I had the opportunity to attend the 15^th CONFERENCE ON CLIMATE CHANGE in Orlando Florida put on by The HEARTLAND INSTITUTE

While I have attended a lot of Seminars, Conferences, Legislative Sessions and Hearings over the years I have never attended one on Climate Change. –

 I will say the I was Very Impressed and Learned A lot about the subject. I am still learning as I also came home with a pile of books and other literature, which I am still going through.

 Bandit thought this would educate me more on the subject and it would be something the readers of Bikernet would be interested in. We do realize that there is so much going on in everyone’s lives, about so many subjects it is sometimes hard to get enough good information to understand and make a good decisions on.

After signing up for the Conference, I received a Conference Program in the mail. I started off by reading the Biographies of the speakers. WOW, Impressive and so many different backgrounds and experiences.

There were 2 Conference sessions going on during the same time throughout the day so had to choose carefully what speaker or speakers I thought would be most informative on the subject.

 

There are so many subjects to choose from. Is there really an abnormal climate change going on (What some want to call Global Warming, Climate Emergency or Climate Doom). Climate Forecasters’ are way above the person on TV telling you what they think the weather might be tomorrow. How is this climate change being recorded, what is used to record it, when and where is the recording being done? And what I was looking for, info about Fossil Fuels.

While TV and the news media has been pushing all kinds of stuff about Climate Change a lot of it just did not make sense. Much of it was coming from the Government and that made me suspicious. It has been my experience monitoring them over the years stuff like this is usually not the full story, or at the very least very one sided and most likely someone involved was making a lot of money from it.

 Logic would be to hear from people with opposing views, see what they had to say and if they had anything to back up their statements.

 There are so many books and other information on this subject. I am never going to be able to go through all of them. I have a few though that I will tackle. They contain a vast amount of information. I will share that and hope it will help those reading this make a decision on what is true and what is not.

 

 No matter what the subject there will be differences of opinions. Why Scientists Disagree About Global Warming is one of the publications I am going through.

Interesting is that it is from NIPCC – Nongovernmental International Panel on Climate Change and their Second Edition.

In the Preface: A frequent claim in the debate is that there is a “consensus” or even “overwhelming consensuses” of scientists embrace the more alarming end of the spectrum of scientific projections of future climate change. Politicians including President Barack Obama and government agencies including the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) claim “97” percent of scientists agree” that climate change is both man-made and dangerous.

This claim is not only false, but its presence in the debate is an insult to science.

As the authors of this book explain, the claim of “scientific consensus” on the causes and consequences of climate control is without merit. There is no survey or study showing ‘consensus” on any of the most important scientific issues in the climate change debate.

It is very interesting to note that NIPCC has no formal attachment to or sponsorship from any government or government agency. It also receives no corporate funding for its activities.

Key Findings

The most important fact about climate science, often overlooked, is that scientist disagree about the environmental impacts of the combustion of fossil fuels on the global climate.

The articles and surveys most commonly cited as showing support for a “scientific consensus” in favor of the catastrophic man -made global warming hypothesis are without exception methodologically flawed and often deliberately misleading.

Okay some big words there, but what it says in Biker and other common people language it is a Big Con and the government is involved up to their neck in it and continue to lie to the American people and the rest of the world.

 

A Publication that got my attention was Nothing to Fear – A Bright Future for Fossil Fuels by Donn Dears – The story of fossil fuels and climate change.

Usually when someone tells me nothing to worry about or fear I get a feeling that is kind of hard to explain but like maybe a sixth sense that is telling me I should be paying more attention.

Well in this case, the only fear I have is that more people do not know what is going on and that Fossil Fuels are GOOD.

It’s been confirmed, they have been around for a long time, they heat our homes, power our vehicles and are used in so many products we use every day.

Now it seems Mother Nature is causing some issues, because of people using and in many cases abusing things that affect her.

There is a group who is trying to convince us carbon dioxide, which is an invisible harmless gas that is released when fossil fuels are burned is bad and in some way is responsible for our climate emergency.

The fact is, fossil fuels provide the affordable and reliable energy needed to protect people from Mother Nature.

So, why do groups and the media want to get rid of fossil fuel? Well, I can think of a couple of reasons and the first would be money, Yea I hear you HUH?  

Stop and think about it for a minute, People all over the world make Big Money from Fossil Fuels. Just look at what happens at the gas pump and that is just the tip of the iceberg.

 The United States has plenty of Fossil Fuel yet it continues to buy it from other countries at all kinds of weird prices. I am not even going to open that can of worms right now.

If you can’t get in on the big money from fossil fuels, let’s see what we can come up and sell to the masses. Some of the things are:

We need renewable energy, so let’s build some wind farms. Wind is free and we can use it to make electricity. Unfortunately, a lot of Fossil Fuel is used making wind farms, including the oil used to lubricate moving parts. As I ride my motorcycle around our beautiful country, I see a lot of these wind farms. At one time I actually thought they might be an answer, and then I found out more. How often do they not work, parts break, birds killed, massive landfills with mill blades, with no idea how long it is going to take for them to decompose. In the meantime, folks are making money. But while the government forces wind, it causes additional issues. As it turns out, these issues could be worse for Americans, and we are forced to pay for them.

Makes me think of a Snake Oil Salesman? The government needs Climate Emergencies to force their mandates and money-making programs.

Alex Epstein was one of the speakers. I chose to attend his presentation. I was impressed and even got to talk to him briefly. In The Moral Case for Fossil Fuels, He exposes the anti-human, anti-mankind thesis. The primary criteria for evaluating energy should be whether its production and use benefits or harms mankind.

There are many other subjects like the problems and limitations of wind and solar energy. Lack of creditability and proposed legislation from the EPA and so much more.

So how does the Snake Oil Salesman sell his product? Well the advertising industry relies on some fancy wording. When they say no product is better than theirs, it also means there are products just as good, including products that may be lower in price and a better value. They keep repeating this over and over until they get enough people to believe it.

For example, keep telling people there is an issue with Global Warming and try to convince them it is from Fossil Fuels. Then move onto their answer: Wind Farms and Solar power.

Here’s what I learned. We’re jumping from the frying pan into the fire. The alleged cure could be or is worse than the sickness.

Think about all the adds you see about this Medication Cures This Illness and then follows a long list of side effects, way worse than the original sickness.

Once you understand the Solution wasn’t created to solve the problem but the problem was intentionally created for the solution to be rolled out, and then you understand the magnitude of evil in the people behind this.

One of my highlights of attending this conference, was to get to meet and have my photo taken with Gregory Wrightstone. He has numerous degrees and was accepted as an expert reviewer for the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. He is also the author of the bestselling book Inconvenient Facts – the science that Al Gore doesn’t want you to know.

I learned a lot, met a lot of very intelligent people who are experts in the field of science, got a vast amount of literature, met a Senator from Arizona named Frank Carroll who worked on the Motorcycle Lane Splitting Bill with my friend Michael Infanzon – ABATE of Arizona, a lawyer, numerous motorcycle riders and others.

Hopefully what I am sharing with you will inspire you to look into this further.

 

I would like to suggest you start with The HEARTLAND INSTITUTE  www.heartland.org

Parisians vote to ban e-scooters from French capital

An overwhelming majority of Parisians voted to ban electric scooters from the streets of the French capital on Sunday, in a non-binding referendum that city authorities have said they would follow.

The ban won between 85.77% and 91.77% of the votes in the 20 Paris districts that published results, according to the City of Paris website on what was billed as a rare “public consultation” and prompted long queues at ballot boxes around the city.

“I preferred to vote against, because in Paris it’s a mess. The way it’s organised, the danger that it creates in Paris, the visual pollution, it’s not good.” said a railway worker.

Cities worldwide are tightening regulations on e-scooters, limiting the number of operators as well as speed and where they can park.

Electric scooters accessed through smartphone apps have operated in Paris since 2018, but following complaints about their anarchic deployment, Paris in 2020 cut the number of operators to three.

They were given a three-year contract, required that scooters’ speed be capped at 20 km/hour and imposed designated scooter parking areas. The current contracts will run until September 2023. Other restrictions were checking if users age was over 18, fixing licence plates so police could identify traffic offenders and limiting to one passenger.

On Sunday, operators such as Tier and Lime sent free voucher codes to users to encourage them to vote against the ban.

Some voters said they would have rather had tighter regulations than an outright ban. “I don’t want scooters to do whatever they wants on pavements, but banning them is not the priority said a Parisian. “I voted for (the scooters) because I’m against the rather binary choice we’re given in this referendum,” he added.

In 2021, 24 people died in scooter-related accidents in France, including one in Paris. Last year, Paris registered 459 accidents with e-scooters and similar vehicles, including three fatal ones.

“In my work, we see a lot of road accidents caused by scooters, so we really see the negative effects,” says general physician Audrey Cordier.

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Sharing with you the final builder in Indian Motorcycles Custom Sport Chief Series, Carey Hart.

A pioneer in freestyle motocross, turned street performance builder – watch Carey as he gets ready for an extra special build that will be put in the hands of longtime friend and fellow FMX legend, Jeremy “Twitch” Stenberg.

Check out Part 1 of the episodic series where Carey and Twitch talk shop on his vision for the Custom Sport Chief here:

New Fiction from Bandit

with illustrations by Jon Towle

Bruno rode his performance Sportster hard along the Angeles Crest Highway daring sport bike guys to race him. He pushed himself to the brink of losing it over sheer cliffs or slamming into unforgiving rock walls. He refueled in Wrightwood a sleepy little mountain town just elevated enough to support pine trees.

Click Here to Read this latest fiction from K Randall Ball only on Bikernet.com

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Read entire novels and archived content from three decades of motorcycling, click to see Bandit’s Cantina membership options.

California Introduces Bill to Legalize Cruising

Encourage support from lawmakers on this proposal:

California has introduced SAN-supported legislation (AB 436) to allow automobile cruising activities to return statewide. Currently, local authorities are authorized to pass ordinances that regulate or prohibit cruising. This effort follows a resolution approved by the legislature last year celebrating the history and culture associated with automobile cruising, as well as encouraging local officials and law enforcement to work with local car clubs to conduct safe cruising events. Having passed the Assembly Committee on Local Government, the bill now awaits consideration in the Assembly Committee on Appropriations.

Lawmakers Must Hear from You Right Away!

Click this website link for an overview and lawmaker contact.

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Bruno rode his performance Sportster hard along the Angeles Crest Highway daring sport bike guys to race him. He pushed himself to the brink of losing it over sheer cliffs or slamming into unforgiving rock walls. He refueled in Wrightwood a sleepy little mountain town just elevated enough to support pine trees.

He ate a greasy dinner in a dive café sporting stools made from hubcaps and tuck-and-roll booths. He stared at his chipped ceramic cup and pondered his life. He didn’t like what raced through his mind. The big question was what the hell was he going to do now? He kept riding and thinking.

While in the service he studied martial arts and close- quarters combat. Fit, young and agile, he trained, lifted weights and took care of himself. But after his girl left him while he was out of the country, he lost hope. He gained weight, started smoking and let himself go. His only joy was his hot rod Sportster, which he tuned, maintained and worked to increase the horsepower with cams and enhanced the handling with performance shocks, the best tires and tunable forks. Perhaps riddled with a death wish, he kept pushing the motorcycle and himself, as if one wrong move and all his troubles would be toast.

A couple of days passed and Diego called. “What gives?”

“I don’t know what to do, bro?” Bruno said.

“The girl is cool, we like her,” Diego said. “But we can’t keep her forever. Are you still living in your shop?”

“Yep,” Bruno said. “I need to work this week and I’ll get you some funds. Let’s meet at the long Beach Swap Meet this weekend.”

“Work on a plan,” Diego said and hung up.

The emotional pressure grew. He didn’t have a plan for himself, let alone Sheila and her child to be. He worked hard all week in one of the last remaining machine shops on signal hill and questioned every aspect of his life. Friday, he got paid and cashed his check.

Sunday, he crawled out of the cot he made and slept on, scrambled to make coffee and hit the road to the swap meet at the crack of dawn. He wanted to arrive while the vendors set up their booths and Diego was a regular, hauling motorcycle parts from the desert to sell in the city.

Bruno parked his glistening Sportster. It looked as good as it ran all metallic and chrome. He wandered through the swap buzzing in concert, like a hive of bees, brothers and sisters unloading their vehicles and arranging their wares in enticing forms.

Diego unloaded his rusting red ’55 Chevy truck set up a tent, and a long plastic fold-up table, while his wife, Maria, as cute as a shiny brass button covered the table with a black velvet cloth. She arranged hand-tooled leather wallets made by her desert connection. Sheila helped out, anyway she could, setting up folding chairs and getting coffee for the crew. She made little cheesy quesadillas to supply them with energy as the sun filled the morning air and they sensed a blistering day on the coast coming.

Bruno approached their designated spot. Diego always had the same corner location on the massive asphalt lot, marked with dusty chalk. “Que paso, amigo,” Bruno said to Diego who looked up from his ongoing task. Then Bruno’s green eyes connected with Sheila’s. Something magnetic passed between the two and she grabbed the table edge and pulled herself to her feet.

Bruno hurried to her side and they embraced and held tight for a long moment. He felt a connection he hadn’t felt in several years. He slipped Diego a wad of cash.

“Is there hope,” Sheila whispered in Bruno’s ear and kissed his cheek.

Bruno stared down at the warming asphalt at his feet and crushed a cigarette butt. It spoke to him of his life and he struggled to raise his eyes to meet hers. Her dark eyes were full of hope, sincerity and love for her growing child.

“If it isn’t Puto and the whore,” Pablo said and pushed Bruno away from the girl. He had his two soldiers at his side while he sported his full club regalia, including leather etched gauntlets running up his massive forearms with chromed buttons emblazed in the trim. His leather vest with fringe was tied in the center over his exposed chest. His hair was especially frizzed from the ride and his mustache looked like daggers pointing out from the corners of his mouth. He snarled in true outlaw form.

Bruno corrected himself. “Do you have the grand?” He asked directly.

Pablo snatched the laced leather riding crop hanging from his right hand and slashed it across Bruno’s face. “I told you muthafucker. We are not paying you shit.” He made a gesture to his lieutenants and they grabbed Bruno’s arms. Other members approached and beat Bruno unmercifully until his bloody bod lay on the pavement being boot-kicked and beat with bats.

Pablo took this as an opportunity to demonstrate the club’s street power to the locals. They punched and whipped Bruno, picked him up and shoved him to the front gate and then threw him out. “Comancheros Forever,” they shouted intimidating the crowd. Outside the gate Bruno reached from the sticky blood-spattered asphalt to the chain-link fence with a bloody hand sporting a freshly broken finger and tugged himself to his knees flipping off the club with his other index finger. “You motherfuckers owe me a grand,” he shouted.

He fell to the pavement, his face scattered with swelling bruises and lacerations.

The white Comanchero prez and another group of members approached Diego’s booth. He sneered at Sheila. “You shouldn’t have come around,” He leered at her and Diego approached.

“Keep your asshole buddy away from my club,” the prez said and spit on the warm asphalt. He nodded to one of his gang. The member stepped forward and drove a baseball bat into Diego’s gut. Diego folded in pain and dropped to his knees. His wife Maria ran to his side.

She helped Diego to his feet. Diego had a rough past, but his Latino heritage didn’t offer him bulk or size. Skinny as a rail he stood and his eyes lifted until he stared at the club prez, with dark eyes to the prez’s baby blue irises. “Why, are you afraid?” He said and ground he teeth. Another bat smacked him in the shoulder. Severe pain sliced through his body as he grabbed a tent corner post to catch his fall.

Maria grabbed him and pulled him away, “That’s enough, Diego.”

The members moved away pushing and barking at onlookers and threatening them with metal bats.

Bruno laid on the asphalt bleeding with a broken finger, bloody nose and a cracked rib. A stout Pilipino man knelt beside him and shoved a card in his flannel pocket. “You need to come to my dojo,” Sifu said and looked him over.

Later, in the afternoon Pablo returned to Diego’s booth. His thugs surrounded the area and picked at products and motorcycle parts in an intimidating manner. Pablo stepped around members and stood twisting one of his long black, mustache tenacles while sneering at Sheila. He grabbed one of Diego’s cards. “We’re coming for all of you.”

Three days later still bruised and bandaged, Bruno pulled up to an industrial building in Torrance not far from the LA airport to Sifu’s dojo. He struggled through a two-hour workout, but two days later he returned. “Come every Saturday.” Sifu said.

He gradually healed, worked hard and took cash to Diego every two weeks. He quit messing with his bike and riding like a bat-outta-hell through the hills. He expanded his living quarters in his shop, framed walls and drywalled a new bedroom. He hit the local antique store and Good Will locations for a queen-sized bed and a crib. Suddenly the redheaded loner had a mission.

He never missed Saturday at the dojo. While at work watching a spinning lathe in the machine shop, he question everything about his life. Terrified, he wasn’t sure what to do or how make it work. Sometimes he gazed at his Sportster longingly and just wanted to climb aboard and ride. As he painted the new rooms in his shop with his helper, he doubted his abilities to be a spouse or a dad. Something inside of him just wanted to escape, but something in her gaze gave him hope.

Friday night after being paid and cashing his check he rode east on the Santa Monica freeway, splitting lanes toward the desert. At the dusty, grimy intersection of the 10 and the 15 heading toward Vegas resided a massive truck stop and he rolled off the freeway to refuel his just over 2-gallon tank.

He pulled up to the pumps and kicked his chromed kickstand out and leaned his bike against the metal post. He started to refuel as he heard more bikes blasting into the lot as massive as two football fields of asphalt lined with idling 18-wheelers.

As they peeled into the lot, they were followed by a racing orange muscle-car, a Plymouth from the ‘70s. It sported massive slicks and the driver enjoyed the open space, burning-out and spinning in circles. The riders, three of them rode dangerously close to Bruno as they slid up to the adjacent pump. There were two Comanchero brothers and a prospect. One of them recognized Bruno. Pablo’s brother parked his chopper and drew his aluminum bat from a leather sheath strapped to his front forks.

“Puta,” he shouted and ordered his prospect to fill their bikes. The two patch-holders approached Bruno as he pulled the nozzle from his tank and replaced it in the pump.

“Pablo’s going to love this,” Ricky said and drew back for a swing.

Bruno replaced his gas cap and looked at his tank. No one fucks with a biker’s ride he thought to himself. “Did you bring the grand?” Bruno asked as his eyes lifted to meet the gaze of the oncoming outlaw. He quickly moved around his Sporty to confront moderate sized club member in all leather, his vest flapping in the desert wind the bat above his shoulder while he charged.

The other outlaw pulled a long straight blade from his black, stitched leather sheath and sliced it through the air. Bruno scarred shitless, learned from the martial arts master. It was time to test the lessons. He didn’t back down but ran at the man whose eyes widen and suddenly he questioned his motives, but that didn’t stop him. Committed he gripped the bat with two leather glove adorned fists and his grip increased as his engineer boots slammed against the pavement.

Bruno ran at the outlaw and drove his left hand against the man’s fists stopping the swing. As instructed, he let his hand slide out along the shank of the light metal bat until he reached four inches from the end, where he controlled the leverage. As he twisted the bat down, breaking the biker’s grip he drove his right webbed hand into the outlaw’s throat.

He took the shiny bat away from the Comanchero, spun 180 degrees with the bat cocked and hit a home run with the knife from the other punk’s leather grasp. As instructed, Bruno then held the bat in two hands, one at one end and one at the other as he punched the knife wielding biker with one end and smacked the chocking outlaw with the other.

The prospect refueling the bikes didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He filled the brothers choppers first and started to move toward filling his Softail fatbob tanks, when he witnessed the two patch-holders losing the fight. He thought better, replaced the nozzle in the pump, jumped on his bike, tossed his prospect patch onto a member’s seat and peeled out.

The brother driving the muscle-car, spinning a burnout in the parking lot saw Bruno kneecap one of the outlaws with the bat. “Next time bring cash,” Bruno spat, stood and approached the other Comanchero who scrambled backwards on the grimy, oil-soaked, asphalt sporting a busted jaw. The pain excruciating, he didn’t want to have anything to do with the mad redhead and the metal bat.

Bruno approached the rumbling bright orange hotrod with Crager mag wheels. Fast Fred behind the wheel wearing his patch, his hands sweating, one on the slick laminated wooden steering wheel with chromed spokes to the center and the other on the stainless steel revolver.

“I’ll bet you have a big problem on your hands,” Bruno said the bat still in front of him like a warrior’s bumper, while he held each end firmly.

Fast Fred stared at Bruno and pulled the weapon back inside. “I’ve got to get the fuck outta here,” he muttered.

“Go,” Bruno said intent on the location of the weapon. “The cops will come and take care of your brothers better than you can. I won’t touch them again.”

“The prez is going to be pissed,” Fred said and shifted the car into first.

“He’s pissed all of the time. At least you got away with the shit,” Bruno smiled. “Tell him, if he paid me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Bruno rode hard into the desert, while watching the city fade and the desert night come alive with stars. He didn’t care about cops or tickets, he just wanted to see his girl.

He slid up in front of Diego’s pad and Sheila ran into the desert sand to greet him. They hugged long and hard, holding on desperately for what could be, might be, and might not.

Diego came outside and Bruno gave him the funds. “My pad is almost finished,” he said holding tight to the girl, almost six months pregnant. “Can you guys go somewhere else for a few days?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Diego said. “Nobody knows where I live. We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have a good feeling,” Bruno said. “I need to get back to my pad. They’ll be coming for me.”

Bruno kissed Sheila deeply. “It won’t be long now and we’ll be together.” He straddled his trusty Sportster and peeled through the sand and dust to the highway winding back to the Interstate and home two hours away.

Scared to death, he split lanes, dodged trucks and congested traffic back into the city. The club would have sources and intel. He had nothing. They had numbers and contacts, and he was a loner. They threatened, bribed, cajoled and beat on humble folks. Bruno had no one to talk to, except a Hispanic mud man and painter, illegal who helped out. He didn’t speak English, terrified that he might be deported any day.

He happened to be Bruno’s weak link. Long Beach drug gangs knew where all the illegals lived and extorted from them to stay silent about their whereabouts. The Comancheros drilled their drug connections for info and resources. Saturday little skinny Emilio didn’t show up for work.

Saturday night a van full of club members slid up in front of Bruno’s tin shop building crawled out of the van each holding a booze bottle full of gasoline with a rag fuse stuck in the end. Simultaneously, they lite their fuses and threw the bottles at the base of the building where the wooden frame was exposed.

The building burst into flames. Inside smoke and heat intensified and the fire spread to anything that would ignite from rags to trash cans and then oil. Lacking air to breathe Bruno woke as his new walls and insulation caught fire. He jumped out of bed like a startled roach running for cover. He crawled and grabbed a painter’s mask, then his clothes and finally his Sportster. He threw open the roll-up shop door and pushed this motorcycle outside just as more of the interior and a spare gas can exploded. Everything he had suddenly gone, he straddled his Sportster and peeled out.

As fire trucks approached, lights flashed and sirens blared, Bruno rode out of Long Beach.

Later that night four Comancheros and a van pulled up in front of Diego’s desert pad. Pablo climbed out of the van and indicted to his members where to position themselves. He strode under the shingled eves, warm at 2:00 in the morning and pounded on the door. Diego yanked the door open. “What the fuck,” Diego said.

“We came for the girl,” Pablo snarled, “or else.”

“Or else what?” Diego said

“Or else this,” Pablo said and even in the dark his long bowie-styled knife glinted in the moonlight as Pablo jammed it into Diego’s gut. The man stumbled back and fell to the floor. Maria ran to his side and cupped her hand over the bleeding wound.

Pablo indicated for his two lieutenants to enter the house and snatch the pregnant girl, who was in a night gown and barely able to grab an Indian blanket off the velvet couch she slept on. The brothers dragged her quickly out to the van and shoved her in the side door. Pablo spit on the concrete floor as Diego and Maria huddled, clutching one another. “That piece of shit puta knows where to find us,” Pablo said. “He better come with more than a grand if he wants to see the bitch alive again.” He turned and stormed out of the door. In less than five minutes the Comancheros came, accomplished their mission and hit the road.

The next morning Bruno woke-up leaning against the stucco Dojo exterior wall in Torrance, the sun warming his engineer boots. Two other bikes rolled into the parking lot. One was Sifu’s raked old-school chopper, all metallic with Chinese dragons, in gold-leaf inlaid on the tank and another stretched by Jesse James FXR with an extended glide and everything was performance and black except for a touch of pinstriping.

Bruno slipped his cell phone into a leather vest pocked quietly. Maria had called from the hospital.

“What’s up with you,” Sifu said.

“I’m done,” Bruno pulled his knees up and buried his face between them. “They’ve destroyed and taken all I had left.”

They worked out hard in close-quarters combat and weapons training. Bruno smelled of smoke. The discussion was as intense as the workout. After training, Mark took Bruno into Sifu’s office. While Sifu showed Bruno his private stash of weapons including several Browning and Glock pistols, Mark stepped out of the office and retired to the computer and phone behind the Dojo counter.

I have a class to teach,” Sifu said and took Bruno into his private quarters behind his office. “You need some rest.” The room contained a comfortable bed, no windows and a statue of Buddha on a makeshift shrine with a fountain of trickling water surrounding it and running over polished stones. He turned on some calming oriental music. “Lay down and close your eyes. When you get up, feel free to take a shower.” Sifu closed the door. He held the face of wisdom and wars, pock-marked, tan and thoughtful.

Three hours later Bruno stepped out of the shower. When he returned to the meditation room, he looked at the glowing Buddha as if the master spoke to him. He turned to the bed to see his pants carefully laid out on the bed. His smoke stained t-shirt was gone and replaced with thick black sweatshirt. The front was gold silk screened with a Chinese dragon and crossed swords. Also, a black leather thong necklace rested on the chest of the sweatshirt. It sported a highly detailed brass Dragon with a sparkling emerald in its eye and next to his pants was an engraved leather knife sheath. The same dragon and crossed swords was carefully engraved into the thick hide and into the shiny black lacquered knife handle. The Damascus blade was shaped in Japanese fashion and sharp as a razor.

Bruno dressed quickly, walked through Sifu’s office and passed the Dojo where Sifu taught another class of kids learning the basics. He stopped and bowed to the master with clasped hands. Sifu acknowledge him with his feet snapped together followed by a slight bow with his hands clasped and a knowing gaze.

As he walked toward the glass door entrance Mark stopped him. “You’ll need this.” He handed Bruno a small black tiny book. “This has all the intel you’ll need.”

Bruno opened the book to find only three pages of info. The first said, “Dinner at 6:00, and the address to a restaurant near the Irvine Industrial complex. “He can’t reach his phone,” was noted.

Bruno looked at his battered watch and tapped the cracked glass screen. His eyes were deep green, but clear and bright. It was closing on 5:00. He needed to ride.

He looked like a new man as he straddled his glistening Sportster and fired it to life. For the first time his black vest, with the new shiny brass dragon pin looked organized and almost military with the logo on the sweatshirt. His red hair and the emerald green pinstriped scallops on his tank matched the emerald green in the dragons’ eyes. He felt the weight of the Glock in his gun pocked and two additional 8-round clips in the other.

He rode like a warrior against the setting sun into the dregs of the city’s industrial complex to find Pablo’s regular coffee shop on the edge of the seedy district. He watched his time closely and approached from west as six Comancheros and Pablo rolled in from the east. Bruno sat side saddle on his clicking and cooling motorcycle as the brothers pulled into the parking lot and slid to a stop in front of the Crescent Wrench Café, wrapped in galvanized tin and adorned with old equipment and tools.

Startled, they snapped their kickstands down and grabbed at their weapons. Bruno stood, raised the sparkling Glock and took out Pablo’s two favorite lieutenants. The men screamed and fell against their choppers knocking them over, one caught fire. Another member lifted his weapon, thought better, threw it on the ground and road away. Bruno aimed carefully and took out his rear tire tossing the rider to the pavement. He got up and attempted to run. Bruno blew out a kneecap.

The fire fight was on and other members tried to return fire to no avail. Bruno wasted every last member, until Pablo stood alone his hands out to his side. “I don’t have a pistol,” Pablo said stepping back.

“Terrific,” Bruno said and holstered the Glock after replacing the empty clip. “You like knives, right.”

For the first time Pablo wasn’t absolutely sure of himself. But once Bruno holstered his 9mm, that snarky smirk returned to his face. Bruno was a smaller and less fit man. But now, like his opponent he held the appearance and stance of a warrior and as he yanked the Asian blade from his sheath. Pablo recognized a different situation.

Bruno approached and Pablo glanced around as if one of his members would come to his aid. He yanked his Bowie knife and the two men clashed. Pablo swung his knife violently and erratically, but Bruno moved with the attacks only slicing when the opportunity was sure. He cut Pablo’s massive forearm first, then sliced his flexing bicep.

Pablo suddenly lost the use of his left arm as his right hand with the knife drove at Bruno stomach. Bruno easily maneuvered the arm away from his target and sliced Pablo’s forearm wide open like he would slice a turkey leg. Pablo dropped his blade and Bruno stepped closer and slit the tendons at the bottom of his bulging muscle. The arm lost function as the bicep curled uselessly to his shoulder and he screamed, both arms dysfunctional.

Bruno stepped even closer. “A Billy badass who picks on women, huh?” He slid his knife between Pablo’s muscular legs and Pablo’s eye’s widened. “You’ll never see that broad again or your grand,” Pablo sneered but his dark eyes indicated fear and Bruno’s razor sharp knife cut through Pablo’s denims and cut his femoral artery deeply.

“We’ll see about that,” Bruno said, wiped the knife on Pablo’s pants and watched him collapse in a pool of spewing blood on the oil-stained asphalt. “Got a meeting with the president’s wife.”

“Wait,” Pablo began to plead as he bled out on the pavement and Bruno rode away.

Bruno knew the cops would be all over the café in minutes. He needed to distance himself quickly and his Sportster did the job. Some ten miles away he skidded into an old paint shop, surrounded with a galvanized tin fence for privacy. Mark waited with the prez’s wife, Tammy. She didn’t appear to be a biker broad. She lacked the rough exterior, more like a slick South Bay real estate sales agent or Victoria Secret model.

Bruno slid to a stop and Tammy ran to his side, “Bruno.” His ex who ran off when he served overseas wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close.

“What the hell,” Bruno said conflicted. “Wouldn’t you know it.”

“It’s not like that,” Tammy stammered. “I was lonely.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruno said. “Let’s go.”

Bruno revved his faithful Sportster. “Get on.” He looked at Mark and nodded. “Are we cool?”

“Yes,” Mark said and the tall man strode to his stretched chopper, pulled a set of short bolt-cutters out of saddlebags and gave them to Bruno, who stuffed them in his vest. Mark tossed his leg over the custom tooled seat as the sun rapidly set in the west.

They both blasted out of the parking lot in the same direction, for a couple of miles then split. Another half mile and Bruno pulled into an empty slab building parking lot, stopped and lit a cigarette.

“You smoke?” Tammy asked her baby blue-eyed gaze searching Bruno’s features for clues to his thoughts.

“Last one,” Bruno said, puffed on the cigarette and tossed the pack in the bushes lining the parking area. He attempted to relax.

“What’s going to happen?” Tammy asked while remaining in the saddle. At 5’6” she was still hot although disheveled from the ride.

Bruno looked at her as if his entire life was dropped into a blender. He knew at this moment he could ride away with Tammy and maybe, but maybe wasn’t good enough. Her appearance didn’t answer the myriad of questions swirling through his brain cavities. He’d killed men and wasn’t done. Maybe more would die.

“Let’s roll,” Bruno said and kicked his leg over his custom Le Pera seat.

“But baby, can’t we talk?” Tammy whispered in his ear as they pulled into the street and sliced deeper into the industrial complex toward the Comanchero’s clubhouse surrounded by 6-foot chain-link fence.

He parked the Sportster a block away. Dark as they made their way to the back of the clubhouse compound, Bruno listened intently. The center of the industrial park on a weekend was quiet, except for Born to Be Wild blaring from the clubhouse speakers. He watched everything that moved. The tin shop was open. Lights and activity ensued inside. The back of the clapboard house was quiet and dark with a three-step landing leading to the back screen door. Worn and tattered the door latch was unhinged and the wooded framed door swung open slightly then shut with a clang.

Bruno didn’t like the disruption. He wasn’t exactly sure what the hell he planned to do. He knew his mission remained to free Sheila, but he had no idea how to do it. He studied the number of bikes in the lot and vehicles. He figured there must be a dozen or more members around. Freeing the bolt cutters, he moved to the darkest most hidden corner of the lot and cut at the chain link, one link at a time until he could push Tammy through the mesh and himself.

He moved along the fence toward the front of the clapboard house and the broad porch. He positioned himself across from the corner of the house. He could see into the shop, the front of the house clearly and the side, in case someone came around from the back. A floodlight glowed from above the shop door. Another from the shingled roof of the house lite up the bikes parked in two rows out front.

Bruno pulled the Glock out of his gun pocket housing a full clip, his last one and fired a round into the air. Suddenly members emerged from the house and the shop armed.

One member, a tall skinny kid saw Bruno and the woman and ran back inside hollering, “It’s him, and your wife.”

The prez, Erick Stratton came out onto the porch abruptly, followed by two members. “What the fuck?”

“You owe me a grand,” Bruno said, “and where’s the girl?” The fact that he stood slightly behind Tammy and was holding the shiny recently fired Glock held the troops at bay.

“Pablo’s dead,” Bruno said, “and so are his soldiers. What are you going to do now, Punk!”

“Fuck you!” the prez said and looked around at his troops armed and ready. “You don’t have a chance here. You should have known not to come back.”

“It’s just you and me,” Bruno spat and shoved Tammy away from him exposing himself. She stumbled and grabbed the highbars of a chopper to steady her, but she didn’t run to the porch. She stepped back, as if to separate herself from the prez. Bruno’s red hair flashed in the dim light, his vest flapped in the evening breeze and the brothers could make out the almost uniform flare of his golden dragons attire. “Mano y Mano muthafucker.”

Bruno holstered his 9mm and threw his vest open to reveal the slick Japanese knife sheath. “How about knives like Pablo?” Bruno spat, “or just a grand and the girl.”

The president eyes widened with fear, he stepped back from his power position at the edge of the wooden porch. His hollow fight was gone.

Sheila pushed open the tattered, front, screen door followed by the skinny messenger member who raised his hands high in mock surrender. The six-months pregnant, Hispanic sweetheart, still in her nightgown and wrapped in a colorful Mexican blanket stepped down off the porch landing gingerly.

Bruno ran forward to help her and a Comanchero standing outside the shop door jacked the slide on his pump shotgun. Just as quickly another distant shot rang out, and the rifle was knocked from his grasp. The brothers in unison looked around to find the location of the shooter. They couldn’t.

Bruno continued quickly to Sheila’s side and helped her from the last step. “Can you ride?”

She looked up at him as she moved into his arms. “I can do anything with you,” She said and Bruno led her away, but as he reached the corner of the aging clapboard building, he turned to Erick still on the porch looking frail. “You still owe me a grand.” Bruno said. “Don’t make me come back here.”

The prez glanced around at the other members and as if looking for back-up but none came. Members put their weapons away, relaxed and waited.

The skinny brother on the porch dropped his hands and reached into his pockets. He pulled out a wad of cash and ran off the porch. Another brother met him as the bottom step with a C-note, other brothers came forward with cash and before Bruno could reach the hole in the industrial fence the thin Comanchero approached with a serious wad of cash. “For the baby,” He muttered, bowed slightly and held the chain-link aside for their departure.

Bruno looked him in the eyes. “Comancheros forever,” he said, “Just get a new prez.”

Illustrations by Jon Towle

Revving up for a Good Cause: 2023 Flying Piston Benefit Charity Breakfast and Auction

by Prince Jeffrey Najar

Each year, I produce the Daytona edition of the Flying Piston Benefit Builder Breakfast and online silent auction with industry maven, Marilyn Stemp.

This year it was a tale of 2 rides, the cold one and the hot one. The cold ride is where all the trouble happened and, well, I’m still thawing out.

Click here to read this photo feature event coverage only on Bikernet.com

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Visit https://www.throttleaddiction.com

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with inputs by Buzz Staff from https://www.msn.com/

Would be a challenge for any Salesman to peddle this (punny, isn’t it ? )

World’s Heaviest Rideable Bicycle Weighs 4,800 Pounds, Can Tow 15 Tonnes Of Weight

Germans cannot stop innovating with automotives! How about reimagining a bicycle? A German constructed the world’s heaviest rideable bicycle by using scrap metal. This 4,800-pound behemoth is called Kleine Johanna. The bicycle has made entry into the Record Institute for Germany, a national version of the Guinness Book of Records.

At 5 meters long and 2 meters high it weighs heavier than a common hatchback car. So how to pedal such a behemoth bicycle? Sebastian Beutler, who made this bicycle said he has fitted the gearbox of a truck to make the bicycle run.

Kleine Johanna has 35 forward gears and 7 reverse gears. The special element is that only one person can run it via a pedal and almost 15 tonnes of weight can be towed simultaneously.

The cycle even has a built-in engine, but is used to drive the alternator that charges the user’s smartphone. Sebastian declined to reveal the bike’s maximum speed. Yet he plans to take it to Baltic Sea for a vacation. It would be a 389-kilometre ride. He expects it will take him about a month to complete.

Kleine Johanna translates to “Little Joanna” in German language. Sebastian has built vehicles from scrap metal for quite some time.

We wish more people would “re-cycle” like this !!

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Hey,

I’m focused on a couple of things this week. Being focused leads to accomplishing goals. I like having goals. It gives life direction and meaning. This was an exciting week for me. With another leader in the motorcycle industry, we may have started a path toward more freedom. I’m itching to tell you more, but we just tested the waters. It has to do with the first news item. I would hope SEMA has massive success, but we will see. Hopefully, by next week I will have something more to report.

Let’s hit the news and at the end I will report on other goals in the works.

–Bandit

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