If you’re like my freedom seeking self,once in a while youneed to ride. I don’t mean ride to the goddamnbar or even to arally, bike show or event. I’m talking aboutgetting out of town, outof the city, and out of site. That was the mentalplan. What happeneddidn’t exactly fit the criteria, but in somerespects improved on thebasis, in others it failed miserably.
At first I was going to ride alone. At onetime I rode toPhoenix several times alone. I enjoyed it.Riding alone, in a sense, iswhat it’s all about for me, but then I startedmentioning the runto pals. Keep in mind that this was not anetched-in-stone puttin’ proposal, like what youwrite down on your calendar for next weekend.It was a notion, like a kid dreaming of going toDisneyland. I just needed to get out oftown, but I didn’t know when the eventwould take place until I spoke to my ridingpartner of many years, Dr. Hamster. When Imentioned it to him, he said, “Yeah.” Then hegrabbed his calendar. A plan began to form.Initially I wanted to ride to Tombstone and visitthe Kennedy’s and hang out for the weekend.Then Frank Kaisler said that he had businessin Phoenix, and I know a bunch of riders in thecustomindustry there. I contacted a buddy I’ll just callSteve who hadrecently launched himself into a devastatingdivorce by screwingevery other woman he met. The plan wasaltered then modified again.Kenny Price of Samson Exhaust also threwhis helmet in the ring.
Dr. Hamster at Grand CanyonCaverns.
Ultimately Dr. Hamster called with anexact date, we’d rollout after Thanksgiving. Then the hammer wasdropped and riders had to commit to a winterride to Arizona. Frank dropped out, KennyPricehad to go to Bullhead, Arizona on businessand couldn’tmake it.
I spoke to Micah McCloskey from MicahMcCloskey’s CustomCycles and he was primed. Dr. Hamstercalled a buddy who needed toescape, he was also up for it. Steve decidedthat two days after ahemorrhoid operation was too soon to ride.He dropped out. I didn’tcare who came or went. I just wanted to ride.Once we had a date Icalled the Kennedys. We chose the wrongdate. They were going to Vegas forThanksgiving. Another plan alteration. Micahisa died-in-the-woolrider. For 20 years he rode a rigid Indian untilhe shifted to andFXR and felt 16-years-old again. We coulddepend on him, besideshe’s an Ugly and Uglies ride. Micah startedcalling me late at night,”What’s the plan?”We sorted it out. Once Micah was involved hecalled me backand asked respectively, “ya see, I’m a recentlymarried guy. I mayneed to bring my wife.”I didn’t have any problem with that. I justwanted to ride.His wife, Carmela, works for a charity calledthe ExceptionalChildren’s Foundation. It’s the charity that theBeach Ride Supports.Micah is now the president of the Beach RideCommittee. That’s howthey met. Carmela made a couple of calls.Suddenly there was an ECFdonor who recently bought a resort on Route66 in Northern Arizonawho suggested that we create Beach Ride II inArizona. He offered usrooms at his 800 acre facility on historic Route66.
A small portion of the 800 acreaestate.
Micah and Ihatched a plan to ride to Prescott andhopefully see Dawne Holmes, oneof the finest custom painters in thecountry. Then the next morning we’d ridenorth threw Chino Valley to Ash Fork betweenWilliams and Kingman on highway 40. Fromthere we could hook up with Route 66 and findGrand Canyon Caverns and Inn. Next the kickoff time must be documented and shared withthe team of riders. We decided to meet forbreakfast and the corner of the 15 and 10freeways at the Travelers Truck Stop at 6:30a.m. That meant that most of us had torise at 4:30 a.m., to be on the road by 5:30, tomake the one-hour haul out of Los Angeles by6:30. Actually, as development expandsyou don’t reach the outskirts of Los Angelesuntil you pass Palm Springs. The documentwas wax sealed, “be there, or be left behind”.
One of our destinations.
Now for a report on the 2003 100thAnniversary King, my ridefor the Arizona Run. The minute I knew thedate I called FrankKaisler, who was recently the editor of HotRod Bikes, and much moreup on the technical aspects of newmotorcycles. I’ll admit it,goddamnit. We had discussed a tech oninstalling Custom Chrome16-inch Apes on the King. I had ordered theparts and they wereburning a hole in my pocket. We had alocked-in run date. I couldn’tride a stock motorcycle.
We set a date forTuesday the 19th to installthe bars. I will write the tech about thatoperation this week. Helisted the materials I needed. He brought toolsto augment mine. Wespent the entire day rewiring the bars throughthe inside, thenmeasuring the cables. He ordered the clutchcable and throttle cablesfrom Barnett. He brought the hoses andfittings to extend the brakelines. When he left that afternoon the job wasnearly complete, minusthe extended cables. I had made anappointment with the Harley-Davidson fleetcenter to install a performance package onFriday. The cables neededto arrive by Thursday. That didn’t happen, butmy photographer forthe American Rider magazine tech articlecouldn’t make it Friday anyway, sothe operation was rescheduled for Monday.Friday the cables didn’tarrive. I panicked. Frank called and waspromised the cables Mondaymorning. I changed our fleet centerappointment until Mondayafternoon.
The completed King, ready for theroad.
At 9:00 a.m. on Monday morning UPSarrived with the cables.Frank and I went to work. Mechanical projectsrarely ramble towardcompletion as quickly as estimated. Wearrived at the fleet center at1:30 Monday the 25 of November and Alan thelead mechanic informed us that he would beleaving at 4:00. We didn’t complete theperformance operation on Monday, but heassured us that by noon on Tuesday wewould be on the road. That gave me twobreak-in and tuning days before kick-off. Heput in a couple of hours Monday afternoon andthe bike was stripped, the cams pressed outof the cam plate and readied for installation.
Tuesday morning arrived and so did we at8:00 a.m. Alan wasthere, but the big man was slummed over achair. He mumbled something about foodpoisoning and went back to the head. Hemade a gallant effort and worked until 9:00when Gene Thomason Jr. arrived torelieve the watch. As he turned to install thecams, he coached me oneach and every aspect of the operation andmentioned, “I can onlystay until 10:30. I have a court deposition.” Wewere burnin’ daylight, or actually burnin’through days.
Wednesday unfolded thesame at 8:00 a.m. and Alan was back on thejob from the 24-hour flu. He moved around theKing with cunning and expertise. He’s ahelluva mechanic. He completed the camoperation, removed and replaced the heads,installed the intake module and newScreamin’ Eagle Air Cleaner kit, thenScreamin’ Eagle two-into-oneexhaust, and finally a tach/speedometerreplacement.
We rolled out of the fleet center ataround 1:00 p.m., aftera dyno run, on Wednesday one free day beforewe’d “Wind ’em up”. Thebike was running and feeling fine, but I stillhad more minoradjustments with the new clutch cable, I hadto pack and prepare thebike for the run, road test it some more with afew break-in milesand see if the adjustable windshield would fit.It didn’t and neededto be modified. I had my chores cut out for myfeeble ass.Needless to say I struggled throughThanksgiving Day runningto the garage, putting another 40 miles on theclock, checkin’ theoil, rerouting the clutch cable and modifyingthe cool Harleyadjustable windshield for the run.
The modified H-D adjustablewindshield.
Then there was packing for thefirst time with the King. I used the crashbarbags for cable androtor locks on one side and spare gloves,paper work and a digitalcamera on the other. For some reason theEpson digital was set to shoot black and whiteand in my numbness I had no notion of how tochange it, no icons on the camera to indicatewhich button to push until it was too late. Iultimately found out but decided in the gloomto leave italone.
I took spare glasses and a Bandit’sDayroll full of tools justin case.Packing for a ride is always a challenge.Unless you were thePoker God and knew exactly the weather androad conditions, you’reforced to pack shit you may or may not need. Ipacked my usualcolorful array of boxer shorts, but since it wasdownright nippy Iwore long johns daily. Never touched myshorts. I packed the top halfof my Harley-Davidson rain gear since it wasalready raining. I wasstill hoping that it was all a vicious threat, but Ipacked it anyway.I don’t usually carry the pants, but I shouldhave, although my newPakistani leather chaps did a commendablejob in the rain. The cheapbastards failed in other regards which I’ll getto later.
As the Thanksgiving night wore on and mytrips to the garageDiminished, the small droplets of raincontinued. They were like atease tempting the fate of the ride. It wasn’tenough to stop therun, on the other hand it reminded me of fiveyears earlier when Irolled out of town in a sprinkle that turned intoa downpour for 400miles. A gruesome putt. I continued to checkthe weather channel andthe reports were grim. I called Dr. Hamsterand announced my bleakintentions. “If it’s raining,” I said into hismessage machine, “Iain’t going.”
When the clock struck 4:30 a.m. and I satup in bed, I grabbed theremote and turned on the television. Theweather reporter began onthe east coast with dire reports of freezingtemps and snow. Itwasn’t a good sign as I wadded throughreports of historic lows inSouth Dakota, but no rain in the region. After20 minutes of pacingthe bedroom in my boxer shorts, they reachedthe south westregion of the country. The rain probabilitypercentage had diminishedfrom 60 percent to 40, but the storm waslocated directly over ourplanned path for the border. I looked outsideas I dressed. It wasdry, although I could see spotted indicationsthat rain was nearby.
Ikissed Layla goodbye and said, This may onlybe a breakfast run.”At 5:30 a.m. I hit the road on the fresh King. Ijumped on the 110Downtown Los Angeles freeway to the 91Riverside Freeway to the 605Freeway to Joker Machine to the 10 Interstateto Palm Springs andbeyond. At exactly 6:30 a.m. I pulled into themassive, sprawling,plastic, franchise Travelers Truck Stop. Thedam thing is so big thatwhen the other riders arrived they couldn’t findus amongst theeateries, gift shops and 7-11 type storesunder one roof. Hell, evenTaco Bell had taken part of the store.When you’re avoiding junk foodit’s a bitch to be forced to walk through a MacDonalds to get to thetruckers’ kitchen.
Micah McCloskey and Greg and TrishO’Neill fooling around at a gas stop.
Continued On Page 2
