Part One…



The Odyssey To The Black Hills-In Style

Part Two: On the Road…Finally…

---

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…

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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

---

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…

---

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.

---

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

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.”

---

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

---

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