The Odyssey To The Black Hills-In Style

Part One: The Last-Minute Scramble Out of LA

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Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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For the last three years I’ve ridden to Sturgis. Last year it was on a Hi-Tech Custom Cycles slammed dresser with Ron Simms bags that ground at the canyons, Arlen Ness panels, and a Crane cam. My riding partners were Mark Lonsdale, a 6-foot-2, 240-pound weapons expert, stuntman, and close quarters combat trainer, and Myron Larrabee, one-time Mr. Arizona, retired Dirty Dozen, and owner of two World Gyms and the Scottsdale Easyriders store. We hauled the long way over small isolated highways and through modest towns until we hooked up with 25 Hamsters in Casper, Wyoming. All along the route we talked of bikes, the dressers we rode, and custom scoots. Ultimately the challenge was laid on the polished oak bartop in some long forgotten saloon: “Could we build choppers and be just as comfortable?” The answer was a resounding, “Fuck yeah.”

All the way along the Continental Divide and across Wyoming we envisioned what these machines would look like, and what amenities they would contain. Not so much for Myron, who seemed content with 14-inch apes and a bagged Road King that was hopped up and detailed to the max, but with my 6-foot-5, 235-pound frame and reach, and Mark’s equally large size, we dwarf most machines. We needed long bikes. So while in Sturgis we sought the advice of the masters of long machines, Brook and Pat Kennedy. Both Mark and I are bonkers over their frames and style, but they don’t build a rubbermount chassis. For touring that was determined to be a must. But for me, their front end with the adjustable rake, long wide glide was the perfect solution for the road. Plus, in addition to being able to adjust rake, trail, and chassis height, the front end offers a multitude of damper adjustments for ridability. That aspect offered additional flexibility for the touring Chopper rider.

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I was beginning to like hanging out in the shop, shooting the shit, and being creative, but the pressure was incessant.

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The concept was launched to build a stretched, big-man Touring Chopper. But first we had invested in the dressers and needed to adjust financially to have the wherewithal to build such a beast. I sold my dresser to Mike Osborn, the editor of Quick Throttle, and Mark got a job working on a Mickey Rourke movie in Texas with Chuck Zito, a New York Hells Angel Nomad. We had our nest eggs. Not to be outdone, Myron began a complete ground-up custom rubbermounted Softail. But from this point on, so I don’t get so fucking confused dealing with all these machines that I lose it, we’ll stay focused on Mark’s modified FXR and my ground-up.

Since the entire build-up has been covered either in Easyriders , with the coverage of the Jesse James steel bags and the Kennedy front end articles, in VQ, with the original concept in the April, ’97 issue, a soon-to-be- published-update in VQ #18, and a full feature in VQ#19, and, finally, the complete fabrication from day one on Bandit’s Bikernet update, I’m going to jump to mid July ’97, almost a year later.

It was the last week before we were scheduled to leave for the Badlands. With less than a week to go we had a polished Draggin’ Coaster 98-inch, predominately S&S stroker with STD heads, a JIMS close-ratio 5-speed Dyna Glide transmission with a Rivera hydraulic clutch actuator and Rivera Brute III primary clutch and belt drive, the Kennedy front end, and a couple of Kennedy 80-spoke wheels. The rest of the creative sheet metal work by Jesse James, plus the modified Paughco frame, and the Battistini’s gas tanks were at Damon’s Custom Paint being sprayed Damon’s red. Jesse’s handmade exhaust system, bumper, and miscellaneous parts were in some tank at South Bay Chrome and a box fulla Hurst controls, Custom Cycle Engineering risers, a Headwinds headlight, Accel electric components, and P.M. brakes waited while I cajoled on the phone.

The answer: “Hey, Bandit, we’d like to help you out, but Jesse just gave us this shit an hour ago.” I leaned on ’em anyway. The paint arrived Monday and Pat Powers, Jesse’s main mechanic, had the engine and tranny in the frame before noon. Tuesday morning I set the alarm for 4:30 and was in my truck by 5 a.m., heading for Paramount and West Coast Choppers. A shipment of Diamond fasteners had arrived, and we were hot to trot. We installed the front end, the rear fender and struts, and the rear wheel, after changing the tire twice and the oil lines when Jesse wasn’t looking. Courtney from Hot Bike even spent a couple of hours tinkering in the early evening. At 10 p.m. that night we left the shop, fried, and went to Fritz, a madhouse tittie bar 2 miles away, to unwind. Three Jack Daniel’s went down like buttermints melt on your tongue during the holidays. I had to face more deadlines the next day and took my leave at midnight.

Wednesday, Pat arrived at the shop at O dark thirty and wired the beast. The day before, after I ran oil lines, I made constant parts runs to L.A. Harley. Performance Machine, which is only blocks away, supplied parts via my daughter, Faith, who is working there. Wednesday, with Jesse’s instructions and confidence, ’cause he was too hungover to make it to work the next day (he kids us about being old-timers), encouraged me to hire photog Markus Cuff to come to Jesse’s industrial park facility, set up a studio, hire a make-up artist and a model, and prepare for the photo sessions of sessions.

Friday morning I got the 4:30 wake-up call again and hit the road. We had planned to ride out on Monday, but at this point I called Mark and told him that our luxury-day card had to be turned in. We needed to leave Tuesday. He agreed and informed Myron in Phoenix. The clock was ticking as we swarmed the red beast and worked tirelessly from 5:30 a.m. till noon, when Markus arrived and began wandering around checking ridiculous shit like circuit breakers and lighting. We decided to stick him as far from the action as possible and moved his operation to the back, where Jesse’s crew makes his line of fenders, while up front the man creates and builds motorcycles. I was beginning to like hanging out in the shop, shooting the shit, and being creative, but the pressure was incessant. With every joke there was a question, “Did the brake bracket arrive?” “Did Eric get back with those fasteners?” “When can we make the hydraulic brake lines?”

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…we found out later that Trina, the make-up artist, had to apply body make-up to our dominatrix’s ass to cover last night’s whip marks.

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By three in the afternoon the model, Dita, was there, and looking fine. Her thing is looking vamp. She’s into bondage routines, although her demeanor was as soft as a kitten. She’s corset trained, has a 16-inch waist, and can draw it to a spinning 13 inches. In the midst of bolting on the pipes she wandered into the shop, almost naked, to ask me what outfit would work. Everything stopped. At that point, I wanted to fist-fuck her and send her down the road, but the sultry make-up queen stood alongside her with her hands firmly implanted on her hips, like some dark mistress, and glared at us until we succumbed to her will and responded accordingly. As the afternoon sun waned Markus was recruiting valuable manpower into his dank surroundings and ordering them to move motorcycles and equipment and set up lights.

On top of Sturgis, making the damn thing run, and enduring a six-hour photo shoot, Sunday was the date for the annual Mikuni Bike Show. Jesse planned to have a considerable display designed, polished, and implanted on the grounds of the Santa Monica Airport to show off his wares to the 10,000 SoCal attendees. Holy shit! We broke out the beer as we pulled the completed Touring Chopper off Jesse’s handmade lift and attempted to fire it. Even with the plugs pulled, the new Predator battery wouldn’t turn it more than a couple of revolutions. It was 4:45; Custom Chrome would be closed in 10 minutes. According to the Predator experts, these batteries have a five-year shelf life and should never be charged. What the hell were we supposed to do with it? Besides, we had mounted the dry cell on its side and we couldn’t replace it with a conventional battery. I called Dan Stern. He wasn’t in his office. I left a message. We were fucked. At five minutes to 5 p.m. Dan returned the call and concurred-the battery should be fine. Another one was sent overnight. One more minute and no battery.

We put the charger on the existing one and went onto other operations. Danny Gray had come across with a seat that fit like a glove. We hauled ass to the hardware store for strips of Velcro and attached the seat pan, which Pat and Jesse had made out of heated ABS plastic, cut, and sent to Danny. The make-up girl was beginning to pace the concrete. “Are you ready?” she asked. The battery charger took a shit, and we had to rustle-up another one. It worked. Since it was Friday night, Jesse’s buddies were beginning to arrive with chilled six-packs and a party mood. Progress slowed, and burnouts commenced in the street. Jesse traded an early Sturgis model Shovel for a slammed ’59 Byscane with hydraulic lifts and started giving the guys three wheeled rides. My video crew arrived about that time and decided to interview Jesse and me. Fuck, didn’t we have enough to do?

Imagine the scene. Markus Cuff, his assistant, and 5,000 watts of power pack were exploding against a seamless background in the back, while welders, grinders, drill presses, and wrenches were flying in the front. One office was boarded up so the bondage queen and the make-up artist could fondle each other in solitude. As a side note, we found out later that Trina, the make-up artist, had to apply body make-up to our dominatrix’s ass to cover last night’s whip marks.

Our video producer took the other office apart, setting up lights and beta cam, then strolled into the midst of trying to finish this masterpiece and announced in his usual dour manner that everyone had to be quiet while he interviewed Jesse, then me. The crew laughed and opened another beer.

Halfway through my interview, Pat Powers fired the bike. All 98 inches ran as smooth as polished crystal while he let it warm and adjusted the carb. The short, turned-out, and baffled drag pipes slapped the walls of the office and gradually drowned out anything I could have attempted to say. Besides, I quickly lost my desire to describe the odyssey we were still in the midst of and wanted to get closer to the bike. As I left the office, Jesse was rolling the bike under his steel roll-up door and heading into the street. He rode it up and down the wide industrial street, I did the same and so did Mark. Dale Gorman, the 6-foot-2, 250-pound, East Coast arm wrestling champion, had just flown from Buzzard’s Bay on Cape Cod to ride with us. He was already knee deep in wrenches helping, ’cause that’s the kind of guy he is.

We stood by as Jesse took another trial run, in awe that it had come this far, performin’ as if it had just run off the assembly line. There was little, if anything, about this motorcycle that was stock or relatively common. The frame was innovative, the engine pushed, the front end mildly radical, and the suspension completely off-the-wall (Jesse had moved the shock position 15 degrees to align the shocks with the line of the frame). Nothing about this bike was tried and true, but it seemed to be acting as if it were. Only one job was left unfinished at that point, detailing. Jesse called his man and a van pulled up in front of his joint. One quiet kid worked endlessly polishing, while his acerbic boss bitched and moaned about everything while doing his part. No more time to adjust and test. The fragile paper back drop, tense video cameraman, edgy photographer, tightly wrapped model, and protective make-up artist were waiting.

First we shot details of the bike in the back of the shop. Dale and Jesse assisted in moving the long bike onto and off the paper-white background. Footprints, oily hands, and tire marks were prohibited. We laid out old blankets and rolled the bike onto the backdrop over the protective material while standing on the soiled material. We then carefully folded and maneuvered the make-shift rugs from under the tires, while the photographer directed. Two hours later we were ready for the girl. I had to admit she looked good enough to … But being a professional with a couple of beers under my belt and another four hours of work ahead of me, I steered clear of trouble and certain rejection. We strapped on a strong, unrelenting 20 hours that day.

One product of a six-hour photo shoot: Dita and “The Redhead”

At 8:30 the next morning I picked up Mark and Dale at Mark’s Santa Monica pad and we worked and strained back and biceps at Gold’s Gym before heading back to Paramount. The shop was clean, the bike warmed and dialed and the cascade of beer cans showered around the joint the night before were mysteriously gone. We spent the better part of the day dialing, fixing, and making things fit better. Jesse called in a local upholsterer who lined the inside of the bags. Mid-afternoon, with Dale following me in my truck, I filled her up with gas and headed for the freeway. It was 45 miles home-almost 45 miles of the most congested traffic in Southern California. If the bike were to stumble and fall anywhere between the predominantly Hispanic, industrial city of Paramount and the war zone of downtown, to the teenage traffic rolling out of Santa Monica into the inner city, I would have been summarily run over by several thousand Saturday drivers and tourists.

Cautiously pulling onto the 105 freeway I changed into the number three lane. As the front 21 crossed into the number two lane, the bike jolted. I hit something. Quickly assessing the pain to the chassis I glanced behind me to investigate-nothing, except 400 drunken motorist and a semi with a flat barreling down on me as if I were the starting flag at the Indianapolis 500. I twisted the wick and continued. The bike felt good in my grip. It centered itself and sensed all was right in the lane. I let go of the bars and it tracked straight. I moved around in the lane to test for a loose front end, wheel bearings, or misalignment-nothing. It seemed to take to the road like a duck to a pond or a salmon to the mouth of a river. But when I changed lanes again, pop! It happened again.

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It’s one thing to split lanes during rush hour, with thousands of veteran commuters around you, but to split lanes on a Saturday, with thousands of tourists, inexperienced, nervous yahoos who generally avoid freeways, and folks fulla margaritas flanking you, is suicidal.

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I changed lanes again and noticed this time that something under the bike was catching the kickstand. Traffic backed up as I realized something on the frame-mounted kickstand was popping the reflectors on the freeway. The bike was definitely too low, but I was about to receive acid test number 2-slow traffic. Suddenly, I was splitting lanes on a bike with a new clutch … and my first hydraulic hand clutch, at that. The pull was positive, but hard. Leery of hydraulic shit that might leak or might not be completely bled, I relied on my faith in Jesse’s assistant, Eric, who handmade each line. Terror energized my spine at the thought that the bike was so low I might tear off the clutch line going over the next reflector. Avoiding changing lanes, I had to split Dodger Stadium traffic through the downtown interchange to reach the Hollywood freeway.

Praying that the clutch wouldn’t give out, I turned the throttle while bouncing between vehicles. It’s one thing to split lanes during rush hour, with thousands of veteran commuters around you, but to split lanes on a Saturday, with thousands of tourists, inexperienced, nervous yahoos who generally avoid freeways, and folks fulla margaritas flanking you, is suicidal. The scooter held firm at slow speeds, and the brilliant red and chrome held onlookers at bay. Then I leaned into my first turn. Everything scraped-the bags, the frame, and the kickstand. Momentarily, the bike was on one wheel. Lesson number three: Watch for ground clearance before beating a cage in the turn.

Miraculously, I made it to my pad and immediately called Jesse. Dale and I quickly loosened the front end and lessened the rake, creating more ground clearance. Two clicks and we raised the frame an inch. The kickstand had been bent with Jesse’s torch on Friday night. Now it needed rebending to align it with the frame. We did it. Checking over the bike I discovered that a fender-strut bolt was catching the tire. Earlier, when we’d pulled the engine over with the hiem joint on the top motormount, we’d over compensated. Now I had to move it back, or risk blowing the tire out over the next 50 miles.

The next morning I had to meet my bros in Santa Monica at 8 a.m. to make it to the famous Mikuni Show by 9. I was up and checking over the bike at 7 a.m. By the time I reached Mark’s pad, I already knew the bike needed to be raised more. We made it to the show on time. Jesse was there with a new booth, flyers, and more bikes, including one they’d finished between Friday afternoon and Saturday evening. I was impressed, and my bike drew crowds.

Let’s go back to Dale for a moment and fill in the picture. Dale rode a flamed dresser from New England to Sturgis a couple of years ago, then rode onto L.A. He spent some time out here, trying to break into the stunt business, but ran out of cash and had to return to Massachusetts to paint hockey sticks with his partner Jeff. He left the flamed dresser, with sidecar attached, at Glendale Harley, hoping to sell it. It never sold, so when he decided to ride to Sturgis ’97 with us, I called Oliver’s men at Glendale and asked them to service the bike and disconnect the sidecar. Dale flew into LAX, and Mark picked ‘im up and took him to Glendale, where he picked up his flamed-out touring ride and was ready to go.

Now, let’s bring you up to date on Mark’s bike. When he returned from Sturgis last year, he looked around his garage and saw his blacked-out dresser, his custom Pro Street (recently featured in the July ’97 issue of Easyriders ), and an ’89 FXR, mostly black and raked. Two years ago he rode it to Sturgis and back the direct route-22 hours and a handful of gas stops and he was home … no sleep, no breaks, just straight riding. Based on my premise of a street touring chopper, he decided to stretch the frame, extend the wide glide to 12-over, and make his reliable FXR into a Touring Chopper. Jesse performed the frame modification, and Mark did the rest-extending the front end, changing his risers to Custom Cycle Engineering dog bones, finding and attaching a new gas tank, having Bartels’ H-D perform their formula street fast head work on the bike, extending the cables, chroming his tried and true Performance Machine forward controls, etc. He basically left the bike black except to have the engine heads polished and powdercoated Hamster gold between the fins. Then he put a golden rod and red graphic on the tank and continued it to the side panels. When complete, the bike fit him like a glove and was done in time for a test run to Hollister. It ran like a dream. All right, so now you know that the two bikes beside me were basically black, with some Hamster touches.

All right, so now we can get back to the tense action. Keep in mind that while we looked at the myriad of flashy custom bikes at the Mikuni show I still had only 65 miles on this puppy, and I needed to jack it up off the ground some more. I hardly had enough miles on it to confidently say the charging system was working, or that the sketchy battery would not fail, or that the engine would hang together, or a number of other questions. We split from the show early, and I headed home to tweak and begin to think about packing. I was determined to pack only in Jesse’s steel bags and not even run one of my famous, convenient bedrolls. I managed by stuffing my day roll with tools and putting it in the right bag, along with my camera, cell phone, tennis shoes, and a quart of oil. In the other bag fit my ditty bag, a small bag of underwear, socks, bandannas, workout shorts, and two folded dress shirts. At the last minute I determined that I could not carry a spare pair of Levi’s and I’d be forced to buy another pair on the road. That was a mistake.

Monday, I rode the bike to the Easyriders Garage and worked the entire day. The staff went crazy over the bike and it seemed to ride and function fine. By the time I got home, I had almost a hundred miles on the clock. I changed the oil and inspected it for wear particles. Everything seemed in line and a go. I didn’t get to sleep till midnight, and the alarm was set to take my ear off at 4 a.m. It came too soon, and I got my sorry ass out of bed and made coffee, checked final packing, and pulled the bike into the street. One hundred miles of fresh paint, polished aluminum, and chrome was ready-or so I thought-for the trek to the Badlands.

– End of Part One –

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

Specializing In Hand Fabrication. If you want that special touch to your motorcycle, a tank with scalloped pannels, hand made exhaust system, a custom fairing or small detail touched to make your bike unlike all the rest, Jesse James may be your man. Click on the image below to see some of Jesse’s Products…

Custom Fender Images and Descriptions

For custom fabrication quotes call the legend himself at (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em Bandit sent ya…

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Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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We pulled away from the security of the abode at 5:10 and headed to the 405 freeway. My bike and Mark’s were built with 34-tooth Andrews tranny sprockets, which gave us tremendous top end. I wasn’t shifting into 5th until I was over 70, and it seemed to putt at that speed effortlessly-although I was constantly varying the revs to properly break in the engine as we reached the end of the 405 and merged with the 5 north and shortly thereafter with highway 14, heading east into Palmdale. It wasn’t long in the cresting morning haze that we spotted the 138 (or Pearblossom Highway) and swung right, heading toward Victorville.

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That evening we hit on every waitress in the local Holiday Inn without so much as a bite; maybe it had something to do with our creeping around the bar and restaurant barefoot, because our boots were soaked.

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Fortunately, on my way to work the previous day, I went on reserve, got off the freeway, and refueled. My suspicions about my gas capacity were high as we turned left onto Highway 18 to Victorville and a long dry, desert stretch. Just after we passed a sign announcing that Victorville was a mere 16 miles away, my bike began to sputter. I reached for the Accel petcock and switched it to reserve; the bike caught again, but after only a couple of miles began to cough, sputter, and die. At 84 miles I was out of gas in the middle of the desert 10 miles from Victorville and the 15 freeway. We dug around in the desert until we found a Bud can, cleaned it, and initiated a fuel unrep with Dale’s dresser. Mark quickly discovered that he had a gas capacity of maybe 20 miles more than mine. After eight trips to Dale’s petcock we were back on the road. Already, due to the 98-inch engine’s level of vibration, we began to predict that perhaps the big engine should be used in a race bike and that a milder mill be installed in the Dyna chassis. It was tough to keep my feet on the pegs, even though it was a rubbermount chassis-something to think about for the next 1800 miles.

After refueling in Victorville, we jumped on the 15 to the 40. The vibrations took their toll on the right saddlebag as the desert sun began to bake the sand for hundreds of miles on either side of the freeway. We stopped for breakfast in the 100-degree heat of Needles, and I broke my first exhaust bracket in Kingman, Arizona. We took a break at Kingman Harley-Davidson. We had been almost 400 miles at mostly 75 mph, so the guys in service changed the oil, replaced my sharp-looking Hurst pegs with more gooey rubber Isotomer pegs, fixed the exhaust pipe bracket, and set us on our way again. In Kingman, we asked the ladies at the counter to ship our helmets back to the Golden State; we wouldn’t be needing them again for some time. I also had the petcock changed to an expensive, but high-flow Pingle unit. Ultimately ,we discovered that it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

I felt confident in Kingman that we had half a chance of solving the bulk of my mechanical problems and that we could roll (or was that the afterglow of several Coronas). A couple of beers makes almost any motorcycle run smoother, and we rode onto Seligman for Machaca plates in a fine Mexican restaurant. We blasted through the hills of Arizona and into the tail end of a storm creeping north from Mexico and carrying monsoons with it. We had originally planned to wind ’em up on Monday, but as the gods of chrome ride with us, we were warned in our sleep to delay the trip a day. Becky Ball was also breathing down our necks about the weather. I had more to think about than clouds and a little rain, and put weather reports out of my mind, but we were generally blessed until we hit the Mazatal Mountain range, a portion of the Coconino National Forest leading into Flagstaff on Highway 40. We hit the front head on, and 30 miles from Flagstaff we took a break in Williams, where the world’s rudest waitresses brought us coffee and apple pie while we watched the skies unload on our bikes. Of course, we fucked with her until she lightened up. We finally called Myron in Flagstaff and told him we would pick him up in the morning. That evening we hit on every waitress in the local Holiday Inn without so much as a bite; maybe it had something to do with our creeping around the bar and restaurant barefoot, because our boots were soaked. It felt good to be out of the rain, though. Mark propped the roll-away bed against the wall, directly in front of the heater, and we lined up the boots for maximum exposure. We set the heater on 90 and split.

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It started to rain again as we rolled into town, and the red clay dust turned into red mud.

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We finally rendezvoused with Myron on his highbar Road King in the mountain, tourist community of Flagstaff, adjacent to the Grand Canyon, which I have yet to see. We then split 52 miles into the Navajo nation, stopping in Cameron, a one-stop mesa in the middle of the desert. This oasis on the muddy Little Colorado River is home to one gas station, one outpost, and the most complete American Indian gift shop you’ve ever seen. If they don’t have it, it can’t exist. The outpost was built in 1916 out of indigenous rock. A motel, made from the same stone and by the same architect, is attached to the outpost, in addition to a small art gallery/museum and a restaurant packed with Indian artifacts and rugs. The ceiling is copper paneled and all the employees are American Indians. All the furniture in the rooms is handcrafted by their own employees. We ate breakfast in the dining room, and Myron was scared off by the 8-inch grilled Ortega pepper that accompanied his breakfast burrito. Cameron was only 50 miles out of Flag and a good stop on our way through the desert.

The redhead, as Becky had appropriately named the stretched crimson monster, was hanging together. The engine was still moving around a lot, but it was a cool 73 degrees, and we felt comfortable blasting along at 75 on Highway 89 north, then turning onto 160. We were beginning to check parking lots for other Dyna Glides to compare the motor mounts. We also wanted to balance the front wheel ’cause it seemed to bounce instead of working the lowers. It could have been the length of the front end or the rake. Dale tightened the Works Performance shocks, which stopped the bottoming I was experiencing.

We made it another 100 miles to Kayenta, a grizzly little desert burg in the center of the reservation. This place reeks of bad vibes, although it is the gateway to beautiful monument valley on Highway 163. It’s as if you need to pass through the ghetto to reach the Promised Land. The valley is a must-see for travelers, just shut your lids passing through Kayenta. It started to rain again as we rolled into town, and the red clay dust turned into red mud. Pulling into the Chevron station the service bays lay vacant, and I asked the Indian clerk if we could push the bikes out of the way for a spell to tighten a few nuts and bolts. He scuffled his feet, looked at the floor, and denied my request. “Da boss is coming,” he kept saying.

We discovered the one bolt holding the exhaust bracket to the transmission had broken off. It was the only bolt holding the entire exhaust system in place. No shops in the neighborhood. Dale spotted a True Value hardware store across the highway and we wandered over and began to search through bins and drawers to find the hardware and a long narrow punch. Meanwhile, Mark bought a cheap 4-buck rain suit and sneaked back to the register to pay for it. I spotted him and jacked him up. “What about your bros, pal?” His eyes dropped and he pointed to the rack under the fishing poles. Of course, I couldn’t find the damn things. Like my pappy used to say, “If it was a snake, it woulda bit ya.”

Dale spent over an hour coaxing that bolt out of the transmission. With a knife he cleaned the threads; he could see a quarter of an inch into the hole. Then, with the punch, he tapped on the broken bolt in a counter-clockwise direction, gradually easing the shaft of the bolt out. While we were in the station I adjusted the handlebars and tried to convince Dale that he had worked tirelessly long enough. “Gimme a shot, goddammit,” I said, to no avail. He was like the preacher in the milk commercial-unrelenting. As the rain let up we rolled out of the grizzly, muddy little town and headed toward Durango. Just over 40 miles out of town we caught up with the rain. We stopped and donned our bright yellow rain suits. For 36 miles it rained on us as we rolled over broad sweeping miles of highway. It actually wasn’t bad, hiding behind the Wind Vest windshield as we crossed the desert.

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Although I was packing wire cutters, pliers, adjustable wrenches, and screw drivers, when it comes to mechanical repairs there’s nothing like the right tools.

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We missed a turn onto Highway 666 and rolled through the town of Astez, where one of my steel bags came loose, directly in front of the Tool Crib. It was almost 6 p.m., but the owner kept it open-over his ol’ lady’s objections. The bolt from the exhaust bracket was gone again. Myron suggested a bolt and large washer, rather than the existing recessed Allen. It never backed out or broke off again. The plan was to add another bracket and tie the two brackets together when we returned. We discovered that the fender rails were loosening up, causing the bags to shake and loosen. We bought a 3/4 open end wrench from the Crib, tightened it, and discussed running a bead of weld. The fender had sagged just enough to put the tire in close proximity to the sheet metal, heating and blistering the paint. Dale, Mr. Muscle, tightened the sonuvabitch so tight we all cringed at the thought of the wrench slipping or the head turning off the bolt.

As we crossed the desert in the rain our cheap rain suits began to disintegrate, sending strips of yellow plastic slipping past the riders behind us. It was entertaining watching the suits gradually shred to streaks of yellow as we blasted through the rain and onto Durango, another 50 miles of winding wet road ahead. Since I didn’t have a change of Levi’s, I was forced to stay sequestered in my room or in the work out room until they were dry.

Durango, with its elegant downtown tourist region, contained no dearth of up-town eating establishments and bars. The steaks were thick and meaty, and the Jack Daniel’s flowed. The next morning, while in front of the Double Tree Inn, we inspected the Touring Chopper for the winding road out of the valley and into Silverton. The weather was cool and crisp. The rugged countryside, pine tree-strewn mountains, and roads dried as the blazing sun crested the jagged peaks and we attempted to head out of town.

Mark’s bike wouldn’t fire. It was the first and only time we had a problem with another bike, which heightened my complex, although Dale seemed to enjoy the breakdowns and worked on my red sled with the same unrelenting desire to move ahead as I had. That meant a lot to me. Mark, the constant tool supplier, taught me something about packing tools that week. I pack one of my Bandit’s Day Rolls wherever I go. It works fine; it’s just that I’m not carrying the right stuff. It’s important to pack a socket set and a set of open end, box end wrenches. Although I was packing wire cutters, pliers, adjustable wrenches, and screw drivers, when it comes to mechanical repairs there’s nothing like the right tools. I repacked my bag as soon as I returned. I pushed Martial Arts Mark; his bike fired immediately and never blinked again-stuck relay.

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It’s astounding, the beauty you find out on the road. It constantly makes me wonder what the fuck we’re doing holed up in some garage when the entire country is out there waiting.

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But as we weaved alongside the river of Lost Souls there was a nagging doubt about the reliability of my mount. It was comfortable, but vibration was concerning me and a banging at the rear of the engine troubled me. When I applied the rear brakes I was catching a loud clicking, but the brakes were secure and even the Performance Machine anchoring system appeared tight and unyielding. The only aspect of this design that would indicate a weak link was the severe angle of the shocks. Advice and opinions ran the gamut. Some felt the shock angle, although only 15 degrees more than stock was pushing the engine back and forth. Later I would discover that to be the case, but at the time I had no clue, except for the incessant banging over low speed bumps and while rear braking. As we wound and rose to 11,000 thousand feet my mind cemented a decision, a rare occasion. While the guys were warming their hands on hot cups of coffee and refueling in the mining village of Silverton, I would find a welder and have him run a bead along the top of the fender rails, where they were bolted to the frame. I would loosen the bolts slightly, and lift the back of the fender to capture maximum clearance from the tire at the time the welder struck an arc.

An hour later we pulled into the first gas station in town, and I asked the biker who worked there about a welder. “Just pull it into the back after you refuel,” he said, “I’ll clear out this cage, and we’ll have all the room we need.” The service bay behind the gas station must have been a hundred years old. The mortar holding the stone walls shored-up by metal “I” beam girders was falling away. The floors were rough asphalt, with standing pools of water and dirt in some areas, but the area seemed to extend way beyond the normal working space of a gas station, as if the service bay had been built and modified several times during the history of the town.

With a pneumatic dye grinder we dug away at the joint until there was 3 inches of welding area. The mechanic, a veteran, tattooed biker with a big inch Shovel who relished terrorizing the town from time to time, had a light touch to prevent damage to the frame and paint, but Dale took over and tore through the cutting wheel, making the grooves 3/8 of an inch wide and a 1/4-inch deep. We all wanted a shot at the welding chore. I’ve been welding for 30 years after post-military training and certification. Dale runs a body shop and welds regularly, and the man who worked in the shop owned the key to the welder. We stepped aside and let him have his way. For the first time since we left L.A., the chassis, except for the banging, felt secure. I could detect a difference immediately. The bags never loosened again, and the road fell beneath me with predictable regularity as we wove out of Silverton through Ouray and into Delta, another picturesque mining village where we stopped for gas, beer, and a shot of tequila.

Most of the day we followed the San Juan river, north on the 550 to the 50, to the 92, to the 133 over the McClure Pass-some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. It’s astounding, the beauty you find out on the road. It constantly makes me wonder what the fuck we’re doing holed up in some garage when the entire country is out there waiting. Ultimately we rolled onto Highway 82 into Carbondale, not far from Aspen, where we planned to meet up with the Hamsters. They were stuck behind the monsoon front in Santa Fe, so we moved on another 10 miles to the town of Glenwood Springs, adjacent to Interstate 70, 120 miles from Denver. I witnessed the largest swimming pool I’d ever seen in my life. Glenwood Springs is known for its hot mineral baths along the Colorado River. We parked our asses and fed our faces.

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

Specializing In Hand Fabrication. If you want that special touch to yourmotorcycle, a tank with scalloped pannels, hand made exhaust system, a custom fairing or small detail touched to make your bike unlike all the rest, Jesse James may be your man. Click on the image below to see some of Jesse’s Products…

CustomFender Images and Descriptions

For custom fabrication quotes call the legend himself at (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em Bandit sent ya…   …Part Three

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Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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The following day we would catch the furry pack in Cheyenne, or so that was the plan as we pulled out of Glenwood Springs, refreshed, welded and headed up the 70 freeway, taking the direct route toward Vail and Denver. It was a bright and sunny day, and the road was as clear as a new highway the day before its opening. Just 20 miles up the road we passed Eagle, where the traffic slowed and shitcan-sized fluorescent cones forced us into one lane of slow-moving, ascending vehicles. The steeper the highway, the slower the pack of cars and lumbering trucks. Naturally, our frustration grew, and we began to weave past cars, attempting to put the chain of cages behind us. A truck squeezed to the side to allow us passage, as did a handful of cars. But the last holdouts wouldn’t budge, determined to have us suffer their powerless blues with them.

Undeterred, Myron broke out of the cones into the road construction marked-off lane (no construction seemed evident) and throttled past the traffic. Mark followed, then Dale. I was the last, although usually I’m the first, to downshift, dodge a cone, and pour it on. I slid between two very large fluorescent cones and shifted, but my engine revved as if I’d missed a gear. The JIMS tranny had been the tightest tranny I had ever shifted. It was effortless to change gears, with little toe movement to bring another gear to life. This seemed completely out of context. I coasted with the clutch in, downshifted gingerly, and let out the clutch. The engine revved again. I repeated the process with the same results. As I heard the other riders disappear around the bend ahead, I coasted to the side of the road.

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“Listen, how about I buy a baseball bat on my way into town and beat your busy asses into the pavement.”

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I checked the rear belt and the shift linkage, praying that a bolt had come out and mysteriously the symptoms would lead to missing linkage. The night before in Greenwood, as I inspected around the engine, determined to find the source of the banging, I stumbled across a ball of fuzz lodged between the engine and the trans. We had carefully installed the fiber breather between the two, and I told myself that some of the banging was the breather being crushed by the kickstand stud. That wasn’t the case. As it turned out, my Rivera Brute III Primary belt was misaligned, and since I was using the very latest Dyna Glide components the webbing inside the outer and inner primary was shaving away at the belt. The metal shaved the belt down to 1/2 inch wide before it said adios.

I had just finished inspecting the belt when a sheriff’s patrol car pulled up, just as I was about to call and order another belt. The officer was totally cool, looked the bike over, offered assistance, and split. I pushed the bike to the crest of the hill so I could see if my bros were waiting for me to emerge from another bolt tightening session. They weren’t. I paged Mark, called home, and then rang Rivera and asked them to Fed Ex another belt to 2-Wheelers in Denver. Then I called the shop. “Hey, man, there ain’t anybody here. They all went to Sturgis” I asked ’em if they had a belt. “Nope.” Then I asked if they could you call around and see if anyone in town had a belt. “Nope, too busy.”

I’d had enough. “Listen, how about I buy a baseball bat on my way into town and beat your busy asses into the pavement.”

“I’m calling right now, Bandit, and Eric, our only mechanic, will have the shop cleared for your bike when you get here.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said. When a Hamster threatens, people shake.

As I hung up and stared off into the distance, listening for a motorcycle heading my way, a Kwik Mobile Lube van pulled up and a short, upbeat biker jumped out.

“Howdy. Can I help you?” he said, yanking his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Looks like I need a lift to Denver,” I explained, and in a matter of minutes he had the Texaco station 9 miles ahead in Vail on the line. Natch, it’s run by bikers, and Rich, the manager, sent out his flatbed. An hour and a half later I was in Denver. Buck Lovell from Rivera had already shipped the belt and was loading two more on his Dyna Glide for the ride to Sturgis. He would meet me there to inspect the bike. He also spoke to Eric, the mechanic, and coached him on what to look for and how to set up the belt. I was in good hands.

Hot and nasty from the long haul, we arrived in Denver. As soon as we hit the city limits, Mark made a call to a young Title Investment broker he met on a flight earlier this year. She’s a rider, as are a couple of her female pals. She volunteered to meet us at 2-Wheelers and haul all our big asses into downtown for lunch at Tsunami’s sushi bar. I don’t know what was more relieving, the sight of this petite brunette getting out of her Bronco-style vehicle, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight, her hair pulled tightly into a ponytail at the back of her head-phew, she was a site for sore eyes-or the restaurant, the cold Sapporos, and the heaps of fresh Sushi. The combination made us all sit up and think bad thoughts.

I bought the Levi’s I needed, and while Mark disappeared with the brunette, Myron took a break. I had my boots shined by a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed babe and showered for dinner. Although I wished the blonde was sharing the shower with me, I was still nagged by the bike. My concern for hanging up my brothers was building a tension inside me. Myron was hoping to become a Hamster at the gathering at the Cottonwood Lodge this year, and he wanted to spend as much time with the other members as possible. But due to the belt, we were now a day behind the pack. If on schedule, they would arrive in Spearfish by noon the next day. Although, by the clock, it was only 400 some miles away. Mark, the navigator who couldn’t keep track of the highways, had some doubts we would make it and was planning an overnight in Lusk, Wyoming. I could feel Myron’s pressure, and the fact that all the other black bikes were running trouble-free added to the strain. I slept fitfully and called the shop at nine the next morning. The belt had already arrived and was being installed. Mark, who had shacked up with Laurel and her pals, returned and we hit the chow line, though I didn’t have much of an appetite. I needed to get my hands dirty, feel that I was contributing. The only way I was going to get back to 2-wheelers was to catch a cab or ride her Sportster. Sitting on the passenger pillion, I piloted the fringed Sportster back to the shop where Eric was wrapping up the assembly. He had changed the oil and performed a couple other lifesaving fixes while waiting for the belt. We were concerned about leaving in the afternoon, but as it turned out we were on the road at 10:30.

Not so fast, though. Mark didn’t like the noise his belt was making, so Laurel, our petite Sportster-riding guide, escorted us up to Sun Harley, where the lot was full of bikes passing through. We spent a half hour inspecting other Dyna Glides and lubing Mark’s belt. Finally we hit the road. It was a direct shot at this point, 25 due north to 18 or 21 east into Sundance, Wyoming. We blasted until 20 miles south of Chugwater, where we hit rain. It was as if we’d ridden our bikes across the sand in Malibu and into the surf. It was worrisome, watching the front showering down ahead. For several miles, the highway headed directly under the storm clouds. Then it veered first to the left and I sighed a heavy breath of relief, then it veered back to the right and looked as if we would pass the storm on the right. Then it redirected once again. As we got closer the road zigged and zagged again and again and, ultimately, took us right into the sonuvabitch, although the clouds were moving east quickly.

As we entered the storm we spread out. Myron, who lives in Scottsdale, and encounters rain infrequently seemed to relish its presence. He always sped up in the rain, even in the winding hills. Dale who’s used to New England’s harsh winter weather, could stay with Myron. I’ll do 90 on a freeway, but am much more cautious when the road bends, and Mark fell behind me. He was the only rider among us without the benefit of a windshield. As the storm curtain lifted and we ran into the healing rays of the sun, my bike began to miss. I stayed with it until clear of the precipitation, hoping whatever was causing it would dry up and disappear. No such luck. I pulled one plug wire at a time to determine which one it was, and soon found the problem. Running on one plug, I had to pull over. Each time I touched the front plug wire under the Danny Gray seat my wet glove allowed the spark to make my fingers dance.

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It was the smallest truck stop – market – burger joint I had ever seen-a rickety old building setting on a knoll in the center of a gravel parking lot with one sparse tree growing alongside it.

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When Jesse built the side panels, we suspected that we would need to cut half circles in the lip he built to reinforce the panels, in order to keep the aluminum from interfering with the plug wires. Again, time got the better of us, and it was never done. I quickly assumed that the boot had cracked under the vibration and the wire was shorting to the panel. Mark caught up with me and pulled over. He had a plastic water bottle bungied to his Bandit’s bedroll. We cut out a chunk of the neck and worked it between the panel and the boot. Didn’t make a difference. I took off the panel and first Mark then I whittled at the thin aluminum sheet with a file, then knives, until we had clearance. We reinstalled the panel several times, but when I sat on the bike one plug died. A half hour had passed, and I was sweating the time. Mark stood back from the bike as I sat in place once it started. The front plug wire was running over the rear rocker box, between the box and the frame. When I sat down the engine was crushing the plug wire against the frame, and it was beginning to break down and short to the rocker box. By simply pulling the wire to the right, out from under the frame it quit shorting and we rolled up our tools and hit the road. Ultimately, we would have to replace that wire in Sturgis and the other wire once I returned to L.A., for the same reason. I also noticed, at this point, while surrounded by these beautiful rolling Colorado hayfields, that my rear-wheel- drive speedo had quit at just over 1,400 miles. I don’t care much for speedometers, except this small Custom Chrome job had a trip gauge I reset at each gas stop so I had a gas gauge. The speedo was fine, but the engine was smacking the cable when it smacked the spark plug wires and was straining the drive unit on the rear wheel. Ultimately, the pin inserted into the Performance Machine pulley let go. I now was without a gas gauge and would be forced to rely on Mark’s mileage checks.

We seemed to be catching another front as we neared Orin and the 18/20 junction. I had caused another 1/2 hour delay, and it was resting securely on my shoulders as I pushed the speeds. The Orin junction had little to offer travelers. The station aspect had two poorly maintained pumps, one unleaded and one premium. As we pulled up, a straight with a Camaro was just lifting the premium nozzle to fill his car. I sensed the front looming behind us and suggested to Mark that we live with regular unleaded till the next stop. Our trusty Navigator looked at his map and shrugged. In less than five minutes the front moved closer, and 100-mile winds pushed dirt, gravel, and debris all over the bikes. Then it started to rain and the dirt turned to mud. We quickly filled our tanks as a hail storm kicked up. Deciding to take shelter in the leaning cafe, we pushed the bikes to the leeward side of the building and dashed to the safety of the cafe.

Stuck for 45 minutes, we ate chicken sandwiches and chili and stole beers from the fridge. We wound up paying for ’em, but they wouldn’t let us drink ’em inside the building, so we didn’t tell them about the beer till we were ready to leave. Pushing off, we followed the rapidly moving storm on wet pavement for another hundred miles. As we pulled into Lusk, Wyoming, I noticed a new vibration coming from the exhaust pipes. We had broken the bracket again in the only place that hadn’t broken so far. Again, I asked the attendant at the High Super Service Texaco, and he said, “Pull ‘er in the service bay. I got everything you need.”

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As I straddled the red sled for the final blast, the Jack Daniel’s crept into my blood and my throttle hand twitched.

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He wasn’t bullshitting, either. After letting the bike cool for a few minutes, we removed the entire system and Dale welded it. While he was welding I inspected the belt-Oh, shit! More fuzz. The belt had already lost a quarter of an inch on the outside. We pulled the primary and inspected it. The new Dyna Glide’s outter primaries have several extra webs to strengthen the overall primary structure. One of the webs was interfering with the belt. Dale and the attendant broke out a dye grinder and went to work. Another 15 minutes, and we were on the road again. I was beginning to take on a numb attitude to the foibles of breakdowns. I was going to get to Sturgis, if I had to fix some little bullshit item on this machine every hundred miles. We kept moving.

Nearing Sundance, Wyoming I went on reserve and hung on as we rolled through a bad construction zone, then one canyon after another, looking for some sign of life or at least a gas station. Mark had scheduled gas stops, but as we rolled out of the last filling station we were due to hit another one 50 miles up the road. It was 81 miles to Spearfish, and if we didn’t get gas in Mule Creek, I would be running on fumes. At 50 mph we passed an empty Mule Creek, and I started taking shorter breaths. I was well over 80 miles when I spotted the lights of a town. At 8:15 we rolled into Sundance, Wyoming, 28 miles from Spearfish, South Dakota. Signing in at the Dime Horseshoe Saloon the sky was dark and only a couple of riders were leaning against the bar, but the barmaids were bustling around a folding table in the center of the bar, setting up a birthday do for one of the locals-finger food, birthday cake, and the whole nine yards. We ordered serious cocktails, showed our respects to the birthday boy, and attacked the food and cake. Four big, hungry bikers with almost 400 hundred miles under their belts-we could smell Spearfish and the Hamster lodge.

As I straddled the red sled for the final blast, the Jack Daniel’s crept into my blood and my throttle hand twitched. We had spent five long, hard days milking my sorry ass halfway across the country. The bike had now survived this far and would surely survive the next 30 miles. Muscle Man Myron and I rolled onto the freeway and immediately put the pedal to the metal. I knew how I felt at that moment. The 98-inch stroker motor had almost 2,000 miles on it, was now broken in, and actually felt smoother the faster I went. We rolled up to a hundred and settled in for the final blast. We had played with spark plug wires, welded exhaust pipe brackets, and dicked with petcocks and a limited fuel capacity, but the machine made it in one piece. It was a completely new, innovative, one-off, handmade, excellent machine-perhaps one of the most comfortable bikes I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride. As we traversed the distance from Sundance into South Dakota, that red sled planed out and we pushed the bike harder. Myron felt the speed. He paced my every turn, accelerated whenever I did, and backed away when I needed a lane to pass. Over the last week we had become a team, like fighter pilots, riding in unison, watching each other’s machines for problems. Twice Myron spotted my bags loosening and alerted me. I knew as well as I was beginning to know this bike that Myron was watching my back as we crested 110 and passed two cruisers who had pulled over a camper towing a trailer load of bikes. We thought about shutting down as we discovered that there were cop cars alongside the highway, but we knew it was too late. We were hauling. It felt good, and we weren’t about to stop. The slogan, “Able to avoid high-speed pursuit,” flashed through my mind, and I pulled the Ness throttle harder and the S&S carb responded as I flashed passed the sign stating that Spearfish was 8 miles up the road. In a blink of an eye the 1-mile sign streaked past and together we all pulled off the freeway. Although it was difficult to slow as we entered the small town, our uniform group gathered in a final demonstration of unity as we passed the Silver Dollar Saloon, lined with scooters from all across the country. We knew we were home, home to every scooter bum on the planet.

It was 9 p.m. as I pulled into the parking lot of the Cottonwood, only three hours behind the main group of Hamsters who began their trek in San Francisco. I was greeted by fellow riders like Arlen Ness, his son, Cory, Grady Phieffer, Laun from Reno, Ron and voluptuous Toni from Connecticut, minuscule Allen Deshon, exotic car Barry Cooney and his lovely wife, Kimi, and many other brothers and sisters. Man, it felt good to be home.

-Bandit

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

Specializing In Hand Fabrication. If you want that special touch to yourmotorcycle, a tank with scalloped pannels, hand made exhaust system, a custom fairing or small detail touched to make your bike unlike all the rest, Jesse James may be your man. Click on the image below to see some of Jesse’s Products…

CustomFender Images and Descriptions

For custom fabrication quotes call the legend himself at (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em Bandit sent ya…

Charles Windsor, universally acclaimed to be the most boring listless uninteresting life form to ever come into existence in the history of earth’s animal kingdom, is being crowned king of England today. Charles Windsor makes Joe Biden look like Bill Burr for sheer effervescence.

If you put Charles Windsor into a compound filled with treed koalas….the koalas would suddenly by contrast appear to be a troop of the Cirque du Soleil acrobats in full contorting aerial-performance dynamic gymnastic overload. Charles Windsor could enter an arena of laid-out human corpses and by contrast the corpses would suddenly be transformed in your eyes into a riotous assembly of animated fun-loving-hysteria, and filled-with-enthusiasm dervishes of spinning frivolity, good-naturedly competing with each other for the most histrionic display of life and frolic.

Abandoned piles of bricks at a failed construction site in a desolate stretch of a Utah desert would suddenly appear to be dazzling electrified rectangles of light and bouncing wizardry of choreography should Charles Windsor have happened to listlessly and cadaverously slog onto the site.

If Charles Windsor was to be a spokesman for the ASPCA in one of their ads, walking with a microphone through the forlorn yards and compounds in the snow where the dogs sadly gaze with hopeless eyes and quivering in emaciated stupefied shell shock….in your eyes, in abrupt contrast to Charles The Listless, they would suddenly appear to be alert, enthusiastic border collies anxious to be whirlingly dashing through the freezing frost in anticipation of another day with the herds, sitting up smartly, tongues visible, grins on their faces and excited about life and delighted with their fate of good fortune. This would be an illusion of course, in reality all the caged unfortunate pets would drop immediately dead with despair at his approach at an entity more misery-laden than they are.

Prince Charles’ leaden personal animus of course is not even his worst feature. His conversation and things he chooses to actually say compete mightily with his brooding inconsequential dormant waking, non-talking hours. He has absolutely nothing interesting, on any topic, to say ever. And he does not know many topics.

He could enter a cage of starved lions, talking all the while about global warming or the plight of some forgotten tribe on an island off the dark side of the moon that he confesses he is relentlessly concerned about and the lions would not know he was meandering about and droning in their presence.

He can talk into a reporter’s microphone for three minutes and in that time the microphone will visibly turn to rust and start to decay. His fields of interest are basically: reprehensibly homely women and the magical effect they apparently have on his penis: global fucking goddamn motherfucking warming, which concern, that is, you having it, more or less spotlights you with a 5 million watt bulb that indicates to all that you have the analytical faculties and critical-thinking capacities of a bar of bath soap; that fairness be manifest throughout all humanity and which can be easily achieved through love and understanding; the catastrophic menace presented by not obeying the World Health Organization; and the sad and unfortunate plight of all mankind unless we all slow our lives down to a pace that he can personally not be confused and bewildered by. Which would be “more inert than the empty sarcophagus in the center of the Great Pyramid” and his appreciation of the majesty and benign nature of the wondrously fraternal Islamic religion and the wondrous contributions Islam has given to the world via art, tolerance of non-members, the placing of their women and children on pedestals of respect and honor and the insightful wisdom of their solitary volume of reading material. And the list of his similarly vivacious topics for discussion would fill a fifty gallon bin that no one would want to look in, because there would be nothing interesting in there.

This inert human pillar of salt is now the king of England. Not only is the sun setting on the British Empire, the new and present king, like Kanuk impeding the tides, is convinced he can halt this treasonous stellar entity’s proclaimed-by-King-Charles advancing ravages upon Earth’s sky, sea, and land masses. Which is also what Greta Thunberg thinks SHE can do. Why he’s with Lady Duncemore and not Greta Thunberg, no doubt already Dame Greta Thunberg, is a revelation that he will likely, in a mighty and regally appropriate flash of insight, rectify. Probably sometime soon. Given his present track record for insightful proclamations and decision-making.

–J.J. Solari