a ten spot for every vehicle I pass, and I want to make a million in a day. It’s fun, I can’t deny it. On the other hand it’s ridiculous. A small Lexus will do 160-mph without blinking an eye and could out-accelerate, out-maneuver and outrun my ass, yet I’m the one pushing the limits. Guess I’ll never learn. I had an ice cream in Tonapah and every son of a bitch I passed over the last 100 miles gently rolled by while kids in the back listened to CD’s and the folks bitched about loud bikes, promising to write their senator when they returned from vacation. Truckers I had blown past rolled on by and by the time I got back on the road I could ride for all I was worth (not much at the moment), and I could just catch ’em before I hit the city limits of Phoenix. But goddamnit, I was going to give it a helluva try. I fired up the Blue Flame, dropped the clutch and wheelied onto the freeway. “Look out you bastards, I’m comin’,” I screamed as I hit 80 mph and merged into the No. 2 lane. I have yet to read a map before entering the Phoenix freeway system. I always roll in and wonder where the fuck I am. I ask around and finally find the way to Easyriders of Scottsdale. This time, the I-10 interchange was closed and I was forced to exit. As I pulled off the freeway, I asked a bunch of Native Americans in the pickup next to me how to get to Scottsdale. They looked at each other in bewilderment, pointed in several directions and finally the driver gave me directions that I couldn’t understand and was dubious to believe. I’m more and more surprised when asking directions of locals, the percentage who don’t know where the fuck they are. Most can’t speak English, especially kids. I asked one kid where Broadway was in Phoenix. He didn’t have the slightest. Ironically, the gas station he was working in was on Broadway. I finally got the word that I could take a big busy street directly into Scottsdale or take another one that led me through a bad section of the area on the way to my destination. It was 115 degrees when I pulled off the freeway and started bouncing from one stop light to another. My informant failed to tell me that the street I chose lead me directly into the international airport, so I suddenly found myself weaving in and out of terminal traffic. I came out of the airport unscathed and was dropped onto a freeway. I was fuckin’ lost. The freeway lead me directly to the one and only Scottsdale offramp and I gladly jumped off the freeway. I knew I didn’t have far to go to get to downtown, but I could sense the engine was tiring of the 118-degree heat and needed a break. It had performed perfectly and deserved to relax. I pulled into Myron’s Easyriders store adjacent to his Billet Bar, coasted under a canopy and shut off the engine. It ticked a sigh of metal relief as I walked into the shop and shouted for service. Fonz, the parts man, and Myron stood basking in a frosty level of air conditioning. Brownie, a veteran mechanic, immediately checked out the Blue Flame, changed the oil to straight 60 weight as prescribed by the manual for consistent temps above 80 degrees and recommended an alternator plug strap. I had made a mental note to bolt one in place several times, but never acted upon it. One of the guys handed Brownie the strap and he eyed it suspiciously and looked at me. “You like this one or do you want me to use one that works?”         “Needs to work,” I said, and they found a Custom Chrome strap that I hadn’t seen before. It is held on by two case bolts and the plug can’t move.         Myron owns the ER store, the bar next door and the Scottsdale Worlds gym, so when I’m in town, I have Brownie work on my bike while I hide under the misters in the Billet Bar patio and play pool. When the master of disaster can get away, we head to his gym. I was behind in my workouts so we hit it hard — chest, triceps, back, biceps and abs. I spent two hours trying to make up for sporadic workouts over the last two months. Myron’s gym doesn’t have that day spa look of soft tones and plush carpeting. It’s more reminiscent of the iron pit at San Quentin, if they allow them anymore. There’s lots of chain link separating various areas of equipment. Lots of mirrors, black rubber padding and polished diamond plate. The ceiling is high and industrial and the brother spends 11 grand a month on air-conditioning in the summer. Cindy, Myron’s wife, runs it and teaches aerobics. That evening, I had dinner with Myron and Cindy at their home, with three snarling dogs at my side throughout the meal. I wasn’t sure if they wanted me or the marinated chicken breasts on my plate. I sat very still and tried to make idle conversation before I returned to Karl’s house for the night. Karl is the fire chief for the rural metro area of greater Phoenix. He’s about 6-foot-3, 250 pounds, an ox of a man with a constant smile. Although it was 118 degrees during the day, the thunderstorms rolled in by the late afternoon and hit hard in the evening. Just as we were about to bed down, lightning rocked the windows and slabs of sideways rain slammed against the stucco home. Tree branches broke off, filling the pool with pine needles. Ten minutes into the gale, the lights went out and Karl went into action. He’s been trained to be calm when the shit hits the fan and he did just that. He gave orders, checked for electrical outages and possible fire hazards, then settled the rattled family down. His wife, the bouncing beautiful Cheri, is an emotional whirlwind unplugged, which seems to control big Karl. I was trying to sleep on the couch while the women screamed at the crackle of lightning and the crash of timbers. Flashlight beams crisscrossed in the darkness. I like Arizona, but the heat coupled with violent storms had me itchin’ to get the fuck out of Dodge. It was time to move.

The next morning, after breakfast at Stan’s diner in Scottsdale, we rolled north toward Payson on our way to Holbrook. Stan’s is a small joint in a dull rectangular building downtown, that Stan tried to spruce up with adobe chairs and tables. A skinny waitress came to take our order but since this was Myron’s regular digs, he went directly to the chef in back and nodded. That was enough. The chef knew what to do. Karl and I attempted to order with smiles on our unshaven mugs but the waitress was dry as toast, and edgy. The cactus twig of a woman could not comply. We had been trying the low carb regimen and Karl had lost 40 pounds, but she couldn’t allow us to substitute potatoes for tomato slices or cottage cheese for toast. We ended up ordering everything a la carte. At first our easy-going hackles were raised because we wanted to hit the road early and slice away some dusty miles, then eat in some strange hole-in-the-wall joint in nowheresville, Arizona. But the more we irritated her, the more fun we had. She was spitting in our scrambled eggs by the time we finished with her, but it was worth it. Phoenix is a strange city. Surface streets are straight and packed with stoplights. We headed out a country road through one boulevard stop after another. Suddenly we were out of the flat city and into the country, winding into the Mazatzal Mountains on Highway 87. At one point we pulled off the highway at an All-Bike junkyard Rye, Ariz., a town with a population of 300. There were acres of bikes rotting in the elements. At this point there were four of us. Myron was riding his black, detailed 2000 Dyna with a 95-inch kit, stretched tanks and a custom windshield. As usual, his bike was immaculate with chromed Harley mags and diamond cut cylinder fins. He had soft bags beside the rear wheel and a bolt-on sissy bar with bags attached. He was one comfortable mutha as we cut through the canyons. The man generally wears a long sleeved T-shirt with a regular T-shirt over it and his HAL vest, plus a scarf. He rides fast and tight. Myron has always reminded me of longtime friend George Christie, the president of the Ventura chapter of the Hells Angels. Although Myron is a massive weight lifter, and George trains in martial arts, the two men are similar height with jet-black hair (graying some, now). Both men are born leaders and strong riders. Karl was on his lowered Softail with drag pipes and drag bars, with his buoyant wife of 25 years at his back. The couple have raised three gigantic kids, consequently Karl doesn’t have new bikes yearly, custom paint jobs and chrome. He’s saddled with a non-working mother and three money-soaking monsters to raise and he’s proud of every minute he can keep the clan in college, clothes and wheels. I respect the fact that Cheri stays home with the kids. It’s a full time vocation and perhaps the most important job on the planet. The mountains were striking and I’m constantly amazed at the Arizona beauty. The state is diverse and open. No wonder people are lining up to move there. It’s a killer place to live. The diversity is unreal, from the arid, open, hot-as-a-mutha desert to the rolling, pine-strewn mountains and the Grand Canyon area. We stopped in Payson for gas. I had clocked 87 miles and took 1.9 gallons. I was still rolling along even in erratic terrain and getting 45 mpg. I bought a cheap tire gauge and checked my tire pressure. Brownie had jacked it up per the tire specs, but I was more flexible and had another priority — the ride. The front tire being on an extended front end didn’t need 50 pounds of pressure and the rear 180-18 Avon needed to be as soft as possible, so I dropped the 40 pounds to less than 30. As I stood there, Cheri chatted away about one thing or another, constantly making sexual references to the most absurd articles. She somehow found honey mustard dressing sexual, or elevators, though I could understand her phallic reference to pickles. As we moved into the hills, the incline felt good to the 98-inch S&S motor. Rumbling up a winding incline, we found ourselves behind several motor homes and a logging truck. When we hit a passing lane, two tourists melded to the right and the logging truck and one camper stayed to the left as if in a 1/4 mile they could pass the other dog-slow travelers. I down shifted and poured the fuel to the stroker, which climbed on the other vehicles like they were standing still. The lumber truck was barely reaching the rear bumper of the motor home when I split between them. I blasted over the rise ahead and began a high-speed decline. I slowed slightly to let the others catch me, but they didn’t come. I slowed some more, then suddenly noticed a thundering 18-wheeler bearing down on me. I had upset the trucker and he planned to flatten my ass. The rigid Blue is light, and I was discovering lightning-fast throttle response. I bolted forward. I spun the throttle, again, and it came alive like the crack from a high velocity .22. Then I noticed a new vibration. It was coming from the tank. The truck was trying to gain on me again, and I slipped the polished 42-mm Mikuni more fuel and she responded like a tongue to a sensitive clit. The bike jumped and roared ahead. Again, a rattling screamed at me from the top of the frame and I pulled my gloved hand off the left grip and put it on top of Harold’s paint work, which glistened in the sun. My teeth immediately responded to the touch. Something was wrong, but I had a semi barreling down on me and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to pull over and give him an open target so I pressed on the tank with my left hand and pushed harder on the throttle with my right. I raced past the signs indicating a dangerous decline ahead and warning truckers to check their brakes. The guy behind me had no notion of using his as he sped to catch me. Fortunately, I could outrun him, if I were riding a bike built for mountain riding. This was my first opportunity to test the handling of the 38-degree raked frame with the 6 degrees in the Weerd Bros. front end. I had specifically built in plenty of ground clearance by cutting the Samson pipes and lifting the front header. There was nothing on the left to interfere with the road and I had a solid six inches of ground clearance underneath the frame. As I leaned I felt the bike want to tumble so I poured more fuel and the front wheel tracked the corner smoothly. The next corner was well marked for speed and curvature. I dipped low and accelerated. Although the rake generally, with speed, wants to force the bike to go straight, the additional rake in the triple trees minimized the trail and the front end adjusted easily to the turn, but I was trying to hold on to my vibrating gas tank at the same time. Another series of turns were dead ahead and the screaming logger was shifting gears 30 feet from my rear Avon. He knew the road better than I did. I took the shift as a signal of manageable turns ahead and turned the throttle. The bike jumped forward and I released the tank to handle the curve. To my left were open oncoming lanes through sliced mountains. To my right was a sheer precipice and a majestic valley a couple thousand feet below. I pushed the Blue Flame and it responded like a thoroughbred. It felt strange. I had ridden choppers for years, but in the last decade I hadn’t ridden a bike with this length of front tubes. The Jesse James touring chopper had a severe turning radius restriction with the bags, but this machine seemed to have no bumpers, no drag, no pegs that prevented me from leaning it closer to the asphalt, so I pushed. The only thing that would hold me back from making the next turn was Avon traction, a flexing Daytec frame or a squirrely front-end. I seemed to handle turns to the right easier than to the left, and I dipped as the curve unveiled itself. The truck was right on my ass as I hit the 35 mph turn at 60. The most terrifying aspect of any turn is the visual. Can you see the chamfer and the complete arch? Is there a mountain on the inside preventing visibility? Are you heading downhill? Downhill racing is the worst. You can let up on the throttle and the bike won’t slow down. That’s the last thing you need when you realize that your bike cannot make the corner. I needed deceleration and it wasn’t there. I had pulled away from the truck, but the tank was singing a violent tune. I ignored the horrible vibration and dipped the machine to the right. To my amazement, it went over easily. Nothing scraped, skipped, twisted or jiggled. The tire remained firmly planted to the road’s surface and I accelerated through the turn and into the next one. The truck loomed behind me except it wasn’t barreling after me this time. The postings along the side of the mountain warned of the steep slope, brake testing and slow trucks. The driver had chosen to ignore the warnings and careened after me, but now in the rearview mirror the trucker’s load seemed out of balance. The massive logs were jostled. The truck leaned at an odd angle. The driver had abandoned the pursuit in favor of saving his own neck. Smoke poured from the brakes as he tried to control the 80,000-pound vehicle before he encountered another curve along the perilous slope. I glanced at the valley below and decided he was more of a threat now than when he was pissed and in control. I turned up the heat and headed quickly away from the collision-bound truck. We had several junctions ahead, including 377 to Holbrook, 277 to Snowflake and 260 to Show Low. With each curve I was forced to test, I became more confident in the Daytec chassis and long Weerd Bros. wide glide front end. I had never owned a chopper that handled with this much ease. I seemed to be able to dip the flaming scoot over so far that my calf was parallel with the pavement. I hit the town of Heber where we had planned to stop for a piece of peach pie, but I blew right through. I passed the 377 turn off and prayed that the trucker survived, but was on his way to Snowflake. I split off on 260 toward Show Low and quickly found a safe place to pull over to check my tank and wait for the others. The rear tab on the tank had broken and the vibration between the remaining tab was eerie, but with the 3M weather stripping holding the tank to the frame backbone and the front tab in place, all appeared secure. Myron pulled up with Karl and the emotional Cheri shouted, “That truck was after your ass.” We only had another 30 miles to go but we hit a hardware store and, based on expert breakdown recommendations from Karl and Myron, I picked up more 3M stripping, JB Weld, sand paper and some grommets. I rode carefully for the final 30 miles into Holbrook where we copped a couple of rooms and prepared to operate on the Blue Flame. I almost had to pry the tank off. The rear tab was toast and I spent an hour cleaning it. I mixed and spread the JB weld, put down new 3M weather stripping and reinstalled the tank. It was time for happy hour and we walked to the local cowboy/sports bar across the highway. There’s an odd sensation that comes over a rider with a busted machine. It’s as if you know you must hike to the top of the hill, but you’re bleeding. You know you’re going for it, but not sure how you’ll make it. Still you keep moving forward. Holbrook was our stopping point about 250 miles out. The bar was cool and for some reason, perhaps the unrelenting heat, we ordered margarita after margarita, then chicken wings, chicken tenders and more wings. Those little puppies were smoldering but went down like chips at a Mexican restaurant. We munched as if we weren’t going to eat for a week, then went in search of peach pie. Why is it that once out of California, fresh vegetables and fruit seem impossible to come by. If I couldn’t have sex, I wanted peach pie, and for some odd reason, it seemed as rare as a whore in church.

The next morning, Myron and I got our asses in gear and loaded our scoots. Karl and Cheri were returning to Phoenix the long way through the mountains and Flag before getting home. We said our goodbyes and headed out. It was odd, or maybe not, that Myron and I were travelin’ without maps this year. We remembered the time we rode into Colorado by mistake and Mark the Warrior was mapped to the max. This was going to be an odd trip without a map. Sorta like sailing to Hawaii without a compass. We were flying by the seat of our pants. I babied the Blue Flame onto I-40 and tested it with my left glove. Not an ounce of vibration. It felt as if it was welded to the frame. I took it easy for another 40 miles then rolled it on. I had an entire fuckin’ tool box in the compartment of my handy-dandy bedroll. Hell, if it broke, I’d fix it. We rode to Gallup, N.M., some 98 miles to the east, pulled in and gassed up. A big Indian behind the counter told us, “Just stay on this street til you get to the Mexican restaurant — best food in town. Hang a right there and you’re on 666 heading north to Shiprock. Should take you about 2 hours.” “How about peach pie?” I asked. He just shrugged. An older gentleman dressed in Indian attire and turquoise jewelry looked at us through squinted eyes surrounded by leather-tough skin. “Two hundred miles,” he said. We looked at him, then at the younger man who ignored the bent over old dude with the knowing eyes. Something wasn’t right. We copped out and Myron bought a map. We rode the lumpy street for five miles until we came across the turn for 666 and the restaurant. Inside, we opened the map. He had purchased a perfectly good map of Utah. We weren’t going there, so I folded it and set it beside my napkin while I ate huevos rancheros, then asked the waitress how far Cortez, Colo., was. I’m not sure she knew what state she was in, but she delivered some mean salsa. After eating, we strolled out to the bikes and the waiter followed us. “You forget this, senors,” he said, handing me the map. I waited for him to return to the restaurant then shit-canned the map. We don’t need no stinkin’ maps. Myron’s wheel was clicking and it felt strange in the turns, so we had pulled it apart in Holbrook and found nothing. It sounded even worse as we pulled onto Highway 666 heading north, unaware of how far Cortez or Shiprock were. We just kept riding. The straight stretch from Gallop north was dry and hot, just under 100 degrees as we plowed into a junk yard of a town called Shiprock, named after one of the massive outcroppings in the desert. The roads were torn up like they were when we came through in ’97. We tried to find peach pie, but struck out, so we stopped at a McDonald’s for a shake. We were befriended by a small young Indian man wearing a camouflage hat and pants, a Vietnam ribbon and a tightly pressed denim shirt. He sat across from us, bent over in our direction and started the conversation like he had access to a couple of slices of black market peach pie. He glanced around the plastic franchise nervous like. His voice was slow and low and he peered at me like I was a passenger in De Niro’s “Taxi” movie. His eyes were deep and haunting. He whispered about the Harley he wanted to own more than anything, a Sportster he was planning to leave his wife and kids to get. I got it. If anyone heard him tell that story and it got back to his wife, he was toast. We pulled our chairs closer to the young man and listened intently as he explained his dream. I gave him a Bikernet sticker while wishing I had a Sportster in my bedroll. I would have gladly given it to the man. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the longing and the desperation. Apart from 15 liquor stores and the big Mac, the town had little to offer. On the outskirts there was a track of desolate homes indicative of the area. Each structure was about the size of a single, shoe-box mobile home. They were all painted brick red with white gravel roofs. A winding gravel path wound between them and small tufts of cactus. That was it. No garages, decks, driveways or carports. Each one was worn down by the sun and the wind that kept them engulfed in a cloud of dust. We noted the depressing atmosphere that loomed like acid rain over dying crops and got the fuck outta there. It was only 31 miles to Cortez. We rolled in before 3 p.m. and pulled up to the Best Western inhabited by the Hamsters. In fact, so many of the furry beasts were riding out that they had taken over two motels. My first impression as we pulled into the parking lot packed with dressers was a question. Where were all the custom bikes? The Hamsters have a reputation for being rich and riding nothing but $50,000 customs. From the looks of the parking lot, and the lines of black dressers, I had run into a HOG chapter on its way to the rally. My version of the dubious Hamster mantra has always been a club for custom builders and custom bike enthusiasts. As far as I’m concerned, that’s still the case, although as the guys get older, most can afford something comfortable for the long haul. Arlen Ness still rides a full custom all the way to the Bad Lands. And as far as being wealthy, most of these guys weren’t born that way. They worked for it, building a business that finally became successful. So now they have some money and deserve it. They also employ many riders, like Phil and Karen Day of Daytec. You couldn’t meet more down-to-Earth people. Arlen began his working life as a postman while building bikes in his garage. It’s only idiots like myself who decide to drop everything, go through a divorce and write books for a living who are on the brink of poverty. At least I can say I’m not a yuppie. The tank was still in place, Myron’s wheel continued to be round and roll as we pulled in just before a thunderstorm. Adjacent to the motel was a run down but functioning gym. Although the equipment was rickety and loose we hammered our bodies until we couldn’t walk and beat feet out of there. Every year on the way to Sturgis, Thomas throws a major party for his wife, Cheryl. Tom and Cheryl ride from the Bay area to Sturgis annually on one of Arlen’s luxury liners. He pushes that black beast with red and orange flames, with his wife on the back throughout the entire trip, keeping up with us hot rods. Quiet and unassuming, they plow down the freeway each year dressed in all black, riding hell bent to reach the Bad Lands. Each year at one stop, Thomas makes arrangements to feed and pour for all the Hamsters to celebrate Cheryl’s birth and their relationship. I don’t need to eat or drink that night. It’s enough to watch Cheryl’s face glow as he introduces her once more to the rabid clan. She glows with appreciation and love for her man. The “wind ’em up” call came at 7 a.m. the next day and a handful of riders jammed to breakfast, scarfed their eggs and omelets, asked for peach pie without success and rushed back to the motel to be with the gang as they rode out. We had 320 miles to go through Durango, over the pass into Silverton, up to Delta and into the mountains leading to Aspen. About 30 of us rode out together. There’s nothing more boring than riding in a pack. You can’t look around, check out the girls or look for peach pie. You can’t stop to pick your teeth, scratch your ass or look at the valley below. You can’t fuck around and do wheelies or someone will vote you out of the club. Well, we learned this the first year and then gradually worked our way to the front of the pack and disappeared over the horizon ahead. If a club wants to look impressive, they should meet five miles from their destination and ride together into town. Riding in a pack is fuckin’ dangerous but damn, it looks impressive. It’s the slow guy in the middle of the pack who falls asleep and wipes out the rest. Since I was still testing the handling of the blue chopper, I held back as we entered the mountainous curves leading out of Durango along the narrow gauge railroad into the steep mountains ahead. The tank held fast as we rolled through the sweeping bends and I warmed up to the morning sun. Soon I was trying to drag something as I careened around one curve after another, reminiscing about the touring chopper four years ago and how I had to shift my weight to keep the bike as upright as possible until I could get to a welder at a gas station in Silverton.   As I cruised into the old mining town, I pulled into that same gas station and two of the guys who helped weld the swingarm into place were still there. One showed me his Knucklehead chop at the house behind the station. Some of the guys who hadn’t eaten breakfast were chowing down — another reason packs are a pain. So I grabbed my work gloves, saddled up and headed out of town with one Hamster wannabe behind me on his dresser. Little did I know that this would become a day to remember. We blew out of town and into the hills beyond. The trip at that point was perhaps the most picturesque, with rivers running through the pines below as we rolled through Montrose, then Delta and off at 133 toward Carbondale. We were making good time until we came to a small canyon outside of Carbondale, where the road was torn down to the dirt, grated and driven on enough to become washboard. The rigid handled it well, but I didn’t like the jarring impact on the tank. It seemed to scream as I bounced from one pothole to the next ridge and gully for three long miles. When we finally pulled onto the smooth pavement, I knew I was in trouble. I had a new series of vibrations screaming at me. Another 30 miles and we stopped for gas in Carbondale. We had covered 122 miles. Although I was richening the mixture due to the altitude, I put a mere 2.216 gallons in the chopper for 55 mpg. Aspen wasn’t far off. All we needed was fuel and 23 miles and we would be staring at a Jacuzzi, a pool and drinks. I looked at my cellular phone entrepreneur partner, Milo, and at my tank. Both the front and the rear tabs were broken and basically the tin tank with 25 pounds of gasoline stored inside was being held on with a piece of 3M tape a 1/2-inch wide. Milo shook his head, but I had to jinx the situation. “No problem,” I said, “I had to pry off the tape the last time. It’ll hold.” Yeah, right. Half way up the hill toward Aspen, I went over a slight bump in the road and the tank landed in my lap. Milo was in front and I lost him. I held onto the tank and pulled over. Setting it back in place, I stared at the wonderful paint work by Harold Pontarelli and pondered my situation. I wasn’t thinking immediate fixes. I was thinking about tomorrow and finding a welder, about the outcome of this run, and finally about Agent Zebra and the east coast contingent that was barreling up from the southeast. I had to make it, to fix the fucking tank and keep rolling. I was riding the first rigid chopper to Sturgis in, well, there were perhaps infinite rigids converging on the Bad Lands, so what was my point, anyway. Finally, I awoke from my nightmare, dug out a bungee cord from my bedroll, ran it over the tank, behind the gas cap and down to the front legs of the frame. It seemed to be stable so I rode on into town holding the tank with one hand. We were staying at a swank hotel in the center of trendy Aspen, but all the glitter and class only told me there wasn’t a welding shop in town. I had a mission. I unloaded my shit, checked into my room and picked up the phone. Myron came in about the same time, went to the room and tried to turn on the television. It didn’t work. That was a precursor to the events that lay ahead. I made call after call until I found a welder in Basalt, some 30 miles away. While I was calling all over the valley, Myron attempted to order something to eat, but the swank lodge didn’t start room service until 6 p.m. The welder I was looking for couldn’t be squeamish about welding gas tanks and I made sure to mention that pitfall immediately while calling around. With the welder lined up and a plan in place, I went to the bar to get a drink to calm my nerves. The bar didn’t open for another hour, but Myron and I glared at the barkeep until he found a couple glasses and filled them with Jack. We opted for an early dinner in town, so we attempted to clean up for the event. In the head, I stepped on a piece of glass and bled all over the slate floor. Then I attempted to iron a shirt, but the iron didn’t work. Myron, Milo and I went to dinner with Randy Aron of Cycle Visions in San Diego. I offered to pay for dinner, since Randy was going to run my ass around Aspen to find a welder, but my credit card was turned down. Plus the restaurant didn’t have any peach pie. Hell, the shitty tabs on the tank were my fault, not Randy’s. I was beginning to feel jinxed. El Swank Aspen hotel seemed OK. What else could go wrong? I discovered later that Wachovia bank was trying to track me down. Seems some biker had accosted my card and was riding to Sturgis on my dime, ‘cept that crazed thief was me. Randy, a young, stylish sorta rider is one of those Hamsters everyone complains about. He doesn’t look like the average biker. He drives a new truck and builds world class custom motorcycles. He’s talented and good looking but how did he get there? He started a plumbing business 20 years ago and worked his ass off. He took the risks, learned the trade, found customers, dealt with employees and finally became successful. Let’s shoot the mutha fucker. While the rest of the crew slept in their little sawdust Hamster Beds, I crept out at 6 a.m. and loaded the long chop next to Randy’s hand- formed dresser in his truck. We paid close attention to my sketchy directions and rolled out of the mountain pass down to Basalt where we took a right on Frying Pan Road and found a small industrial building. I pulled up to 3-D Iron and Mike Horn, a skinny, wrinkled man, greeted us with the bad news.   Peering up at me through thick glasses, he said, “If it’s a gas tank, we won’t weld it.” Reaching for the tank that we had taken off the frame, wrapped in towel and duct taped for security, I noticed that liquid had filled the corner of the truck bed. On second glance, I became rudely aware that the petcock had come open and it was gas that soaked my clothes and my bedroll. I rolled my eyes and asked if we could pay for the equipment and weld it ourselves. “Nope, can’t do it. Insurance liability, you know,” he said. “But I will make a strap for the tank.” While I stared at the old welder in astonishment and tried to explain that I spoke to someone who had given me the green light, I knew it was futile. I could see a guy in the back of the shop bent over a bare metal trailer frame. He would only glance in my direction from time to time. Perhaps it was the guilty culprit who said to bring the tank down. Randy stood beside the truck and greeted several guys from the sheet metal shop next door.   Most of the middle-aged workers were going to Sturgis and they readily struck up a conversation. The shop was neat and most of the guys had salt-and-pepper hair pulled into pony tails. Randy tapped me on the shoulder. “These guys will let me use their mig welder,” he said, referring to the team at T&E Marshall Enterprises Inc., makers of custom sheet metal and heating systems. We finally had a formula for success. The old guy from the crappie shop made the strap and drilled the holes while we emptied the tank and readied it for welding. Randy flushed the tin container with water, then held the tank mouth against the exhaust pipe of his truck until the carbon monoxide dissipated any gasoline fumes. The tank smelled clean and he fired his lighter above the mouth. Nothing. In a matter of five minutes, it was ready to weld safely. Randy tested the welder on a piece of scrap. The mig would do the job, but he wasn’t as comfortable as if he had his tig. The mig would have to do. Welding dissimilar metals together is a trick I was once very adept at. The 16-gauge material of the Sportster tank had to be mated to the 1/4-inch thickness of the strap and Randy went to work. Sparks flew, metal crackled and paint sizzled as he welded the tab in several places.   Since I had brazed the original tabs in place, the braze melted and flowed into the welds, causing them to sputter. We let the tank cool and filled it with water. It leaked, my worst nightmare. Even worse than breaking tabs or having a loose tank was the threat of a leak. Randy tried again, but the leaks were coming from under the tab where it was impossible to reach with the welder. In an attempt to fix the existing leaks, Randy blew a hole in the tank. He worked on the hole, then I suggested that we braze over the welds to seal them. It wasn’t a bad idea, but a torch and braze was going to generate much more heat to a wider area and Randy was considering the damage to the paint. So far, Harold’s creativity was unscathed. Finally, Randy and I began an hour job that could have taken 15 minutes. Because of the bondo smoke and the steam from the wet rag Randy held close to the area I was attempting to braze, the torch kept blowing out. It took forever to coat some of the welds with brass. We checked the tank again with water. It seemed to have sealed. We packed up and headed north. Checking tank leaks with water is like filtering your gas with screen door mesh. It’s an indicator, but not a good one. I felt that the only way to guard against gas seeping through the welds was to seal the tank. We had some discussion about saving the tank and welding on it in the future with sealant inside, but finally settled on trying to find some Custom Chrome Tank Creme, a three-stage process. We went to a small diner for lunch and I got back on the phone.

The Harley shop in Green River didn’t have it, nor did any of the other bike shops in the valley, but there was a shop in Aspen. It wasn’t in the phone book and couldn’t be reached by directory assistance. I called the Harley shop back and was given the number for Aspen Custom Motorcycles. I dialed and there was only an answering machine. Tired and dejected, we rambled back toward town. During one of our last installation attempts, we broke off the stud that held the rear tab in place. Now we needed an auto parts store for a large hose clamp and some rubber insulation to prevent the clamp from tearing through the durable powder coating finish. We pulled up in front of a Napa auto parts store and parked beside a blue and silver pickup with Krylon letters across the back window, “Aspen Custom Motorcycles.” Inside, a thin man with dark hair and youthful features leaned over the counter wearing a black Aspen Custom Motorcycles T-shirt. I introduced myself and he asked us to follow him. Two blocks away, this guy had his shop set up in a single storage unit stall (970) 544-9419. His undercover shop was complete with three stage creme sealer and we bought his only kit, thanked him and hauled ass for the Swank Hotel. In front of our room was an outdoor corridor leading to the bar and outdoor pool. I picked up several towels, borrowed a large bucket and we went to work. The first stage was a mixture of water and a strong detergent that was supposed to soak in the tank for four hours. We didn’t have the time and let it set for an hour. In the meantime, the guys in Randy’s room where having trouble with the plumbing. After I flushed the toxic mixture into a bucket, I poured it down the toilet in Randy’s room. I knew I should have stopped, but I was beyond the point of no return. I returned to the bike for stage two – flushing the tank with a strong solvent. Again the remnants of the explosive liquid were drained into the toilet. Meanwhile, hotel maintenance men and managers descended on Randy’s room, where a couple of riders had set up their joint rolling station. Plungers, tools and snakes were moved from room to room. Four rooms were effected and they were going to have to snake down from the roof. Randy shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said and poured the final stage of thick milky fluid into the tank. This process included sloshing the creamy liquid around the tank for 10 minutes, letting it set for 20, then sloshing again before draining. Randy sloshed and coated the lining of the tank for what seemed to be hours, making sure every crevice received its fair share. By this time evening was upon us. The tank was supposed to dry for 24 hours. I didn’t have time and Randy suggested that we use a hair dryer to speed up the drying process. The instructions specifically warned against the use of hair dryers because the final process was extremely flammable. Randy continued draining the thickening substance back into the bottle it came from, as we pondered the question. At one point, we tried putting the tank in front of the air conditioner to augment the flow, but there had to be a better way. Finally someone hit up the maintenance crew for a shop vac. As the sun sank, we started sucking the fumes from the tank outside our room.   At one point, two girls showed up, one 22 and the other 27. They wanted to smoke a joint and party some, but the fumes held them at bay. Both were wearing shorts and tank tops and carrying shopping bags. One included a couple pairs of spiked heels that they quickly unwrapped and promised to sport for us. One had on a top buttoned up the front over no bra, and her tits were pressed so hard against the mint green fabric that the heavenly mounds creased the material. When she leaned over to slip on the shoes, we gasped in unison. Whatever it is that makes a woman’s body magic to a man, is a wonderful thing unless abused by either party. If a woman minds that a man gawks at the flesh exposed by too little clothing, she should cover herself. These girls didn’t mind. In fact, they enjoyed it and wanted more. We could have given in to them except we had a mission and a deadline. After the girls asked some probing questions and we didn’t respond appropriately, they rolled themselves a doobie and departed. There was another problem with nubile girls finding their evil ways into our lives. We were staying with 100 of our closest, most gossipy friends in the same goddamn hotel. Speaking of gossip, I hadn’t heard from Zebra for two days. He was supposed to hook up with a pack of riders in Tennessee, and perhaps they roasted him instead of a pig. I didn’t know his whereabouts, but I kept calling his cell phone hoping to hear the number had been permanently disconnected. At 6 a.m. Friday, the phone rang. Larry the mobile mud slide maker was leaving his room to meet me in the parking lot to lend me gas. I was hoping to sleep in, but noooo. I wrestled my ass out of bed and out to the bike with the tank. After setting it on the bike, it was difficult to tell that it had been through hell the previous day. I mounted it, hooked up the lines and went back to bed. I told Larry never to call me at 6 a.m. again and to keep his gas. I wanted to let it air for a couple more hours. At 9 a.m. we put gas in it for the first time from Howard’s truck, just a quart. We loaded up and hit the first station. We were Denver bound. Some of the guys were heading into the pass above, but rumor was that the straight shot was down to Green River, over to the 70 Freeway and into Denver. It was 30 miles out of the way, but we chose the straightest shot. The freeway is only two lanes wide but it meanders along railroad tracks and rivers toward Vail. We stopped for gas in Eagle and were passed by 30 Hamsters blasting onto the freeway. How they beat us I will never know, but I sent my navigator his walking papers the next day. We caught the furry beasts outside Vail. Traffic began to bunch up and we kept riding faster, splitting lanes and running the gauntlet between the very fast cars and extremely slow trucks. Treachery was all around us as we crested a pass and could see the dots of a pack of bikes in the distance. The tank was holding and the bike hadn’t burped, coughed or sputtered. It could handle anything I dished out. I turned the throttle and it responded. About 25 miles outside Denver we blew past the guys in yellow and another couple miles down the road it began to rain, then hail. We ducked off the freeway, pulled on our slickers and found a log cabin watering hole.

That last 25 miles were the worst of the trip. It rained off and on as the traffic became thick as mud on your boots. Lane splitting is not allowed and when we attempted to play ignorant travelers, motorists tried to hit us. As the sun broke over the parking lot of cars, the humidity rose with the mercury. Of course we got lost at one point, found the Two-Wheelers shop and ultimately the hotel. There was a major party planned for the 25th anniversary of the shop, but the threat of rain and the 450- mile trip to Sturgis the next morning forced us to take it easy and hit the hay early. We tried a local restaurant for grub, but they still didn’t serve peach pie. The next morning, Myron and I were on the road by 4:30. An odd feeling swept over us as we rode Highway 25 in the dark. In the rolling fields and wide open spaces of Colorado, it was as if we were lodged on the brink of the city. There wasn’t a row of houses or an industrial park once we turned north and it felt good. We rumbled for 90 miles until we arrived at Cheyenne, Wyo., for breakfast. We hit the road for another 75 miles and pulled off in Wheatland where we refueled and had one of Myron’s safety meals and coffee. He works out constantly and feels that his success in the gym is attributable to his intake of protein. He doesn’t eat a lot or poorly, but often and bushels of protein. As we walked out of the restaurant, we were met by Cheryl. Tom’s bike had a broken shift lever and he was working on it. “How the hell did you get here?” Myron asked. “Uh,” Cheryl muttered, not sure what to say. “What time did you leave?” I asked. “6:30,” she said. We looked at each other in dismay. Myron jerked on his gloves. “Let’s ride,” he shouted, “We’re burnin’ daylight.” We spit dust and rocks as we blasted out of the gravel lot and onto the highway. Suddenly he was hell bent for leather. We stopped just for gas in Orin and headed east on 20/18, blasting toward the small town of Lusk, Wyo.   At the end of town we stopped for another safety meal. We had 130 miles to go to get to Sturgis, but the roads would narrow and we’d have to slow down. Across the street the bikes were lined up in front of the western bar. I liked this town. It’s small but has some action going for it. As we turned toward the door of the Del Rey Cafe, Milo strolled out the door pickin’ his teeth with a tooth pick. “Damn!” Myron said and almost abandoned his safety meal stop. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Milo shrugged, straddled his all-black dresser and took off. The waitress would melt a good man’s bones with her silky, fair complexion, even lighter hair and brilliant blue eyes. My words were stumbling when I asked for peach pie, but I lost all interest when I discovered that she had just run out. “You mean you didn’t save me a slice?” I shouted, throwing my tan gloves on the table. In Newcastle we stopped momentarily for gas, but as we paid our ticket we noticed Hamster Jeff pull into the station. Myron grabbed his gloves and headed for his Dyna. “Fuck the peach pie,” he shouted again, “Let’s ride.” I tried to holler to Jeff as we headed out of the station and hit the highway toward Four Corners. We were in a race now, and although Myron said to most riders as we left them in bars and gas stops, “Keep it under a hundred,” this time it was different. If we had open straight roads ahead, throttles would be pegged to the stops. He couldn’t figure out how these bastards who left the motel two hours after we did were catching up. Hell, we were rumbling along at 85 plus, but we had 14 meals to their one cup of coffee. What the fuck? Now we were in narrow canyons weaving through packs of bikers heading to their homeland. Again the chopper handled the curves as if I were on a rice rocket, dipping and bending with each bank. Each gas stop was spoke to spoke with lines of motorcycles to refuel. Each bar looked like a popular biker hangout from Southern Calif. on a Sunday afternoon.   They were coming from all directions. The rumor of afternoon thunderstorms had us pushing the envelope. Our bikes were a mess, but they were running and we were ready to hit the home stretch for our abode in the Bad Lands. Finally, in Spearfish Canyon 15 miles from home, we slowed and enjoyed the Jack Pines and the bustling brooks that bordered the winding road. We were home. Home to the biker, the outlaw, the bandit and to every fucking rider in the world who enjoys open roads, beer, broads and peach pie. Now if we could only find the girl, or at least a piece of pie.   –Bandit PS. Zebra had arrived four hours earlier. We immediately gathered up the boys and found the only bikini bike wash in town. Following is a couple of miscellaneous shots from Sturgis 2000. It was a helluva year.

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Daytec Center 17469 Lemon Street Hesperia, CA 92345 (760) 244-1591	Downtown Harley-Davidson Russ Tom 6727 Martin Luther King Way Seattle, WA 98118 (818) 901-7037	Bay Area Custom Cycles Ron Simms 25224 Mission Blvd. Hayward, CA 94541
Milwaukee Iron Randy Simpson 3000 Lenox Lynchburg, VA 24501	Headwinds Cycle Products Joel Felty P.O. Box 661213 Arcadia, CA 91066-1213 (818) 359-8044	Custom Chrome, Inc. See your local dealer Or Call (800) 729-3332
Performance Machine Ted Sands 6892 Marlin Circle LaPalma, CA 90623 (714) 523-3000	South Bay Chrome 2041 S. Grand Ave. Santa Ana, CA 92705 (714) 434-1141	S&S Cycle Rt. 2 Box 215 County G Viola, WI 54664 (608) 627-1467
Rich Products 12420 San Pablo Ave. Richmond, CA 94805 (510) 234-7547	HiTech Products 11023 Glenoaks Blvd., Unit H Pacoima, CA 91331 (818) 834-1060	Hannon’s Machine Shop 21050 Mission Blvd. Hayward, CA 94541 (510) 581-5315
Corbin 11445 Commercial Parkway Castroville, CA 95012 (408) 633-2500	Weerd Bros. Inc 329 W. Lone Cactus, #10 Phoenix, AZ 85027 (623) 869-9477 (623) 869-9478 FAX	SJP Engineering www.sjp-engineering.nl
Joker Machine 1078 West Kirkwall Road Azusa CA 91702 (626) 334-9371 www.jokermachine.com

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BIKERNET NEWS FLASH–SEX SCANDAL ROCKS BIKERNET–WE HOPE

I was just sitting here when she came to the door. I’m hammering away on the keyboard, concerned that we don’t have enough images for the news this week, thinking about the Labor Day weekend and all the treachery it holds: traffic jams, Nuutboy’s party in Idyllwild, the Four Corners run in Durango, the jazz festival in downtown L.A., working on the ’48 Panhead, finishing the edit on my 20,000-word Sturgis saga, and praying that California H-D sells my Street Stalker so I can publish my next book, “Sam, Chopper, Orwell.” Hell, I need to pay the bills.

There she was, all 21 years of raging hormones in a mini-skirt. And they complain that men are the driving force behind sexual appetites. I don’t think so. Sure, our techniques are different, but women don’t have the stigma of being pushy. Where we should act with decorum and sensitivity, the fairer sex can be demanding, overt and as goddamn pushy as they want. It’s not a bad thing. I better open the door, she’s waiting. Then we’ll get to the news.

HARLEY-DAVIDSON GIVES $250,000 TO THE NATIONAL WORLD WAR II MEMORIAL–Harley-Davidson announced this week a $250,000contribution to help build the National World War II Memorial in Washington,D.C. The announcement was made at the culmination of a motorcycle parade ledby a World War II-vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

“On behalf of the company and our many veteran employees andcustomers, we are proud to honor World War II veterans by donating a quarterof a million dollars to help build their long-deserved memorial,” said JimZiemer, president of the Harley-Davidson Foundation and a U.S. veteran. TheVeterans of Foreign Wars, which kicked off its 101st national conventiontoday in Milwaukee, will match 50 cents for every dollar ofHarley-Davidson’s gift.

Harley-Davidson has a long history as a U.S. military supplier. Thecompany’s motorcycles were first used for dispatching and scouting duringborder skirmishes on the Mexican frontier in 1916. During the first year ofU.S. military involvement in World War I, approximately half of all thecompany’s production went to the military. During World War II,Harley-Davidson produced approximately 90,000 WL military models.

More than 14 percent of Harley-Davidson’s U.S. employees areveterans of the U.S. military, and many of Harley-Davidson’s loyal customersalso served our country.

Harley-Davidson salutes the nation’s veterans every year onVeteran’s Day, Nov. 11, by hosting special events at its facilities in Kansas City, Mo.,Milwaukee, Wis., and York, Pa.

BANDIT’S STREET STALKER FOR SALE–That’s right, for a mere $17,000 you can own one of the first Street Stalkers to be formed out of a Fatboy. Its black out style was featured in Easyriders and rode to Sturgis 1998. The bike was hopped-up by Dave at Bartel’s H-D and runs at the top of its game for an 80-inch motor. If you want to talk to me about it, send an e-mail to bandit@bikernet.com, or go see the bike at California Harley-Davidson on Pacific Coast Highway in Harbor City; (310) 539-3366 and ask for Joel.

DON’T RIDE FASTER THAN YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL CAN FLY–Amen, brother. I’m one of them fuckin’ wannabes and this weekend I wentafter my cycle endorsement through the MSF. On the last god damn evaluation,an exercise I smoked repeatedly during the class, I hit the gate toofast, realized my mistake and hit my brakes at the same time Icounter-steered. Locked the fuckin’ front tire up bigger ‘n shit andslammed my fat ass into the ground. Took about two layers of skin offmy elbow and gave me a hell of a bruise on my leg. All I could think ofwas thank God it was this loaner 2000 Rebel and not the Night Train Ihave on order.

Needless to say, I failed the eval. The kicker is, if I’dhave known my point score at the time, I could have rolled right throughthe mother fucker, taken the max number of points and still gotten myendorsement, as long as I didn’t dump it.

Of course in that heat,three out of 12 in the class dumped during the eval, so I wasn’talone. I think that’s why we’re getting another crack at it on Sunday.

We hope to bring the MSF course to our readers in written reports in the near future. We should all take these courses, no matter how long we’ve been in the saddle–Bandit

SIGNS YOU’RE ALL GROWN UP– Your potted plants stay alive.

Having sex in a twin-sized bed is absurd.

You keep more food than beer in the fridge.

6 a.m. is when you get up, not when you go to sleep.

You hear your favorite “party” song on the elevator at work.

You go from 130 days of vacation time to 7.

You’re the one calling the police because those darn kids next door don’t know how to turn down the stereo.

You don’t know what time McDonald’s closes anymore.

Your car insurance goes down and your car payments go up.

You feed your dog Science Diet instead of McDonald’s.

You don’t get liquored up at home to save money before going to a bar.

BURNING MAN FESTIVAL, RENO, NEVADA–The Burning Man Festival, an eclectic mix of offbeat art, impromptuperformance and cultural experimentation, draws 10,000 or so free spiritsto the middle-of-nowhere Nevada each Labor Day weekend. Tall as afive-story building, trimmed with neon and stuffed with fireworks, the Manis an impressive piece of work, but the real story is in the culture thathas sprung up around it. Burning Man has become a magnet for many strangeand unexpected offerings.

Surrealist sculptors and solar-powered multimedia share the stage with musicians, painters, dancers, poets andgearheads. People labor all year to construct elaborate theme camps rangingfrom potluck barter bars to full-tilt circus sideshows. Costumes abound,including the ever-popular birthday suit. -John

BIKERNET CARIBBEAN REPORT– Hey guys, just got back from the Black Hills, the 60th, crowded asever, fun as always, and the best riding. This year a group of riders fromthe Caribbean (Puerto Rico) were on a mission. I don’t know if you have seenin local news the bits and pieces of what’s going on in a small island inPuerto Rico called Vieques. Well, the U.S. Navy has beenusing 75 percent of the island for target practice for the past 60 years, not onlythat but renting it to other armies for their target practice and landingmissions also.

Just last year,some bozos missed their target and dropped a two-ton bomb on a civilianpost of observation. Needless to say, it was left looking like Swiss cheeseand a civilian guard dead. It’s not the first time that something like thishappened, but this one filled the cup.

For a year there have been hundredsof people invading the military zone, building churches, schools andbarracks, replanting, cleaning the unexploded missiles, and trying to makethe beaches usable, so the marine life could regain control of theirhabitat.

So what’s up with the Navy? Nothing, this tiny island has the largestconcentration of cancer patients in all of the 50 states and itsterritories. There has been a total destruction of the fauna and flora, theturtle species (protected by the Feds) are blown out of the water like paper ina tornado, and on, and on. All the civil disobedients were arrested andcharged with trespassing. People are still doing it anyway. Meanwhile, theNavy tries to buy silence with $40 million, which won’t buy anyone’slife, nor restore the health of young children dying of cancer…..(have youseen Erin Brokovich?).

Even the veterans of many wars are against the Navyin this one. Gore and Bush have claimed to want the peace for Vieques, butthe fight is a long and hard one for us in Puerto Rico.

We decided to ridefor the peace of Vieques on the Black Hills, armed with stickers on ourbikes and a banner. We visited Mount Rushmore, stood there and silentlyopened our banner for everyone to see and read, with our respects to themonument and our respects for the peace of the 8,000 people who live inVieques. After some snaps and answering some questions, once again,silently, we left the presidents to themselves. Time and time again we didthis, just silently and respectfully over the Black Hills. “Vieques has theright to live in peace” it read. Simple and to the point. I’m writing this in the safety of my home, while thepeople of Vieques continue to receive two-ton bomb wake-up calls 180 days a year.People are dying of cancer and radiation-related sicknesses, and civildisobedients are arrested for peace.– Saludos from the Caribbean…Jose

A LETTER FROM CORALDid ya miss me? I had a great time with my girlfriends.I needed to get away for a while and think about my friendshipwith Sin. I decided that I was going to make a serious move on her. She isso sexy and beautiful, I don’t think I can just be friends with her. Wewent to lunch the other day and I was playing with her under the table. Icould tell she was getting really turned on because she opened her legs as Islid my hand up the inside of her thigh. When we walked out to the car, Igrabbed her and kissed her. She was very responsive, pressing her titsagainst mine and pulling me hard up against her. She reached behind me andpulled my ass close to her as she ground her pussy on my thigh. She was hotand wet. We got so turned on that we forgot we were out in public! A carpassed us and we realized where we were. We both had to be somewhere elseso we reluctantly said our goodbyes.

She wants to meet tonight and “talk”about what happened. Talk about it my ass, I’m going to have her. I boughtsome toys while I was on vacation, I’ll let you know if she likes to playwith them. Hell, maybe you can come and play with us. Well, not thistime – this one is all mine, but maybe next time. Take it easy Bandit,try not to work too hard. I’ll be thinking about you while I’m eating yourlunch tonight.~Coral

AMERICAN MOTORCYCLE COMPANY UPDATE–American Motorcycle Co. Some of the people who were involved with the new Indian Co. have bought into Quantum and are now going to berunning the whole show.

They come out of Canada. Murray and Lionel. There willbe an official press release with all the details sent out Monday. Every one is real excited about this and it looks like this is what isneeded to make Quantum a go.

Keith Ruxton is working at Quantum now? Really good to havehim. He is turning all kinds of stuff around for the good.

SPRUNG SOLO SEATS–I’m trying to locate a manufacturer that makes sprung solo seats. I’m building a chopped Hog with a ’94 Evo motor on a Daytec rigid frame. I want to put a small(sorta), sprung solo seat on it so I can have about another 4 or 5 inches allowable on handlebar height.

Harley-Davidson now makes a new police model based on the lastest Dyna chassis. These bikes are available to the public for around $12,000. The solo seat on this model is sprung with 4-inch springs. I used a set on my Daytec rigid for the ride to Sturgis. I took a standard old H-D solo seat and narrowed it an inch to align the studs on it with the frame rails, then built a pivot frame under the seat and modified the existing Daytec seat mount to allow the seat to pivot there. We made stands with 3/4-inch tall studs for the springs to center over and welded them to the frame. My welds suck (I need a Tig welder) but it worked like a dream. Check the Bikernet Garage for flicks.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR–DAILYNow on Bikernet, the letters to the editor are answered and posted daily in the Your Shot section. That is, if I’m in town, sober, not in bed with …, my mom hasn’t called, the surf is up, my bike is running, she’s jumping my bones, someone gave me a new bottle of Jack, and or…–Bandit

DER “NUUTBOY– Ach tu liber! “Hitler’s dog didn’t have a nose.” “How did he smell?” “Awful!” Gott en himmel!

HOW TO SAY “I LOVE YOU” IN 9 DIFFERENT LANGUAGES?–

English . .. . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . I Love You

Spanish . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Te Amo

French . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Je T’aime

German . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . lch Liebe Dich

Japanese . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . Ai Shite Imasu

Italian . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .. . . . . . Ti Amo

Chinese . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .. . . . Wo Ai Ni

Swedish . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .. . . Jag Alskar

Alabama, Arkansas, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana and Kentucky . . . . . . Nice Tits

BOOK REPORT– I’ve been checking with my local book stores for your materials and have had no luck. I did find one place that had your custom motorcycle book, but that was it. I had printed the first chapters of “Outlaw Justice,” “Prize Possesion” and your new one, “Sam ‘Chopper’ Orwell,” and was sucked in big time and need to finish them. Is there a way to get these locally, or am I going to have difficulty finding them? — ERIC

Well, we did an inventory the other day and discovered that we have 35 copies of “Prize Possessions” and 82 copies of “Outlaw Justice” left. They are virtually sold out. Hell, I’ve got to save a few for posterity. “Sam ‘Chopper’ Orwell will be printed in September.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE BIKERNET WEB MASTER–Zebra here. Bandit is hopped up on goofballs and flying on screamers. His head is entirely scrambled. He has been deluging me in the most profane drek for several hours now. Ranting and raving about lining up some sort of all-out brawl between himself, Don Johnson and Mickey Rourke to determine who is the undisputed heavyweight champion of San Pedro. Utter balderdash. Disregard anything he sends for the next 16 hours. And for God’s sake, don’t print anything he sends you for at least two days. He could easily bring on a multi-state ATF raid with the way he’s talking right now. In fact, I may have to call in a “tip” and trigger a raid on Bikernet West, just to protect the integrity of the heavy arms and dope stash of Bikernet East.–Zebra,Bikernet.com East

ONE WISH– A man walking along a California beach was deep in prayer.All of a sudden, he said out loud, “Lord grant me one wish.”

Suddenly the sky clouded above his head and in a booming voice, theLord said, “Because you have TRIED to be faithful to me in all ways,I will grant you one wish”

The man said, “Build a bridge to Hawaii, so I candrive over anytime I want to.”

The Lord said, “Your request is very materialistic.Think of the logistics of that kind of undertaking. The supportsrequired to reach the bottom of the Pacific! The concrete and steel itwould take!I can do it, but it is hard for me to justify your desire for worldlythings. Take a little more time and think of anotherwish, a wish you think would honor and glorify me.”

The man thought about it for a long time. Finally he said,”Lord, I wish that I could understand women. I want to know howthey feel inside, what they are thinking when they give me the silenttreatment, why they cry, what they mean when they say ‘nothing’,and how I can make a woman truly happy.”

After a few minutes, God said, “You want two lanes orfour on that bridge?”

A CHILLING RUN–If you want to see the south of Chile in a Yamaha XT600 year 2000 with a professional guide, please visit us at http://www.motoaventura.com, or contact us at rbaum@entelchile.net. Thanks for your attention, Sonia Dvorachuk, MotoAventura Ltda.

MORE OLDER SCOOTS– I would like to see more info on older 4 speed bikes. I have an 84 FXST. I found a way to stuff a 160/180 series tire out back when everyone said it’s impossible, and I did it without cutting the frame. I could share the info with you, but only if you promise to someday use it on your Website.

Another thing. Amtrak has had the Autotrain for some years now. Unfortunately, they don’t accept motorcycles. I would love to take more vacations on my bike but between work and school, time is a factor. Most riders are in my position. I believe some influential people in the motorcycle community should start a campaign to help Amtrak see the light. I have started posting some info on Harley usenet groups looking for feedback from other riders on this subject. –Steven Iglesias 84 FXST

I promise–Bandit

THE STUD–Nick the Dick is a stud. Seems like the every day foul mouthed perverted bunch of assholes I ride with. Wouldn’t change a thing. Keep up the good work. Looking forward to the next long story.–JohnLaw

1946 INDIAN CHIEF FOR SALE– Like some sort of dream, I was able to trade an FXR I was building for this chief. It’s not a 100-point restoration, it’s just my favorite Chief and I need to sell her to publish my next book. $24,000 and I’ll sign the puppy. For information, drop an e-mail to bandit@bikernet.com.

THE FRYED BROTHERS BAND CELEBRATION–

20th ANNIVERSARY PARTY

SEPT. 15-17

FEATURING: THE FRYED BROTHERS BAND EACH NIGHT& OTHER MUSICAL GUESTS FROM FRIDAY TIL 2 p.m. SUNDAY

DIRECTIONS—

1.FROM SACRAMENTO, TAKE HWY. 80 EAST TO FOREST HILL EXIT.(FOREST HILL-AUBURN RAVINE)

2. TURN RIGHT AT THE STOP SIGN. GO 17 MILES TO FOREST HILL.

3. WHEN YOU GET TO THE BEACON STATION – FOLLOW 9 MILES AND TURN LEFT(SIGN ON THE

RIGHT SAYS BIG RESERVOIR – GREEN SIGN ON LEFT SAYS SUGAR PINE RECAREA). GO 3 1/2

MILES AT THE FORK IN THE ROAD TURN RIGHT * THE SIGN SAYS BIGRESERVOIR &

MORNINGSTAR LAKE. APRROX 2 MILES AND YOU ARE THERE !!!It’s gonna be a great party.–Kit(http://www.fryedbrothersband.com/anniver1.html)

JUST LIKE THE BOOK– Little Red Riding Hood was walking through the woods when suddenly the Big Bad Wolf jumped out from behind a tree and, holding a sword to her throat, said, “Red, I’m going to screw your brains out!”

To that, Little Red Riding Hood calmly reached into her picnic basket and pulled out a .44 magnum and pointed it at him and said, “No you’re not! You’re going to eat me, just like it says in the book!”

HANNON RACING, ALL SMILES– Bill Hannon of Ft. Myers Beach, Fla., is not wanting to hex his new motors by grinning from ear to ear. But the track testing last weekend with George Babor twisting the throttle brought the anticipated results the team was looking for and “we’re just happy to be back on the track.”

Babor “did a super job,” according to Hannon. “As we prepare for Indy, Dan Baisley will be flying in from Portland, Or., this weekend for more testing at Gainesville Raceway. Baisley will remain on this coast as we prepare for the NHRA U.S. Nationals. We have been working very hard on this new project and both new motors have made us very happy.”

Hannon Racing is supported on their national circuit by Axtell Sales, Inc., Baisley Hi-Performance, D & G Chassis, Harley-Davidson of Ft. Myers, The Landings Realty Inc., Red Line Oil, MRE, BPM Racing Engines, Dyna Tek, RK Chain, Bandit Clutch, Vanson Leathers and Mastercam. –Hannon 941-463-2778 www.hannonracing.com

LIZETTE’S CODE–I was riding to work yesterday when I observed a female driver cutright in front of a pickup truck, causing him to have to drive onto the shoulder.

This evidently pissed the driver off enough that he hung out hiswindow and flipped the woman off.

“Man, that guy is stupid,” I thought to myself. I ALWAYS smile nicelyand wave in a sheepish manner whenever a female does anything to me in traffic and here’s why:

I drive 38 miles each way every day to work, that’s 76 miles. Ofthese, 16 each way, is bumper-to-bumper, most of the bumper-to-bumperis on an eight-lane highway. So if you just look at the seven lanes I am not in, thatmeans I pass something like a new car every 40 feet per lane. That’s seven carsevery 40 feet for 32 miles. That works out to be 982 cars every mile, or31,424 cars. Even though the rest of the 34 miles is not bumper tobumper.

I figure I pass at least another 4000 cars. That brings the number to something like 36,000 cars I pass every day. Statistically, half of theseare driven by females, that’s 18,000. In any given group of females, one in28 are having the worst day of their period. That’s 642.

According to Cosmopolitan, 70 percent describe their love life asdissatisfying or unrewarding, that’s 449. According to the NationalInstitutes of Health, 22 percent of all females have seriously considered suicide orhomicide, that’s 98, and 34 percent describe men as their biggest problem, that’s 33.

According to the National Rifle Association, 5 percent of all females carryweapons and this number is increasing.

That means that EVERY SINGLE DAY, I drive past at least one femalethat has a lousy love life, thinks men are her biggest problem, hasseriously considered suicide or homicide, is having the worst day of herperiodand is armed.

No matter what she does in traffic, I wouldn’t DREAM of flipping heroff.–Lizette Hotinger,MID-USA CYCLE PARTS INC.,(314) 351-3733

COMPARISON– Why is being in the military like a blowjob? The closer you get to discharge, the better you feel.

THE ULTIMATE HARLEY TOOL–For decades, motorcycle wags have joked that the tool kits supplied with new Harley-Davidson’s lack one critical piece: a pickup truck with which to haul the stricken bike home. Now that Harleys are reliable, the new truck isn’t required — unless you’re the Hog owner who’s got to have everything associated with the famed Milwaukee brand or the Ford owner who also rides a Hog.

There are many of both, according to Gurminder Bedi, boss of Ford’s truck vehicle center, and that’s why Ford created the Harley Edition F-150. It’s a limited-production SuperCab loaded with Harley cues — a rumpa-rumpa exhaust, black-and-orange paint, a black leather interior and 20-inch wheels (the first on any Ford production vehicle).

Ford, which has a five-year alliance with Harley, officially will not commit to sales volume. But an inside source says to expect “up to 10,000 units” for 2000.

On the two-wheeled side of the venture, a sport bike “mule” said to be powered by Harley’s first-ever liquid-cooled V-twin, was spotted testing earlier this year at Ford’s Australian proving ground. H-D is expected to launch the new engine later this year.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK–“Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have forlunch. Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the vote.” — Benjamin Franklin, 1759

THAT’S IT–Ya got off easy because she’ll be back and I’m anxious to get back into the garage. Have you ever had sex on your favorite sled in the garage? It’s like getting away with something, like being exposed, with the cold concrete floor chilling your toes and your girl straddling the seat of your riding romp mobile completely naked.

I had a garage once that leaned right onto the street. It was wood like an old barn and slats were missing. Sure I tried to cover them up, but it was a holy mess. I had poured a new concrete floor in the small narrow space and hung fluorescent lights. The lights we glaring as she ran from the house to the garage in just a robe. She slipped inside and dropped the robe immediately. I’d explain the steamy happenings on that dusky fall morning, but we’d be renamed a porno site. The point is: Use your imagination this weekend. Now, let’s ride, we’re burnin’ daylight–Bandit.

BIKERNET NEWS FLASH–NEW WEBMASTER ASSISANATES STAFF MEMBERThere’s not a lot we can report currently. The headquarters are still wrapped in that yellow tape printed with little grinning skulls. All I can say is that we were having a board meeting in the garage when the hiss of a .22 short pierced the air and our beloved gopher fell dead. Jason, the hardest working web master on the planet, was attacked immediately by the entire crew, Wrench, Jon Towle, Nuutboy, Oz and even Nick The Dick spilled beer on the pile then sniveled about losing it. We got the gun away from Jason, a silenced .22 Ruger, before he could point it at anyone else. With the entire crew sitting on his chest, I stood above him with his loaded gun and asked him what the problem was?

“I can’t take it. I’ve made the letters in Your Shot interactive, the bikers rights interactive, the classifieds and calendar interactive, and even the news. We’ve put up more tech, you’re bullshit Sturgis competition and now I’m trying desperately to get the products back on line. What more can I do?” He said nearly in tears.

“Drag him outside men,” I shouted. “There must be shallow grave somewhere.” Just then we heard the wail of sirens in the distance. “That homeless cat living in the corner of the lot must have snitched us off.” The crew ran in all directions.

That was last night and I’ve been pretending to be working on the news ever since. In the near future we will reveal in actual photographs the Bikernet world headquarters, but we’re having difficulty getting the shots released from the photo lab. Let’s get to the news:

In Memoriam

EXCELSIOR-HENDERSON ANNOUNCES EMERGENCE FROM BANKRUPTCY– Excelsior-Henderson Motorcycle Manufacturing Company announced that it has emerged from bankruptcy and that its modified plan of reorganization under Chapter 11 or the U.S. Bankruptcy Code has been confirmed. The Company’s confirmation hearing was held on August 18,2000, and the Bankruptcy Court’s order confirming the plan of reorganization was issued on the same date.

The modified plan or reorganization was the product of intensive efforts by the Company to design a strategy that would enable Excelsior-Henderson to reorganize and obtain the required funding to preserve the future of the motorcycle. The Company currently anticipates the modified plan will become effective on or before September 15, 2000, subject to the satisfaction or waiver of certain conditions. As previously announced, the Company’s public stockholders and Co-Founders did not retain an equity interest in the Company going forward (in Sturgis Bandit interviewed Dave Hanlon for Hot Rod Bikes–don’t miss it).The Company’s Co-Founders, Dan, Dave and Jennie Hanlon said, “Confirmation of the plan represents the culmination of several months work. We believe the proposed plan of reorganization represents the best available alternative for the Company and its creditors. This is a great initial step in rebuilding the future of Excelsior-Henderson.”

The plan may be reviewed on the U.S. Bankruptcy Court’s website at www.mnb.uscourts.gov. A summary of the plan will be filed with the United States Securities and Exchange Commission on Form 8-K.

Much more will be revealed about the plan and what the Company has been through in the up coming interview in Hot Rod Bikes.–Bandit

INTERACTIVE DAILY LETTERS TO BIKERNET– It’s almost like prison. The staff voted unanimously that I be forced to answer ten letters to bikernet daily and post them. Jason, the mad scientist, web master made the software possible, and it’s up and running in the Your Shot section.

If you want to complain, ask tech questions, or announce something to the world, go to Your Shot and let us have it. You may see your letter answered the same day, the next day, or never–amazing, huh?

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE–No doubt about it– Bikernet West clearly wins the Sturgis 2000 contest. Hell,you had to drink through at least three parties in Utah and Colorado whileBikernet East only had to cope with two days of rain. Riding with a massivehead takes more skill and courage than just pushing through a few rain drops.

Can’t wait for more stories– you can mention that your bros couldn’t believe howslow (like 10 miles over the speed limit) you were going for the first few days,only to see some good 100 MPH stuff the closer you got to the Jack waiting for youin Sturgis.–K.T. Rose

WILDERNESS AT IT’S BEST–It’s Rick Duffy’s Lake Road Ride,August 26th,Leaving the eastbound Truckers, weigh scale, justeast of the Port Mann Bridge on Trans CanadaHighway 1, at 8:AM.

Overnight stop in Kamloops stay at the Super 8 Motel call1 800 800-8000 to book night of 26th.

This is the great ride around the Duffy Lake Road. Ifyou have never gone around it you will love it. If youhave visitors staying over bring them along. No needto be HOG members. Just sign in the release waver…The wilderness at it’s best… Don’t forget you canonly go into the wilderness half way.Rick will guide you in and out…

MORE MOTORCYCLE COMPANY CHANGES– This is to inform you that today the employees of American Quantum Cyclewere officially told that the company has merged with American MotorcycleCompany, and that will be the new name starting today.

This is very good news as the people that bought the company are the onesthat put Indian together and will do the same for this company.

I am very excited over this and feel that is what has been needed to makethis company a serious player. Watch for some real good things to come fromthis new company.–Rogue

HEY–Did we ever officially introduce Digital Gangster in the news? We should put up a ludicrous picture as well. Maybe John T. could put something together.–Zebra, esq.

Brothers and sisters meet the Digital Gangster, Jason Douglas. Jason meet our brothers and sisters.–Bandit

MOVIE PROSPECTS–Yes here’s another lovely couple of girls who would like to play a biiiig part in the up coming biker movie, Asphalt Cowboy.

ASPHALT COWBOY UPDATE–We want to thank all the riders out there who have sent their pictures and financial help for the film. An option has now been signed to make the movie by experience Hollywood investors, and they have six months to pull it together. Until then the celliod ball is in their court. If you would still like us to consider you for a extra bit in the movie send a photo of you and your machine to Bikernet, P.O.Box 1168, San Pedro, CA 90733–1168. Keep tuned to Snake’s projector room for updates.

A LADY– opened her refrigerator and saw a rabbit sitting on one of theshelves. “What are you doing in there?” she asked. The rabbitreplied:

“This is a Westinghouse, isn’t it?”, to which the lady replied “Yes”.

“Well,” the rabbit said, “I’m westing”.

NEW PRODUCT–Hey Bandit, Even if your bike already has cruise control you can still benefit from the little gizmo they sell out at http://www.throttlerocker.com. It’s just a formed piece of plastic that slips around your throttle with a tab sticking out under the heel of your hand. That way you don’t have to maintain a death-grip on the throttle, you can just put a little pressure on that tab and open ‘er up. I called their 800 number and gave ’em my debit card number and before the charge had even cleared my account, I had the product in my hot little hand. Service like that deserves another glass of Jack. Ride on. The Professor

HELLS ANGELS WORLD RUN REPORT–It seems the local citizens from the fair town of Missoula, Montana have received a taste of what most bikers go through every day of the year. For those who don’t know what happened go to the 1%er section to read about it. There was absolutely no way there was not going to be any violence last weekend.

Everybody knows the reputation of the Hells Angels and God knows, in the old days many tried to enhance that image, Angels and non-Angels. It’s ironic that the ONLY social group to come out of this unscathed was the Hells Angels. In fact they seemed to be the pinnacles of restraint and good manners. Unfortunately there were three major factors that would not allow peace. One was a group of drunken teenagers trying to show themselves as tuff as the bikers intermixed with gawking locals. Another was a police force receiving pointers on how to handle the bikers from paramilitary thugs like the BATF, and the third, a media not just looking for trouble but wishing for it and even encouraging it with their articles. The local press for two solid weeks played up the Hells Angels visit. The papers were awash with stories of what happened in other towns designed to put fear into the minds of the locals for sensationalism and force the hand of the city officials. Interviews with locals asking questions like “Are you worried about the Hells Angels coming?” The asked if people were staying, or if their businesses would be open. With careful manipulation of words the media created an atmosphere of fear and expectancy of an upcoming clash between law enforcement and the bikers. Young adults, eagerly awaiting the excitement in what is normally a quiet town were quickly disappointed by the heavy-handed attitude of the cops preventing their fun.

This type of reporting when concerning motorcyclists has been going on since the infamous Hollister rally. BATF and FBI gave lectures to town cops designed to prime them for a confrontation, giving the impression that the invading hoards were bent on destruction. You can be sure that no mention was made that a lot of the Angels coming were middle-aged businessmen with their families. The Feds took over a hundred out of state officers with little or no interest in the town except for the prospects of going up against the infamous Hells Angels, had them outfit themselves with SWAT equipment and weapons, even threw in a couple helicopters, creating a powder-keg.

With the Hells Angels distrust of the cops, the cop’s distrust of the Angels and the young locals distrust of everybody, mixed with weapons, alcohol and possibly narcotics it is amazing something bigger shit didn’t happen. What are interesting are the responses from everybody after the fact. The police claim victory and brag that they have shown the proper way in dealing with a group labeled as dangerous to society. This is no great surprise.

The town’s people are split between support and outrage at the police response. The Angels, after being smothered by police harassment for nearly a week, are saying nothing. The supporters claim that any force necessary is justified by keeping the peace and social order. The early statistics are that $125,000 was spent to police around 500 people for three days. These numbers are expected to go up substantially. Out of this money nearly all the Angels were stopped, followed or harassed with not one single arrest with the exception of traffic tickets.

Government agencies have quietly established for themselves the right to use any means necessary to combat what they label as a terrorist group, organized crime or dangers to society. They can even legally hold you, if labeled a terrorist, indefinitely without trial. For our greater good, the tobacco companies are systematically being thrown out of business and smokers alienated.

How long before somebody decides that motorcycling should be outlawed for our safety and how many non-riders do you think will object to it. Are you listed in some database only because you own and ride a motorcycle. Eight Hells Angels were stopped, handcuffed and detained for several hours under the pretense that one of them might be wanted by the police. When it was determined that none of them were, they were released. Individual freedom is being smothered under the excuse of social peace and well being. Outsiderhttp://www.bikerlifestyle.net/

GET ME IN DA MOVIE– Nice to talk at ya. Just sending ya some pictureslike I said I would. I will send you a few includingmy 56panel. Great biker truck. Well, it will be. Just to let you know, a fewyearsback I did some commercials, in fact got principal actor in one of them.Havealso done some voice over work, don’t worry, I’m not looking to be Brando anymore, just letting ya know that I have taken direction and I know howto ride very well. I think it would be a ball to be in a movie with eitherone of my Harleys. Congrats on getting your funding for the movie, hope to betalkingto you soon…Big Mikie

WISDOM AND WHISKEY–Ya gotta rise outta my short hairs. Cut & run. Quit the job. Who needsmoney: The Fountain of Youth at the next gas stop. Tom & Huck. Jesse &Frank. The biker & the hitchhiker bitch. Well, maybe ya don’t need meafterall. And as I keep-on, keepin’on, day ta day, I’ll be prayin’ forya. If ya hit a stop that has a ‘puter, send an e-kite to post on theHOLLISTER FOREVER “Clubhouse” wall Keep therubberside down. Ride On! Wino Joe, USA

JUST IN CASE– you needed further proof that the human race is doomed through stupidity, here are some actual label instructions on consumer goods.

1. On Sears hairdryer: “Do not use while sleeping.” (Gee, that’s the only time I have to work on my hair)

2. On a bar of Dial soap: “Directions: Use like regular soap.” (And that would be how. . . ?)

3. On some Swanson frozen dinners: “Serving suggestions: Defrost.” (But it’s *just* a suggestion)

4. On packaging for an iron: “Do not iron clothes on body.” (But wouldn’t this save even more time?)

5. On Nytol Sleep Aid: “Warning: May cause drowsiness.” (One would hope)

6. On most brands of Christmas lights: “For indoor or outdoor use only.” (As opposed to what?)

7. On a Japanese food processor: “Not to be used for the other use.” (I gotta admit, I’m curious.)

8. On a bag of peanuts: “Warning: Contains nuts.” (NEWS FLASH)

9. On a Swedish chain saw: “Do not attempt to stop chain with your hands or genitals.” (Was there a chance of this happening somewhere?…Good grief)

10. On a bottle of ALL laundry detergent: “Remove clothing before distributing in washing machine.” (Hey no more swimming in the washing machine kids)

Always read those labels ……..

IRELAND CORRECTION–Nice Site! Read your Ireland news bit. But HRI.com is MITSUBISHI and harleyriderireland.com is a dead end. So I’m still lookin’ for that redheaded Colleen with the mug of Guiness!

THE BOTTOM LINE IS?–What the hell is this? As soon as I get back in town you bag ass outta here. Damn, I didn’t get a chance to see the finished product, the Blue Fandango, the Azure Fippery, the Azul de la Huevos, the Turquoise Turd, the Peacock Putz, the Sapphire Slug, the Navy Naughty, what ever the fuck you called it. No kidding, don’t wreck it until I get a chance to see it.

Oh, and don’t wreck yourself. Although, I imagine by now you’re getting damaged in some Sturgis brothel bothering the madam about towel service. I got your message about the response to the Blue Streak. I bet it looks bad. –Nuutboy

HORSE BUSINESS–I just wanted to let you know, that as a frequent flyer on BackTalk in Horse Magazine, I get sick and tired of the lame flames at you and what you’re doin’. life goes on and I for one, along with my old man, enjoy readin’ your stuff in THBC. So my response to them is fukkem! I also get sick of the shit they sling at Hammer…I’ve already told him that. if people don’t like what they see, then quit lookin’—plain and simple! can’t wait for the flick, already checked out the sneak peek…looks good, excellent background music too! Anyway…ride till ya rot…. later, Nut

ZEBRA SALUTE–Night of the Vikings…GREAT READING!!!!!!!!!Thanks Brother!!!…Gumbo

APPELLATE COURT SUPPORTS BIKERS IN STATE POLICE HELMET FLAK– Massachusetts motorcyclists roared their approval as theSouthern District Appellate Division of the District Courts overturnedthe “responsible” findings of “improper equipment” citations issued totwo motorcyclists, Timothy Kinch of Plymouth, and Daniel Zaino of HydePark, by the Massachusetts State Police. The ruling completely dismissedthe cases that State Police had filed against the bikers.

“This was a long time coming,” said Kinch, who was cited by State TrooperJack L. Garvin on November 19, 1999, in Middleboro for operating with analleged non-compliant helmet.

Kinch said it wasn’t the $35 ticket, or the six years worth ofsurcharges that had urged him on. “It was a principle thing,” Kinchsaid. “This trooper brags that he writes over 100 helmet citations eachyear and threatens riders with the towing of their bikes. In Court hemisrepresented helmet requirements and statues to the Judge. It waswrong.”

Zaino echoed Kinch. “In September I was on my way to a fundraiser for aparalyzed Hull fireman, when Trooper Valair cited me and over a hundredother riders. It was wrong. We were all wearing helmets. It wastasteless, unprofessional, and pure harassment,” Zaino said. “This wasworth the fight.”

Peabody Atty. Joseph S. Provanzano represented Kinch and Zaino at theAppellate level.

“The Appeals Court acknowledged that here in Massachusetts we use’evidence’ in Court trials, not the mere ‘opinions’ of police officers asto what is non-compliant protective headgear,” said Provanzano.

At the District Court hearing, Kinch represented himself. “Mr. Kinchdid well, but the transcripts of his and Zaino’s trials,” Provanzanosaid, “revealed Troopers Garvin and Valair completely misused the law andmay have confused the sitting Judges. These Appeals cost the taxpayers atremendous amount to rectify this misuse of their authority.”

Motorcycling groups, which included the Riders Justice Committee (RJC)and Modified Motorcycle Association (MMA) applauded the Appellate Courtdecisions.

RJC Spokesperson Georgia Sophis of Braintree stated, “This past yearthe motorcycle community banded together against this obvious harassmentof riders.” “You would not believe the horror stories we are getting. Motorcyclistsare being stopped, their personal property [helmets] seized, bikes towedand then being left with their safety in jeopardy stranded by the side ofthe road,” Sophis continued.

Sgt. Michael Valair, who cited Zaino during the Hull fund-raiser,testified on behalf of the State Police. He startled bikers present atthe Appeals hearing when by admitting to the three-judge panel thatpolice officers have no authority to seize the riders’ helmets, eventhough he has done so on many occasions and often threatened riders.

MMA Spokesperson Jimi Ricci of Waltham stated, “Most police officers andtroopers are reasonable. But we’ve heard of these two troopers, one ortwo more, and a few local police, who seem ‘hell bent’ on harassinghelmeted riders. So we banded together, hired a skilled litigator, tookthis issue to Courts and proved our case.”

HISTORY LESSON–THE FINGER– You know, like giving the finger to the cops above.

Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers. Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow and therefore be incapable of fighting in the future.

This famous weapon was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as “plucking the yew” (or “pluck yew”). Much to the bewilderment of the French, the English won a major upset and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, “See, we can still pluck yew! “PLUCK YEW!”

Since ‘pluck yew’ is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodental fricative ‘F’, and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute are mistakenly thought to have something to do with an intimate encounter.

It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as “giving the bird”. And yew thought yew knew everything.

SENOR CINCO PELOTAS–Whadafuck…..now your givin’ my digs to Carlos! Imusta really pissed you off or are your eyes still crossedfrom the fist upside your head in that drunken brawl? Mr. Five Ball AND SHAVED was my shit!!! Including”The Leggy One”. A weekend trade …..hummmmmm…………….that’ll cost you Sin and Coral! Rigid hah………when those long legs wrap around, you’ll learn what aruff ride is and the smile will last for a week! I’m stillsmilin’.–Breeze

Ooops–Bandit

STURGIS RIDE REPORT–Went through the storm from hell on the way out. Firsttime I ever saw it rain completely horizontal. Finelygot to a room in Faulkton SD and that’s when it reallyunleashed. Blew the bikes over and when we tried toget out to them the hotel door wouldn’t budge. Weboth pushed with everything we had and couldn’t moveit an inch against the wind. We had to go out the frontdoor at the opposite end of the building and shimmyalong the building wall to the bikes. There we stayedtill 4:30 in the morning holding up our sleds. Youcouldn’t face the wind as it took your breath away. Theride into Sturgis the next day revealed road signs blownflat to the ground, billboards demolished, thousands ofacres of corn and sunflowers looked like a steamrollerwent over them. That was just the beginning of ouradventures, Sturgis was still to come……….and that’sanother story!–FTW,Stroker

REGRETS FROM THE BADLANDS–By the time you all read this Sturgis will be OVER. I am sooooo jealous, but I have to WORK for a living, as I don’t marry for money or even know how to invest…alas, another major event slips away.

Tell Sasha that I couldn’t get Woman Rider to take a story about 30 women on the road, let alone one, so she shouldn’t feel alone. I hope her trip is safe and quite eventful.

As for me, I buried two great people here this past ten days. Jim and Sandy Formanack , owners of American Made, Inc, an after-market six-year-old bike shop, were killed when their Harley high sided in heavy rains here in South Florida. My community of bikers, all shapes and sizes, are devastated. Jim had over forty years riding experience and Sandy was his wife for over nine years now. It just goes to show you that when your life’s ride is over, the time is up. And it doesn’t matter how MUCH experience you may have. The big guy upstairs needed a mechanic and he called my friends home.

There were services with thousands of motorcycles. The headlights hung like heavy stars in the late afternoon sun. The shop, AMERICAN MADE, as of this writing continues to operate as the owners would have wanted. People have their bikes back and the work will go on. I remember when I put their annual party in Biker magazine and they were so thrilled. When I went through that awful divorce, Sandy held my hand. Jim was 56, Sandy was 45. We are in morning on the Treasure Coast. These people were top shelf, first rate and truly all American made. They will be missed dearly. Ride safe, look good and remember there are thousands of people who love you. Some you just haven’t met yet….–Diva

SHIVER–quiver,white flames rise against blue’tween my thighs!

It was terrific to spend time with you too.Sturgis/Huelet photos are being developed now and I can’t wait to startwriting my journal for bikernet.com! I didn’t get a chance to interviewJennie Hanlon because my schedule was too jammed up. I hope to speak withher at Biketoberfest in Daytona if she will be there.

The trip was tough, that’s for sure. I worked so very hard during those twoweeks and sure hope that things shine for me. I appreciate your introducingme to your industry pals and looking out for me.–Sasha

THE PROCTODOC– A proctologist walked into a bank. Preparing to endorse a check, hepulledarectal thermometer out of his shirt pocket and tried to ‘write’ withit.

Realizing his mistake, he looked at the thermometer with annoyance andsaid, “Well that’s great, just great! Some asshole’s got my pen!”

MORE ON THE BADLANDS–Well buddy looks like I missed ya. The past 4 weeks have been a blur as I did7000 miles in 4 weeks. It went something like this:Left New Orleans and headed up to Wisconsin where I picked up the kids and headed out to Colorado for a visit with my Cajun sweetheart in exile. My son caught the hell out of the brown trout (not bad for an 8 year old) and kept the camp fed. My daughter (age 6) talked us into to going horseback riding. In a hailstorm , straight up a fuckin mountain! My dark haired sweetheart kept the hearth warm and we all danced the Cajun waltz at night. Some of the asides included soaking at the hot springs and having the ranger bring my son home when a mountain lion was seen chasing deer through the campground.

After Colorado I brought the kids back to Wisconsin and turned the Jeep around and dragged the Dyna (yep, trailered) back to South Dakota. There I hung out with the Texas gang at Lake Pactola reservoir and with my Louisiana buddies at the Sturgis dragstrip. My partners raced and we changed tires and drive belts. I met a lot of good people and came to appreciate the tightness of the drag strip brotherhood. Hell, they did not even seem to care that there was a major bike week occurring.

On Wed. I rode out to Huellet WY for the festivities. Some old geezer gave me directions and I ended up in Montana before I turned around. I hit Devil’s tower and Huellet and headed back to Bear Butte lake for a dip. Sturgis at night was the usual party. One of the highlights was the lesbian bull riding escapades at the Full ThrottleSaloon. Those chicks were definitely into it. Of course we rode to Mount Rushmore and Keystone ( where I saw a few of your Hamster Buddies) . We even managed to get in some water skiing on the lake before it was all through. I rode out to Spearfish to look for ya. Honest. The red Dyna was everywhere that week so I guess it was not in the stars for us to collide.

After Sturgis I packed my rig and headed to Colorado for more time with my girl andsome more bike riding. We ended up on top of a mountain eating at an East Indian place called Katmandu with some old hippie waitress that answered every question with “Right On” . After the weekend it was time to head back through Fort Worth where I visited my FXR riding buddy and drew up plans for next summer’s riding. Then it was off to Louisiana for home and get my shit ready for another tour offshore on the oil rigs.Too bad I missed ya in Sturgis but there will be other times. Glad to hear your trip went well and the Blue Flame burns bright. –Anson

BUMPER STICKER NOTIONS– Constipated People Don’t Give A Crap.

Impotence: Nature’s Way Of Saying “No Hard Feelings”.

If You Can Read This, I’ve Lost My Trailer.

I Have The Body Of A God… Buddha

If We Quit Voting Will They All Go Away?

Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway

Illiterate? Write For Help

MORE STURGIS REGRETS–Well, you went to Sturgis and I didn’t. I hope the tornado didn’t do you much damage. I’m going down to clean the bugs off the bike and cry myself to sleep.–Sluggo

HEY!– You prick! I wrote you a week ago. I told you I was having a problem getting on the Hells Angles web site. If you can help me say so. If not then I won’t bother you any more you prick!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Later M.F.

OGEMAW COUNTY, MI RALLY–I was told that this was the last year for the Hog rally in Ogemaw County, MI. Is that true? –Russ

Can anyone help?

SONNY’S BOOK–Hey man, thanks for putting my note to you in last weeks Bikernet news (Sonny’s book report). I showed the wife and now she thinks I’m a big shot or something. Either way she’s given me some and that’s what counts. One thing, though, she keeps screamin’ your name what’s up with that?

How is Ginger, anyway?–Bandit

TWIN CAM SURVEY–Have any of you out there ridden the new twin cam? I rode one recently and can’t see any big advantage over my ’95 Electra fixed up with a Crane 300 2B Fireball Cam, a Mikuni HSR 42 carb, stock pipes with the catalytic converters drilled out, along with a 3/4 inch hole in the rear baffle plate and a Screamin Eagle ign. module and a set of Balance Masters. The twin cam vibrates more than my ’95, and I think that my ’95 runs just as well. If you want to get the horsepower past about 50, you have to own a chain of liquor stores to be able to afford the upgrades. –George

CHOPPERS RULE–Choppers Rule, and I love your film concept…But, the plot seems a little fucking lame to me. Granted you don’t want to copy Easy Rider, but shit, your story is so bubble-gum! You asked for it, you got it….but no matter what, I can’t wait to see it. Actually a couple simple changes may salvage it though. 1. Shitcan the kidnapping bullshit “to prove his love” 2. Change the name of the bad guy club….the Satans HAHA…how about something more along the lines of The Wolves, or Snakes, or Assholes.Those two changes and lots of cameo’s by people we love…and yer on yer way to makin’ history.

Sir, yes sir. We’re all over it, sir–Bandit

FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT GOES TO STURGIS– I’m back in Taiwan now. Sorry, I missed you but, I think I had fun at Sturgis. Had to walk a lot, but also had a lot of good folks give me a ride when I held out my thumb. Interesting thing I happened to notice. I’m from Oregon originally and most of the folks who gave me a ride were from Washington! One guy, when I was leaving on the 10th, not only took me into town from Hog Heaven but asked where I had to go and then took me there. To him and all the others who gave this poser rides while at Sturgis, I thank you. One thing that was really cool was the Panzer display. I asked someone to take my picture standing next to their replica of the Captain America chopper, and the guy invited me to sit on it! I couldn’t believe it! So I did. It felt so cool. Images of open roads and long rides filled my mind. And so did an evil little voice. “Start it up! Start it up! Take off with it! Ha! Ha! Ha!

I saw an unbelievable sight walking drunkenly back to the camp the night before I left. The cops were talking to this one great looking lady who had her hands covering her breasts. I looked again and noticed all she was wearing was a cowboy hat, boots, and a patch or something placed strategically between her thighs. Or maybe she just had a really thick bush. But man, she was not only buck naked but a really good looking buck naked! And I remember thinking, “Why bother her? It’s 2 am. Who’s going to see her? My mind pleaded “Please lower your hands!” Sadly, not all the ladies at Sturgis were that way.

Food prices and such also sucked. Absurd prices for not that much food or other things. And for cryin’ out loud, two dollars for a little bottle of water!? One dollar sure, but two in that heat? Perhaps I’ll write it up for the fiction department. Got a load of pictures, maybe I’ll send you some. Hope next time I can meet up with you.–Sun

JUST SAW MY RIDE–I just saw me and my ride on your site hoping to get a part in the movie, forgot I sent them to you and just last week sent you some more, does this give me two chances to land a part in the movie? I’m the good looking guy with the long blonde mustache and the rigid ’54 pan. Anyways sorry for the making your life complicated.–Pirate

Sorry, only half a chance–Bandit

THE STURGIS COUNT–hadda make a comment on the best party anywhere…me and my buds played a lot of music on stage at the rally last week and saw and heard much more. Can’t remember when there was a party this much fun with this much to see and enjoy.

The headcount was a conservative 773,000 or so according to SD sources. Tip of the hat and thanks a million to ross and rotten and crazy George and the boys at the Christian riders tent and specially, to Woody for having the insight to make this thing happen year after year. next time. –Doc Gaskill( don’t forget to thank Steve Thorpe for organizin’ the stage left so well too!!)

AND THE WINNER IS–Maybe I’m blind but I didn’t see who won the ” name the bike” contest. could you please mention who won it?

You’re right. In the heat of building the bike and riding to Sturgis, I forgot the winner. Karley Ross, from San Pedro, California. the name, Blue Flame, was engraved on a point cover by ancient engraver C.J. before I left, along with the Bikernet Sweetheart.

WHAT IS EVERY AMISH WOMAN’S FANTASY? TWO MENNONITE!–The Gerbigs

FREE CLASSIFIEDS–Yes, that’s correct. We have free individual classifieds and personals on Bikernet, just roll into the site and post your own classified. It will be checked by some of the best looking girls on the planet, then blessed and slipped gently onto Bikernet for two, that’s right, two solid months. Keep in mind that if you have a business, there may be a charge. The Classifieds are free for the individuals. But what the hell, go for it, you might get away with the ad for awhile.

A GUY IN A MASK– bursts into a sperm bank with a shotgun. “Open the fucking safe” he yells at the girlbehind the counter.

“But we’re not a real bank” she replies. “We don’t have any money; this is a sperm bank.”

“Don’t argue! Open the fucking safe or I’ll blow your head off” She obliges and once she’s opened the safe door the guy says “Take out one of the bottles and drink it.”

“But it’s full of sperm!” she replies nervously.

“Don’t argue, just drink it” he says. She takes the cap off and gulps it down. “Take out another one and drink it too” he demands. She takes out another and drinks it as well. Suddenly the guy pulls off the mask and, to the girl’s amazement, it’s her husband.

“See? Its not that fucking difficult, is it?” he says

SAW THIS CAT’S– handmade scoot on Main Street in Sturgis,flipped him a Bikernet card, asked him to send me photos for the website. It’s atotal Mad Max bike, cost about a grand, he rode it some hellish distance, pure biker. –The Agent

TO ZEBRA–Glad to hear you made the trip successful. Congratulations on your victory.I hope that you enjoy the spoils of spoils of your defeat of Bandit and theother bikers form the west. Thanks for showing those west cost riders thatthe east has the hart and stamina to ride with and defeat the best. Goodshow.–ZebraThanks for the invitation. I read something about a ride for Nashville tobiketoberfest on the Bikernet site. I think that Bandit said he would behere signing his book. Then I read about it in the latest Hog Tales. Ithink they are calling it Thunder in Dixie. I do not know if you are comingto that event. It seems pretty backwards to Ride form Miami to Nashvilleback to Daytona. But, anyway, if you or anyone in the Bikernet staff need aplace to stay then please let me know. The doors are open to fellow bros.If nothing else, I would like to hook up with some of the staff.–RH

We might be there, but only the Bikernet West clan. Zebra is still licking his wounds in South Beach. Thanks for the offer–Bandit

YUK– What do Kodak film have in common with condoms? Both capture the moment.

My sister is asthmatic. Last week in the middle of an attack she got an obscene phone call. (pause) He said, “Did I call you or did you call me?”

Define Transvestite: A guy who likes to eat, drink and be Mary!

QUOTE OF THE WEEK–Regret,When one door closes another door opens;but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door,that we do not see the ones which open for us.

BIKERNET GIFT SHOP– Don’t order from us. That’s right, we don’t want your money. Actually, that’s not the case, but we have installed a new shopping cart system which doesn’t work with the credit card system, so we can’t take credit cards. If you need something send us a check or money order and we’ll get it out to you as soon as possible. Hopefully over the next week, we’ll have the credit card business back on line.

Thank you for your patience and understanding–Sin Wu.

MR. BANDITOI can’t stand it anymore. I’ve got to have that girl. The last time we went to the beach she let me rub her down with dark tanning oil. When I slipped my hand under her bra, I could feel her nipples tighten, and when I approached her mound it rocked ever so slightly in the direction of my probing fingertips. I asked her if she had ever been with a girl and she said no, but offered no more clues. She’s so bashful and timid. Can I go for it? Is she like that in bed?

I’m off on hiatus with some girlfriendsin Laughlin. I’m getting “blue tongue” from Sin so I needed to get away for some action. I’ll tell you about it next week.–Coral

RACE TO STURGIS 2001– Hey, I got a Sturgis Challenge for you punks–Let’s race. I’ll even give you a day head start,” Don Center barked into the phone this morning. “Let’s see if you have the balls for that.Don’s company, Iron Horse Trike Works in Rosewell, New Mexico, (505) 627-7858 builds open automotive trikes. Two models, the Python a built 350, and the Anaconda a 454 with 700 R4 tranny with overdrive. I called Zebra, but he was shaking with fear so hard that he couldn’t comment. Don’s monsters get 18 mpg with his foot in it. If we ran 5-gallon gas tanks and got 30-35 mpg, we might have a chance.

OIL CHANGE BLUES–Changing oil is a drag unless you have just the right tools and the patience it’s a fucking mess. While building the Blue Flame I noticed that Daytec had carefully welded in a bung for draining the oil under the center oil bag, sorta like on a stock Softail. I thought about it and remembered when sailing with my partner Bob Bitchin that the motors on sail boats must have their engines sucked dry. No way to drain those puppies. I thought, Marine stores must have pumps designed for just this application. Presto, I get this press release for Pela hand pumps just for changing oil. They will be carried in the new custom chrome catalog and are the best possible way to get the oil out of your bike thoroughly and without a fuckin’ mess. Plus, they don’t appear to be expensive. For more information for the bastards who stole my product idea call (800) 272-7964 or go to www.pelaproducts.com.

CARL’S SPEED SHOP STES SIX WORLD LAND SPEED RECORDS AT BONNEVILLE SALT FLATS– After a five-year absence from the Bonneville Salt Flats, Carl’s Speed Shop set six world land speed records on twin cam and Sportster powered Harley-Davidsons. Doug Morrow, piloting the Carl’s Speed Shop 113 cubic inch Sportster set the fastest one way speed in the APS/PG 2000 class at 178.248 mph with a two-way average of 166 mph.

Aboard Carl’s Speed Shop 99-inch Sportster “Top Gun” Doug set the MPF-1650 record at 158.30 mph, MPs/pg-1650 record at 158.9 and MPF 1650 record at 163.245 mpf, fastest one-way speed was 164.519.

Good friend and noted long time Harley racer Warner Riley, aboard the Carl’s Speed Shop 95-inch Twin Cam street bike, set two world records in Mps/PF-1650 class at 157.604 and 156.738 mph, respectively. The street-ridden 1999 Dyna, Twin Cam is typical of the many Harleys Carl’s Speed Shop modifies daily for it’s customers.

Congratulations, Carl, family and crew–Bandit.

LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE– That’s it. I know there’s more, but some small fisted female is knocking on the door. It’s a gentle, yet urgent tapping, and although I’m just tearing away at the Sturgis saga and need every spare second I can raise to complete it, that tempting ticking is beckoning me. Ah, the questions life poses: Whiskey, women, write or ride. Ain’t life wonderful–Bandit

BIKERNET NEWS FLASH–BIKERNET STAFFER RIDES RIGID TO STURGIS AND SURVIVESThe 60th anniversary Black Hills Rally has been over for a week, and like an ant hill the minions are still scurring from the nectar nest in the Badlands. What a rally. More people, motorcycles, vendors, women, T-shirts, and bars than ever before. Hell, I’m still reeling from all the activities, sharp bikes, ideas for my next scoot and the women who made me smile along the way. I could tell a million stories, from just one segment of the trip, but I must hold back and unleash the full fury of Black Hills Voodoo on my Sturgis Saga, which should roll onto the site next week along with a couple of shots from my new camera. If that bastard is still working after that trip– being packed 40 times, slammed, kicked and poked for 2000 miles, it’s the best. We’ll see how the shots come out.

If the news appears jaunted and disorderly, it’s because the dark-haired beauty attacked me on my return demanding full disclosure, and riding a rigid to Sturgis changes one’s disposition. Hell, I started hanging out at the high school again and trying to pick up teenage waitresses at Bob’s Big Boy. Better get to the news before I get in anymore trouble…

YO, WHAT’S THE WORD ON BIKETOBERFEST?– When is it? Where? What? We going? We need a lot more of those stickers. People loved them. They’re free advertising when they get stuck everywhere. I need more business cards, lose the wrong cell phone number. Drop and give me 20. Where’s the Friendly Fire link? Is it up yet? Let me know what the ETA might be for a new bike (the one you guys built for me is shot). Are we making any money yet? Where’s my gun. Over and out.–Zebra

Fuck off!–Bandit

HANNON PRO STOCK ON DYNO–After several unavoidable delays, Bill Hannon is pleased to announce, “The new bike is finally on the dyno.”

Anyone who knows Bill knows that means track time is forthcoming and more news will follow quickly at this point. “We’re pleased that George Babor will be testing for us. He has a keen “feel” for our program and will add valuable information.”

Hannon Racing, the first Pro Stock Harley Davidson team to dip into the 7 second zone, has traditionally been a team to break records and maintain a very professional demeanor.

Hannon Racing is supported on their national circuit by Axtell Sales, Inc., Baisley Hi-Performance, D & G Chassis, Harley Davidson of Ft. Myers, The Landings Realty, Inc., Red Line Oil, MRE, BPM Racing Engines, and Dyna Tek, RK Chain, Bandit Clutch, Vanson Leathers, & Mastercam. –Hannon 941-463-2778 www.hannonracing.com

WHAT– Boston HOG Chapter’s 9th Annual Benefit Run for the Ronald McDonald House

WHEN: Sunday, July 30

IGNITION TIME/PLACE: Westwood Station (off 128) at 11 a.m. SHARP.

DONATION: $15 per person (bike games, raffles, vendors, two bands, more!) Wristbands can be bought at Seacoast, Merrimack, and Boston HOG chapters on Sunday before the ride begins.

INFO: 617-387-9464

DESTINATION: Maynard Rod and Gun Club, Maynard, Mass. Activities start at noon. If you can’t make the Ride, go straight there! (Route 2 West, to Route 62 into Maynard. When you get to Maynard center, take a right and follow it to Gun Club.)

HARLEY HOLLEY QUESTION–Harley-Davidson has just released a two barrel Holley carburetor viait’s Screamin Eagle brand, part # 27973-00. Can you tell me if you knowanything about how well it will make my HOG run?–Don

Ask and you shall receive–Bandit

HARLEY-DAVIDSON POWERS UP WITH NEW SCREAMIN’ EAGLE/HOLLEY PERFORMANCE INDUCTION SYSTEM– Harley-Davidson and Holley Performance haveteamed up to design and produce an American-made performance carburetor thatwill power up Twin Cam 88 and Evolution engines.

The new Screamin’ Eagle/Holley Performance Induction System for Evolution1340- and Twin Cam 88-Equipped Harley-Davidson Models includes a two-barrelcarburetor, a unique open-plenum intake manifold and a complete air cleanerand breather manifold package.

The new induction system is built for race applications, yet has excellentdriveability and throttle response. Both carburetors use stock throttle andidle cables, but are not cruise control compatible.

The Screamin’ Eagle/Holley Performance Induction System, for 1990-99Evolution 1340-Equipped Models, is offered in both satin (P/N 27970-00) andtumble-polished (P/N 280090-00) finishes. The Screamin’ Eagle/HolleyPerformance Induction System for Twin Cam 88-Equipped Models is also offeredin satin (P/N 27973-00) and tumble-polished (P/N 28011-00) finishes and fits1999 and later carbureted Twin Cam 88-engines.

The satin finished carburetors have a suggested U.S. retail of $589.95. Thetumble polished finish retails for $679.95. Both the Evolution 1340 and TwinCam-88 versions are available at Harley-Davidson Genuine Motor Parts andGenuine Motor Accessories dealerships nationwide.

In addition, Genuine Motor Parts and Genuine Motor Accessories is makingavailable a Rebuild Kit (P/N 29680-00) and a Tuner’s Kit (P/N 29681-00) forthe Screamin’ Eagle/Holley Performance Induction System. The Rebuild Kitincludes all of the necessary items to rebuild the carburetor and has asuggested U.S. retail of $63.95. The Tuner’s Kit includes an assortment offuel jets, air bleeds and other components and retails for $89.95.

For additional information on the Screamin’ Eagle/Holley PerformanceInduction Systems and other Harley-Davidson Genuine Motor Parts and GenuineMotor Accessories, visit the Harley-Davidson web site atwww.harley-davidson.com. To find a dealer near you, call toll free1-800-443-2153 in the U.S.A. and Canada.

A BLONDE’S CAR BREAKS DOWN ON THE INTERSTATE– She easesit over to the shoulder of the road and carefully steps out of thecar.When she opens the trunk, two men in trench coats jump out andposition themselves at the rear of the vehicle facing oncomingtraffic.They begin opening their coats and exposing themselves toapproachingdrivers.

Not surprisingly, one of the worst pileups in the historyofthis highway occurs.It’s not very long before a police car shows up. The enraged coprunstoward the blonde, yelling, “What the hell is going onhere?”

“My car broke down,” says the lady, calmly.

“Well, what’re theseperverts doing here exposing themselves by the road?” asks thecop.

And she said…

(This is good…)

(Ready?)

(Remember, she’s blonde…)

“Those are my emergency flashers.”

40 E-MAILS?–Whats the deal? Got about 40 emails in a half hour giving me the bikernet update! Is the computer stuck or something?

That way we don’t ever have to send you an e-mail again. Actually, we’re testing a new software package. If they ever get it straightened out, we’ll send you two-line reminders of new shit on bikernet every couple of weeks.

ALABAMA RALLY ANNOUNCEMENT–

Name of event: American Ironhorse Roundup

Where: Horse Pens 40, Steele, Alabama

When: Oct 6,7,8

Website: www.horsepens40.com

Contact: Kevin Joyce 205-807-1187 HP40Kevin@aol.com, Greg Collins 205-621-1750

Mail Address: Horse Pens 40, ATT: Kevin Joyce, 1211 28th Street South, Birmingham, Alabama 35205.

SPEAKING OF LESBIANS–Lesbians: 1. What do you call a cupboard full of lesbians? A licker cabinet.

2. What do you call an eskimo lesbian? A Klondyke.

3. What do you call 100 lesbians with guns? Militia Etheridge.

4. Why can’t lesbians diet and wear make-up at the same time? Because they can’t eat Jenny Craig with Mary Kay on their face.

I PAID GOOD MONEY– for a subscription to Iron Horse just before they went out–only got one issue. Then nothing! I love the rag , but man did that piss me off. When I saw the Horse Backstreet Choppers, I said no way, and then subscribed anyway. Oh well, that’s really all I had to say .

PAUL’S NEW RIDE–Yes, Paul Vestal a prison warden, social worker and tireless fighter for bikers’ right has a new road glide. He deserves it after riding Shovelheads for thirty years. If you ever see this guy on the road help him, even if he doesn’t need a damn thing. He should be in the Hall of Fame somewhere. He’s good people and a hard working brother.

SALUTE TO THE SHOVELHEAD BIKE SHOW–

Sunday September 24th, 2000,1:00 to 6:00 p.m.Judging begins at 3 PM At CRUISER’S Tavern,843 North Federal Highway,US Route 1,In Stuart, just North of the Roosevelt Bridge.

Wheelbarrow Benefit for the Leonard Devoe Family Trust Fund(The local director of HIS PLACE Halfway House in Stuartis terminally ill and needs our support.)

All 1966-1984 Shovelheads are welcome to enter!Best Original, Chopper, Paint, Rat, Dresser, Oldest, Latest People’s Choice, and more !!! $10.00 Entry FeeAll proceeds go into the Wheelbarrow!

KYLE PETTY FINDS RELIGION IN STURGIS–In a scene that typifies the oddity of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, NASCARstar Kyle Petty is serenaded by a gospel choir while revving his VictoryMotorcycle. Petty is in Sturgis celebrating the Victory “revival” for thelaunch of its new 2001 motorcycles.

VICTORY MOTORCYCLES LAUNCHES 2001 DELUXE CRUISER AT STURGIS MOTORCYCLE RALLY–American-made Victory Motorcycles enters third model year with new bike and more than 200 changes to existing models

With more than a half million motorcyclistson hand, Victory Motorcycles is introducing its newest cruiser model at the60th Annual Sturgis Rally this week. The new Victory V92C Deluxe offers all the performance, power and handlingof a Victory motorcycle, as well as accessories like a windshield,saddlebags, backrest and passenger floorboards.

“The new Victory V92C Deluxe is a direct response to consumerdemands for a comfortable, accessorized cruiser motorcycle that is moreconducive to touring,” said Tom Tiller, President and CEO, PolarisIndustries Inc., parent company of Victory Motorcycles. “Victory isoffering great value to our riders with all the accessories that are nowstandard on the new Deluxe.”

Originally launched in the United States on July 4, 1998 -Independence Day – Victory is also launching new 2001 versions of itsCruiser and SportCruiserTM this week.

“With the more than 200 changes and improvements Victory has made for 2001,it’s as if we are introducing three new motorcycles, not just one,” saidTiller.

Features include a totally new, smoother, quieter transmission, an all-newclutch design, a smoother-running engine, a narrowed bike and a reduction inoverall weight – not to mention all-new colors for 2001.The new model introductions come on the heels of Victory’s entry into theUnited Kingdom motorcycle market in July. Named “Cruiser of the Year” itsfirst two years in the United States, Victory plans to shake up the UnitedKingdom’s heavyweight cruiser market.

THE MINISTER OF A SMALL CONGREGATION– was about to start hissermon when he noticed a young woman in the front row. She was wearing atight dress with her boobs almost hanging out. He couldn’tconcentrate on his message to the flock, so he dismissed the serviceand asked to speak to the woman after everyone else had left thechurch.

When they were alone, the reverend said in his sternest voice, “Just what do you mean, coming to church dressed likethat?”

“Why reverend,” the young thing replied. “All of myboyfriends tell me that they can hear the angels sing when they puttheir heads on my breasts.”

“Hmm. Well let me check,” said the man of the cloth,placinghis head between her tits. After several minutes, he raised hishead
and said, “I don’t hear any angels singing!”

“Of course not, reverend,” she said. “You’re notplugged in yet.”

TINKLE TUPPERWARE–Tinkle Tupperware is a big woman, a biker woman and doesn?t give a damn if, after a long ride on a hot summer day, she smells like a bucket of fish bait. Tinkle has always had a lust for life. Late sixties puberty and full speed ahead into the free wheeling seventies and eighties. For Tinkle there was never any question, riding hard, hanging with bikers and raising hell for the hell of it was the only way to live.

Tinkle, in her late forties now, wasn’t getting the action she used to. She knew part of it was because she weren’t no spring chicken and the years of hard and carefree living had taken its toll. But beyond that things seemed to be quieting down in general. The crowd she hung out with continued to thin out. Long time hell raisers were getting day jobs and settling down into more passive lives. The big events at Daytona, Laconia and Sturgis had become rather sedate and populated with larger percentages of weekend riders. Tank, the owner of a small motorcycle and lawnmower repair shop in town had asked her to marry him and settle down. She was seriously thinking about accepting the offer. Tinkle had never really been one to think things through and make decisions, she as a rule just went with whatever her gut said and this had always seemed to work just fine.

But things were changing and so she found herself roaring down the interstate thinking about marriage and a new and very different lifestyle. All things considered it seemed to her that the time had come and she would accept Tank’s offer. But she wanted one last tango in Sturgis. She decided that she would marry Tank when she got back from Sturgis and, as sort of a farewell to the lifestyle she had known and loved, would screw the brains out of every Bikernet representative that she could find. They had an emblem and she had a mission. -Carlos

I HAVE A QUESTION FOR WHOMEVER IS SOBER ENOUGH TO RESPOND– I am puttingtogether a chopper on a rigid frame from scratch, mostly from new parts.I am putting a 94 fairly stock EVO motor in a Daytec rigid frame using aBaker six speed.

I would like to put a mousetrap and hand shifter on thedarn thing and I’m not sure where to start looking for one. Does anyonestill manufacture these things and more importantly, where can I findspecs, instructions, etc for installation, hummmm?????

Any informationat all would just tickle the piss outta me. No, really, it would. I’mcurrently riding a ’98 Heritage. Whatever that means. Thanks forlistening. I feel better now.–Green Larry

Hey, forget the mousetrap, but a jockey shift is very possible. Call Rick at Two-Wheelers in Denver. He manufacturers a jockey shift set-up for an Evo (303) 433-7025.

OH, MY BANDIT, YOU ARE SO BUSTED– One of our Devil Doll Worshippers came across your awesome mention of our rowdy, tarty girl gang. Nice writing, I must say. You certainly have the gift of words, darlin’. And I must say, that seeing my little gothic name mentioned, made my little bones shiver with glee. You totally rock, my mysterious Bandit. Someday, someday, that’s all I will say!! Thank you.

The Devil Dolls love you. GOTHGIRL President Devil Dolls MC

BANDIT–How was your trip? Sin and I missed you, well actually Sin missed you. I was glad you were gone. She’s so hot, and since you were out of the picture we spent some “quality” time together, since she didn’t know what to do with her afternoons. I did, though.We hung out and kept ourselves entertained. Well, I don’t know how entertained she was, but I was. Last weekend we went to a day spa for a massage and mud pac. I enjoyed watching the female technician rub mud all over Sin’s succulent body. Damn, I wish I could move faster with that bitch. I only had a couple of weeks to warm her up to a thing with another woman.

I caught her checking me out when the girl began to rub me down. The swedish technician wasn’t as bashful as Sin, and was completely enjoying my 38 DDs. I could see Sin’s nipples harden as I ran my hand under the blonde’s white uniform. Damn Sin’s a hot buxom oriental and that long black hair drives me crazy. I gotta move on her before you get back.–Coral

FLORIDA RUN– Some time back, I pestered the late Dennis Stemp about my goofy concept, Project OLAF. One Lap Around Florida. I still hear his practical response, “Why?” Well, I live in the only state with a perimeter that can be ridden using only US highways the entire route, 1,700 miles give or take– a long run that takes in everything from Deep South swamps up on the Georgia border to the emerald Caribbean waters of the Keys. When I do this ride, now it’ll be with Dennis in mind. –John Siebenthaler, Creative Services, Inc. a one man advertising agency with offices is Daytona, Sturgis, Hollywood, New York City, Detroit, Chicago and Missoula Montana.

HARLEY DIVIDEND COMING– Harley-Davidson, Inc. (NYSE:HDI) announced today that its Board of Directors approved a quarterly cashdividend of 2.5 cents per share, payable September 19, 2000 to shareholdersof record September 8, 2000. The company currently has approximately 302.6million shares of common stock outstanding.

MOVIE PROJECT RECRUIT–Hey,here’s a pic of me washing my ride and a pic of my ride,’54 pan.Is movie stardom in my future?Like the site. –Pirate

NUUTBOY RETURNS FROM IRELAND–Okay, so there I was, in the frenzy of LAX, at the British Airways Baggage Complaint Desk. It’s Friday 4:00 PM, frantic, hot and sticky. The last time I had any sleep was something like 2 1/2 days ago. I’m feeling like a zombie. One of my bags is missing, it’s on the next flight (it will be delivered at 2:00AM Sat. morn.) from Heathrow, England. The last of the frazzeled, sleep-deprived students (Yes, Scott finally made it to Arizona) are on their way home. We plan to meet again for a party, in a month. Some will make it to the party, some will be away at school, some will be off on other adventures and some will ‘have other plans.’ But we all will have lived an adventure.We left Ireland, then England, in a rainstorm, the first in weeks. Our month long stay ended in a rush to buy gifts, say goodbye to new friends, see a couple more things, packing, and a raucous party at the Brazen Head Pub on Bridge St. next to the River Liffey. We have to re-learn to look left when we step off a curb, how to flush a toilet, that you can dry clothes on a line, counting dollars instead of pounds or punts, hot water is available anytime you want, not to depend on the 123 bus to get to the City Center, no tour bus will be waiting at the Charlemont Gate, no 30-minute walk to school, no crowds of smoking and yelling adolescent Spanish/Italian students walking five abreast on the sidewalks, no five-course potato dinners, pizza, and a thousand other adjustments to life.

Travel in Europe for two weeks is tourism, after that you begin to become a resident alien. Ireland became what we made of it. Each of us had a unique experience of it. Even when we traveled together, we brought to our experience our own interpretation.As the numbness of jet-lag wears off, I (and the rest of my traveling companions) have to gear-up for the more familiar routine of life here in the states. We’ve unpacked. We paid the bills. Laundry is being washed. We are trudging through a mountain of magazines and mail. We are starting to make contact with friends.

School starts in a couple of weeks.Yet there is still that lingering feeling of what we’ve experienced- the mad-capped pub life of Dublin, the beauty of the green and verdant country side, the complex variety of cultural history and artifacts, the delightful friendliness of the Irish people and the uniquely Irish quality of life we’ve learned to enjoy. It will always be a part of our lives–Nuutboy, bikernet college professor and nail driver.

ANOTHER RUN REPORT–Just got back from Sturgis, it was good, it was bad, and a couple of times it was fuckin ugly! Maybe I’m just getting old and tired of the bullshit but the cops in Sturgis wore my ass out.

How many times can you get pulled over so the fuckin dog can sniff you for drugs…that and a sorry ass drunk that I put to sleep in the Broken Spoke. The good shit was Hewlit, want a party that was….raisin pie all the way. I think that I’ll let the trailer towing bastards have Sturgis and set up camp in Wyoming. By and large it was still a real good time…even had a guy from Easyriders spring for my dinner one night…. made up for the bullshit ticket…ride safe.–Daddy Wack

TOP 10 THINGS MEN KNOW ABOUT WOMEN–

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. They have boobs.

HOW YA DOIN’?– I finally got on the web; and have been checking out yoursite. Ilike it. You’re doing a good job. As soon as you and Oz get some nakedwomen, it’ll be a great job!! I saw the pictures of your Sturgis bike, you’re a betterman than I. If I tried toride a rigid to South Dakota my hemeroids would be bleeding so bad I’dhave to be stopingevery 500 miles for a fucking blood transfusion.

I was glad to hear that you mayhave foundyourself a good woman. I guess I won’t tell you about the little red headI was going to in-troduce you to. How about your new honey, she have any friends who mightlike a ride on a good looking scoot? –S.T.

Naked women. Hmmm?–Bandit

NO REAL RANT–just disturbed that in the rise of the HORSEseveral writers that I truly liked have been lost–still it is kind of neat that an old Easyriders hand is on board. Hope the Horse can settle down and get some good writing going. Over the years I really got a kick out of some of the old Horse staff’s trips around the country. check out the trip through Russia–that was pretty slick—the new group seems pretty dedicated and that is what it’s going to take. I’ve been riding for well over thirty years and motorcycles are my life, so I have bought and subscribed to almost every bike magazine published. Right now I have over two thousand mags cluttering up a two bedroom apartment–adios

TWO DOCTORS–Two doctors opened offices in a small townand put up a sign readingDr. Smith and Dr. Jones, Psychiatryand Proctology. The town fathers were not too happy with the sign and theyproposed Hysterias and Posterios. The Doctors didn’t find it acceptable, andsuggested Schizoids and Hemorroids. The town didn’t like thateither and countered with Catatonics and High Colonics. Thumbs down again, by now the story was inthe papers and suggestions began rolling in: Manic-depressives andAnal-retentives.Minds and Behinds. Lost Souls and Ass-holes. Analysis and Anal Cysts, Queers and Rears, Nuts and Butts, Freaks and Cheeks, Loons and Moons.

None of these satisfied one side or the other,but they finally settled on Dr. Smith & Dr. Jones, OddsEnds.

ENTRY DEADLINE NEARS– for10th International Automotive Media Awards.The deadline for submission of entries to the IAMC awards recognitionprogram is Aug. 18, 2000. This 10th International Automotive MediaConference and Awards (IAMC) event is being held Oct. 28-30 at the LasVegas Convention Center, Las Vegas, Nev., immediately prior to SEMA PressDay Oct. 31st.

“We have a full schedule of activities planned,” said Walter R Haessner,executive director of IAMC. “Featured seminars are by Adobe? software andApple? computer; awards presentations will begin on Sunday Oct. 29th andconclude Monday evening Oct. 30th. All members of the automotive media,whether print, television, electronic, www, radio, or public relations, areinvited to participate. We are hearing from many new people this year, aswell as those who have participated in the past.

“This 10th IAMC should break all records,” Haessner continued. “For thesecond year, IAMC is being held as an adjunct to the SEMA Show, madepossible through the support of SEMA. The new date and venue were seen asmajor improvements by the 1999 attendees.”

Those people needing entry forms can download an Adobe? PDF from the IAMCwebsite (http://www.iamc-isvp.org/root/iamc.html). At the IAMC page, select”Conference Details.” A link is in place for anyone needing AcrobatReader?. If faxed forms are needed, or if you have any questions, pleasecontact the office at 520/622-2201. Conference registration forms are alsoavailable for non-entrants; registration without entries closes Oct. 27th;late registration is available at the IAMC, Oct. 28-30, 2000.

“An elite group of supporting sponsors?Hagerty Classic Insurance,Meguiar’s, Inc., Mercedes-Benz USA and SEMA?helps make the IAMC possible,”Haessner added. “Their involvement is very much appreciated.”

For additional information on:The IAMC and awards entry forms, contact Elaine Jordan at 520/622-2201;e-mail to iamc@iamc-isvp.org

HEY MAN–I noticed that you ain’t with Biker no more. I been reading yourstory in the horse and just wanted you to know that I don’t know what’sgoing on at ER and Biker, but it ain’t what it used to be. Lost touchwith guys like me. I ain’t hardcore, but I love to ride and been doing itsince I was 12 in 71. Spend all my money and time on the bikes, and wantto keep in touch on new stuff and events.

Please keep doing it. We allneed your perspective. Rip’s gone. Who’s left? The Horse is alright, butI ain’t that fucked up about this chopper thing. Love em, but it don’tmake you shit, if you got shocks on the back. My back can’t take ahardtail. Need a new mag with more regular guy bikes, real road info. Whatdo you think?Gonna do it?– Ted S., Little Rock

Ya never know about these things. It would have to be a constant good time, like this is–Bandit

YO, BANDIT– I hope you can help me out. I e-mailed a letter to Corbin about their Cobra seat which is for the Softtail frame as to whether or not it would fit my Atlas rigid frame or not. To date I have not heard from them, maybe you might be able to get a response from them. I really like that seat and think it would look good on my scooter.If not guess I’ll stick with the one I’ve got. I’m from the era of choppers,hardtails and apes though mine’s not chopped and it didn’t take me long to get rid of my apes,and go to pullbacks but I still run a rigid frame as the chicks seem to like the vibrations better. I hope I’m able to continue using the computers at my little,local library. I was down-loading some prison websites that featured some nude women and the prudes in this town got upset and ratted me out. –Snake

Mike Corbin was just inducted into he Motorcycle Hall of Fame in Sturgis, along with Rip and others. He’ll even be harder to catch now. He’s innovative and inventive, but tough to get on the phone–Bandit

PICOTTE LOOKS TO MOVE UP IN AMA POINTS RACE– VR 1000 Pilot 8th Overall after top 10 Finish at BIR With just two races remaining on the AMASuperbike 2000 schedule, VR 1000 pilot Pascal Picotte left BrainerdInternational Raceway on Sunday looking to improve on his eighth placestanding in overall points. Picotte finished ninth in the circuit’s 10thrace of the year, and said he is anticipating the next round at Pike’s Peak,where he led the closing stages of the race and finished second a year ago.”Pike’s Peak is a track where a good-handling bike like the VR 1000 can dowell,” Picotte added.

According to Team Manager Steve Scheibe, the team is working hard to furtherincrease the performance of the VR.”The bike ran well today, it’s run well all year — but obviously we stilldon’t have enough horsepower,” said Scheibe. “However, Harley-Davidson fansshould know we are committed to changing that.”

From a qualifying position of 10th, Picotte started strong and climbed tofifth in the early laps. However, he slowly lost ground on Brainerd’smile-long straight.”I was closing the gaps in the corners, where we were very strong, but inthe end we didn’t have enough speed,” he said. Picotte currently trailsYamaha’s Tommy Hayden (seventh) by 13 points and Honda’s Miguel DuHamel(sixth) by 16 in the standings. Scott Russell did not finish at Brainerd after a fitting on his VR’s oilline leading to the oil pressure sensor broke early in the race. Oil leakedonto the exhaust pipes and caused Russell to pull out.

DAYS INN BLOWN AWAY–MAYBE–I just got an email from a friend at Excelsior-Henderson, he just spoke to the Days Inn in Sturgis, and they told him that the Days Inn in Spearfish is closed due to the storm on Tuesday. He said the roof got ripped off. Bummer! Better call to find out the deal if you’re staying there.–Patty

Mike and Lana put on one helluva terrific Cajun fiest at the Days Inn in Spearfish last week. The food was spicy, but not that spicy–Bandit

MC CLURE BACK FROM STANTON, STURGIS AND BRISTOL–Whew, this time of year you have to remain focused, focused on racing and focused on the road. Jim McClure, Williamsburg, Va. left the IHRA CARQUEST Northern Nations, Stanton, Mi. rainout to drive straight through to the mid west mecca of Harley drag racing, Sturgis, SD.

Rescheduled for Sturgis, McClure won the rained out ADBA Atlanta race. McClure qualified unlucky 13 for the Sturgis Top Fuel field and was taken out early for the Sturgis win. But no time to cry over spilt milk, the McClure’s loaded up and headed for the S & S Nationals at Bristol, Tn, qualifying 2nd behind Bill Furr, Orangeburg, SC with a 6.713 for Furr and 6.719 for McClure.

The Bristol facility proved to be good for McClure as he took a win in the final.

August 19 IHRA Stanton, Mi. (reschedule)

Aug. 22-26 IHRA Norwalk, Oh.

Sept. 8-10 IHRA Epping, NH

McClure is supported on his national tour by Rivera Engineering, Primo Products, Red Line Synthetic Oil, ACCEL, Hampton Roads HD, Southside HD, F & S HD, S & S Cycle, Inc, Performance Machine, Axtell, Autolite & Vanson Leathers www.jimmcclureracing.com

HOLD ON– Why are cowgirls bowlegged? Cowboys like to eat with their hats on.

What’s the definition of a teenager? God’s punishment for enjoying sex.

What two words will clear out a men’s restroom? “Nice Dick!”

Why do we have orgasms? How else would we know when to stop?

WEERDO’S NEWS LETTER– We’re gonna have a monthly newsletter to keepour friends informed on what the Weerdos are up to–http://www.weerdbros.com.

Hey, if you’re in the market for a front end for your project, contact these guys. I have got to say that if it wasn’t for the quick and ready assistance of the Weerd bros, I would have never made it to Sturgis. I ran a 14 over wide glide that worked like a dream. When I needed answers they returned calls, sent brackets over night and new the answers to keep me going. Good people! –Bandit

MR. FIVE BALL–I’m innocent, I’m innocent…. is that the only thing youknow how to write anymore. If you’re not fuckin’ guilty,then I’m the Pope!

That Carlos ain’t a bad writer, what the hell happenedto the rest of his NASA story?

That’s Mr. Breeze gawdamnit! Now your just fuckin’with me! You ask me what name to use, I tell you andyou do just the opposite. I would expect no less fromyou!

I’m innocent–Bandit

SHAVED—that’s just torture. First you tempt uswith Sin Pussy, now this! I can never tell where yourlife ends and your fictional fantasies begin. Just when Ihave myself convinced that Sin Wu is a figment of yourimagination you come up with a photo (Great inkCindy, I hope you haven’t taken any offense at my funwith your last name as no disrespect is intended).Do you have anyone to hand out your Bikernet stickersat The Buffalo Chip? I could take care of that for you. OK, OK……you only want beautiful women doing it. Ihave that covered too. I could talk my Sturgis date intodoing it. A sexy six footer, with a yard of leg, hair likea midnight forest, dark glowing eyes to get lost in, andhot enough to melt the porcelain out of your spark plug!They’ll be knockin’ each other down to get to her!–Carlos

Wish I could have taken you up on the offer. Wanna trade Sin for the leggy one for a weekend?–Bandit

DID YOU KNOW–With the data now available for all markets for the full year of 1999 motorcycle registrations, Harley-Davidson’s world-wide market sharte in the 651 cc plus catagory soared another 14 percent over 1998 to represnet 26.7 of the global new motrocycle sales. Rock and roll.

Paul Yaffe Moved to new larger headquarters. Master customizer Paul Yaffe has new digs at 2211 E. Indian School Road, Phoenix, AZ 85016, (602) 840-4205.

Bikernet is in heated negotiations to carry the Chrome Specialties line of Prison Blues and their other super-cool clothing on Bikernet. We will also offer little Joe’s Leathers since that’s all I wear anymore. That’s HAL leathers.

My mother, yes Bandit has a mother who is 79 years old and is about to take a cruise around the world. You know whose paying for it? Harley-Davidson. That’s right, she bought 100 shares in 1903. No I’m kidding. She bought the stock in 1988. A lousy 100 shares. With splits she now owns 800 shares which is worth 38,000.

Hamster in space. Damn those yuppie Hamster bastards with their high priced bikes that they never ride. At least that’s the going line about the guys in the yellow t-shirts. Seems somebody missed the fact that some 50 rodents ride to Sturgis every year. Arlen has ridden to Strugis some 20 times. Anyway at a gathering to munch on seeds and nuts it was announced that a Hamster T-shirt was launched into space. That puppy went over 17,000 miles an hour and some 26 miles into space. That gettin’ high.

Dave Hanlon interviewed for Hot Rod Bikes in the Cubs bar in Sturgis. Drunk as skunks I tried to get Dave to tell me what’s happening with Excelsior-Henderson. The rowdy racket in the bar drowned out the tape recorder and girls kept trying to drag Dave into the head. Twice a 200-car train rolled past directly behind the bar and the waitress kept opening the door next to our table to flood the 95 degree bar with the sound of thousands of bikes on Lazelle outside. If Dave told me anything I was too drunk to remember it, the tape didn’t pick it up, besides someone stomped it in the fist-fight that insued. Seems the guys at the next table thought I was taping their conversation about making a crank lab in a closet. I was, hell, I needed to make enough money to get back to San Pedro.

Watch for new Bikernet T-shirts in the near future. We’ve got a new design using the famous Jon Towle’s artwork for our patches which will be for sale in Bandit’s Gift shop next week. Check ’em out.

Fiction World Is Growing: Hot Rod Bikes has commissioned my ass to write scalding fiction monthly in the Peterson publication. They also asked me to write a history piece on mufflers. Does anyone know the history of the muffler? Help me, help me, please.

The Sturgis 2000 Bikernet Chop-off is still underway. Zebra made it there first and rode the most miles. I rode a rigid and had more fun along the way. Watch for the two sagas on the site and look over the bikes–then vote. Let us know which is your favorite, the one you hate, or well whatever you think. We had a helluva good time doing it.

OVERCOMING–A successful person is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks that others throw at him or her._David Brinkley

THAT’S IT–I’m not accustomed to this much work, besides I got a call from the dark-haired beauty. She’s been working out regulary and is looking so trim. She’s on her way to my arms for some afternoon delight. I need to wrap this up, put on the music, poor the wine and brush my teeth. This is what life is all about. Laying around afterwards watching the sun set over the harbor.

This weekend we’ll put the ’48 Pan back together and begin to tune the dual 42 mm Mikunis. It’ll be interesting to see if a 61-inch 52-year-old Pan will burn rubber. –Bandit