Biker

A true look at what the biker lifestyle was all about in the mid-twentieth century!

By Bob Bitchin

FTW Publishing, Inc. Berry Creek, CA bobbitchin.com

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Copyright © 1982 by The Author 2nd Printing 2022 Hardcover Collectors Edition FTW Publishing, Inc. Box 100 Berry Creek, CA 95916 www.bobbitchin.com All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing.

Cover artwork by Rich “Magic” Marker Re0Edited by Katie “Bitchin” Chestnut 2022 Printed in the United States of America ISBN ISBN: 979-8-9860381-0-0 If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the publisher or author has received and payment for the “unstripped book.”

Typeset on a Macintosh.

Non-Fiction $24.95

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This book is dedicated to those who have been slaughtered on the road while enjoying the freedom of two wheels, and to the death of the next dumb person who makes a left in front of a biker and says “I never saw him.”

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Other Books by Bob Bitchin Non-Fiction

Biker to Sailor Letters from the Lost Soul The Sailing Life Starboard Attitude DORF

Fiction

Brotherhood of Outlaws Emerald Bay King Harbor These books are available at www.bobbitchin.com

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 7

Introduction

1

Song of the Dumb Biker

15

Bad Craziness in Europe

31

Kind of a Trip

43

Great American Expedition

59

American Odyssey

75

Trippin’ Americana

91

Puttin’ Across America

107

Touring America Harley Style

123

California, Here We Come

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Introduction

By Degenerate Jim Pisaretz,1982 You’re riding with a partner. He swears he knows the surrounding area and roads for miles and miles. He insists you take a turn-off that will be not only faster, but a more scenic ride. So you follow his route and become hopelessly lost. Try and retrace your steps on the map and you find where you are does not exist.

All you can do is ride and search for a landmark that will help identify your location. As you ride your fuel supply gets lower and lower until you’re finally on reserve. Just when you think you’re going to be stuck pushing a thirsty bike in the middle of nowhere, your partner suggests you make the next turn and lo-andbehold you’re right where you were supposed to be VII

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two hours ago. The only reaction your partner gives you is an ironic smile as you pull into a gas station with the exhaust sputtering and cylinders gasping for the last drop of gas left in the tanks. Were you really lost, or was your partner just having some fun leading you around “Robin Hood’s barn?”

It doesn’t really matter whether you were lost or not. All that really matters is that you’ve managed to get off the beaten path of things you know and are sure of, and have taken a little side- trip exploring the unknown. And more often than not, this is where you’re going to meet someone who you might have never met or you’re going to get the chance to do something you might never have had the opportunity to do.

Where you’re going and how you get there is not as important as who you meet and what you do on the side trips you make along the way.

This is the feeling 1 always have when I’m riding or on a trip with Bitchin. There might be a definite destination in mind and even a definite route to get there, but somehow along the way the plans become less important and the little side trips and people you meet on them become the focus of the trip.

If you check out the stories in this collection you’ll see that this is how Bitchin has met a lot of the people he knows. Most of them have become good friends. You’ll also notice that most of what happens of interest in these stories has nothing to do with the reason Bitchin made the trip in the first place. He might run into a midwestern club who are having a demolition derby or end up riding across the Smokies in a blinding snow storm that has even driven the semi’s to VIII

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the side of the road, but that wasn’t part of the original plan.

On any trip I’ve made with Bitchin, the short ones and the long ones, this has been the method we’ve employed. I still don’t know if he was really lost some of the times we were supposed to be lost or was just showing me some of the sights he had discovered in his travels. It didn’t even matter if we got lost or not as long as we were ready for the people and experiences we’d encounter along the way.

Think of all the places and bars you’ve ridden by when you were puttin’. Now, think of the difference it could have made in your day, your ride or even your life if you’d have stopped at one of those out of the way bars. Who knows, you might not be sitting there reading this like you are now, or then again it might be the very reason you are reading this.

Very few people have the time or opportunity to ride and criss-cross the country like Bitchin has.

Those who have can relive some of the experiences they’ve had through Bitchin’s stories and those who haven’t might be enthused enough to go out and do the same. Whichever, these stories paint a picture of biking across America that can only be seen while on the road. When you’re done reading it if you get the feeling to go out and fire up your scoot and take a little put, all I can say is: RIDE ON!!

IX

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Song of the Dumb Biker I used to wonder why the words “dumb” and “biker” were almost always used in the same sentence.

I mean, I know that some words are independently exclusive, and are never used in the same sentence, like “smart” and “woman,” but why is it always “dumb biker?” Just like that. Together.

As I say, I used to wonder. Now I know. It’s because all bikers is dumb, I know, because I are one.

The first time I realized just how dumb I really am was when a friend, another dumb biker named Billy Jack, and I decided to take a trip. We were sitting in a semi-stupor, after devouring a few small six packs of Colorado Kool-Aid, when spontaneously, the idea to take a trip came up. Afterward, I remembered what 1

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Biker brought the whole idea up in the first place was both of our bikes had managed to make it to the liquor store and back without breaking down. This was a major feat since I live almost three blocks from the store.

“A scoot that trusty is good for lots of miles,” I told Billy Jack. We decided it was a great idea, and we should load up our trusty steeds and hook it across the country. There was only one small thing standing in our way. It was December.

But what the hell — we’re bikers, and we can stand up to any weather. Besides, all we have to do is take along a few extra things to keep us warm, and we would have no trouble at all.

During the planning, I remember, we decided the bikes we were riding might be the wrong type to take. After all, a rigid frame for 10,000 miles might be kinda hard on the old tail. (Maybe that’s why they are called hard tails?)

After checking out a few costs to convert to a soft tail, we decided to take a chance the way we were.

Yes, folks, bikers are dumb. There is no doubt about it.

Before the Coors wore off, we made a list of all the things we would need for this big trip. We covered everything we could think of — clothing, food, stoves, tents, sleeping bags, even an extra set of gloves. It was a very complete list.

The second thing we did was take the list and cross out things we couldn’t afford. Left was the following!

2 sleeping bags 4 helmets 2

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Bob Bitchin 2 changes of clothes each 1 three-man tent 1 small propane stove 2 pairs of long johns 2 pairs of sweat pants 2 flat face shields 2 sweat shirts 2 pairs of snow gloves 2 pairs snowmobile boots 4 pairs Arctic socks 2 pairs regular boots 1 Instamatic camera & film 2 dumb bikers Keep in mind that we started with a list three times longer, but when we looked at the packing area on our bikes we knew it couldn’t all fit. The fact that I am 6’ 4” and weigh 300 pounds, and Billy Jack is 5’ 5’ and weighs 150, made things a little difficult too, since we both had to have complete sets of clothing. There wouldn’t be too much swapping.

Since this was all before the trip, when we were still under the delusion that bikers were relatively smart, we thought the real smart thing would be to go someplace nice and cold as an official test run. You see, living in Southern California tends to spoil you for estimating the rigors of the outside world.

We decided Yosemite Park was a nice, cold place to go in December, so we packed up our bikes and headed northward.

We were right. It was cold.

By the time we got close to the summit at the eastern approach to Yosemite, the snow was coming 1

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Biker down so hard we couldn’t believe it was still California.

We pulled into a place with a “camping” sign in front and asked what the rates were. All the dude did was stare at us. I wondered why.

He finally managed to stutter, “If you really wanted to sleep out in this weather, you can set up for nothing.” So we picked out a campsite, which was kind of easy since they were all vacant, and set up camp.

Then we made a big discovery. In winter the sun goes down really early, after which it gets boring.

Around 7 o’clock we tired of playing “Hiroshima” with the gasoline which we had been squirting on the fire, and we crashed for the night.

The next morning found two dumb bikers frozen in a couple of sleeping bags. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and then decided it wasn’t getting any warmer, so we got up.

After we limbered up with some more “Hiroshima,” we scraped the snow off the tent and rolled it up. We packed our bikes and it was time to try and make it into the Yosemite basin.

As we headed up the pass toward the summit we noticed there were fewer cars. Soon we hit an area where a sprinkling of diehards were pulled over, putting on chains. We kept going.

We got to an elevation with so much snow we had to put our feet down to keep from falling over.

We were actually using our feet like skis. And it was working.

We did it. We made the summit at 9,941 feet and down into the park. If we could get through that 2

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Bob Bitchin we figured we could get through just about anything.

We headed back to our home base and made a few corrections. First of all, we added a sleeping bag each to the list. This would eliminate any more of those foolish frozen nights. We also added a couple of cans of Stemo to heat the morning tent.

We were set. We were in command of long range wintertime bombing and the North American Continent was our cup of hot soup.

Then the idea hit us. Since we were going across the country in the dead of winter, why not try for a new transcontinental record. It sounded like a great idea.

We looked up the record and found out we had to beat 36 hours.

Ya know, bikers are really dumb sometimes.

The big day finally came. The night before Billy Jack and I had made our way down to San Diego as official kickoff point, and got a room where we would be close to Interstate 8, which was the short cut across the country. We had gotten into town early, and decided to get to sleep early so we would get up around 6 a.m. for the start. After dousing a couple of bottles of Tequila, we made it to sleep. We woke up at 3 a.m., all hungover but ready to go.

The sun came up as we headed into Yuma, Arizona, land of nothing. We stopped to dump some 90 weight down our throats, and started the coast-tocoast boogie one more time.

That day we made our way along Interstate 8 to Case Grande, then picked up I-10 through Tuscon, Lordsburg, and Las Cruces. As the sun was setting behind us we were headed into El Paso. In one day we 3

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Biker had managed to make it through California, Arizona, New Mexico, and into Texas. We knew we would make it now.

Boy, bikers are dumb.

By the time we hit Fort Worth it was early the second morning, and still very dark. I’m not going to say we were tired, but we missed our turnoff and it took almost 45 minutes for us to find our way back onto the track.

Billy Jack fell asleep a couple of times. I had a hell of a time trying to get him to wake up.

About 50 miles out of Dallas, heading toward the Louisiana border on Interstate 20, we decided to stop and have breakfast. It had been a long day and night, and we had covered almost 1,700 miles.

We wolfed down our food and hopped back into the saddle.

Surprisingly enough, our butts weren’t even too sore, but I think a lot of that was due to the numbness setting in.

We had been very lucky also, the weather was just like summer. It was about 60 degrees at noon. At night it dropped down to about 25. Wonderful, just plain wonderful.

As we hooked it east through Louisiana we started to wake up again. We crossed the mighty Mississippi actually feeling good. We really thought we were going to make it into Savannah under the 36-hour limit.

Bikers are the dumbest people on earth.

As we kissed off Mississippi the sun was setting behind us, and we were working on night number two 4

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Bob Bitchin with no sleep.

Then came our downfall. A road called the George Wallace Highway, also known as Alabama 80, looked like a short cut on the map, so we decided to take it. That was a mistake.

This road is used by all of the big eighteen wheelers to go around the weight scales and they do it at no less than 80 miles an hour, curves and things that no sane man would try at 60 included.

We dodged the big trucks and tried to stay awake. After 34 nonstop hours we were starting to weaken. Then we hit this foolish drawbridge and almost lost the game. I figure the designing engineers must have hated bikes and known the width of motorcycle tires. They put steel girders just far enough apart to catch bike wheels and hold them. We had to go over almost at a crawl speed, with 18-wheelers disputing our right to be there. I recall this to be the trickiest riding required in the entire 10,000 miles.

A large truck crossed the double line a few miles farther up the road and knocked one of the sleeping bags off my bike. Billy Jack tried to turn around to pick it up, but his front wheel lost it in some gravel, and he ended up on his keister in the middle of the road, with two large 18-wheelers bearing down on him.

When I pulled my hands from my eyes after the longest screech of brakes, I saw Billy Jack sitting in the middle of the road with two large trucks about 5 feet from him, their tires smoking from a king-size panic stop.

We got his bike out of the way and loaded my sleeping bag back on the bike. We headed into the 5

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Biker next town, Selma.

As we sat filling up our tanks I looked at my watch.

We didn’t make it. It was exactly 36 hours to the minute since we left the West Coast, and we still had over three hundred miles to go. We thought we could do it, but we couldn’t.

To celebrate (?) we got a motel room and had our first good meal in the last two days, thick steak, washed down with mucho tequila.

That night we slept well. In fact, almost too well since it was almost 11 a.m. the next day when we woke up.

No matter how bad things look at night, you can count on the fact that they will look even worse the next day. Here we were in a place called Selma, and we hadn’t seen one bit of the country between Los Angeles and here. We decided that it was time to slow down and start enjoying the trip.

We looked at a map and decided it was a good time to see Atlanta, Georgia, since neither of us had been there before. We headed north-east.

You know something? You can sure see a lot of a town when you ride through on a bike. It was really neat to think that just three days earlier we were at home, and here we were all the way across the country, riding through a strange town on our bikes. We really felt good.

We kept heading north all that day, and by night were heading into Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where my long-lost brother lives. I hadn’t seen him since we were kids, so I gave him a call, after searching 6

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Bob Bitchin three phone books for his number, and soon we were in his nice warm house.

After a night of old-time talk and good food and drink, we hopped back on our scooters and headed north again, after promising to return for Christmas dinner in about two weeks.

All that day we wandered up through North Carolina and Virginia.

You know, it is a real trip to ride the back roads of states like that, where so much has happened. I mean, you ride along and see a sign that says “Shiloh,” and you get a lot closer to the history of the country. It is really a strange feeling.

That night we ran into a dude named Fuzzy Dave, who heads up a biker rights organization called ABATE. They were active in fighting the helmet law.

He invited us to stay for dinner and to crash at his home. We may be dumb bikers, but not dumb enough to pass up an invite like that. After dinner we hopped into his four wheeler (since it was about 18 degrees out) and visited a guy named Gary Zager. We talked about helmet laws and the like until late in the night.

The next day we got up and packed our bikes again, by now a familiar procedure. As we rode out of Fuzzy’s driveway we passed a farm house used as a hideout by rebel troops so long ago.

The weather was starting to get cold. Even though the sun was out, it was only about 4 degrees at the warmest. We rode into Washington with Fuzzy, and met Gary there. They gave us the grand tour of D.C., including getting a ticket for not wearing a helmet in 7

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Biker front of the White House.

On that parting gesture, we bid adieu to our new friends and hit it north again. As the sun disappeared into the western sky and clouds, we started to think, “good campsite.”

Our map showed one at the head of Chesapeake Bay that looked good, so we headed off I-95.

Just as the rain started we found the park. It was totally vacant. The good thing about traveling in the winter is you have your choice of camping. The bad thing about traveling in the winter, as we were discovering, is it’s cold. We hurriedly set up the tent and spent the rest of a cold, wet night sitting in it watching the rain fall.

What a bummer.

In the morning the rain had stopped, but it was overcast. Still about 40 degrees. The temperature dropped to the low thirties, and was still dropping. As we passed New York City it was in the 20s.

We pulled into Bridgeport, Connecticut, about three in the afternoon. Bridgeport temperature was 24. All this cold truckin’ was just to get with Rogue, a friend, and the International President of the Huns Motorcycle Club. We gave him a call and were soon warming ourselves at the Huns’ clubhouse.

That night was party time, and party we did. The clubs on the East Coast are a lot like the clubs on the West Coast, except they park their bikes in the wintertime. West-coasters ride them year around. Other than that there is no real difference between the two areas.

It is party + party = party, all night long, in both places.

The next couple of days were spent in warm luxury, just sitting around and checking out the local 8

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Bob Bitchin action. It is weird being 3,000 miles from home and only a short time gone, seeing strange sights and handling strange flesh. Actually, folks, they were the same as home folks, but the low-mileage woofies were even nicer.

As with all good things, the good times came to an end. In this case, the end came when we heard storm warnings on the radio. All we could think of was being stuck here all winter. From the weatherman’s tone, we were in for a big one. Billy Jack and I decided to load up our scoots and hook it out of there.

This time we chose west. We passed through New York again (yech) and rode on until we hit the Pennsylvania state line. Temperature was really starting to drop now. We pulled over just before we entered the turnpike and packed every bit of clothing we had onto our bodies. A few hours later the temperature had dropped to zero. We just kept riding.

Damn, bikers are dumb. High in the Pocono Mountains we came upon a sign that said “camping ahead.” We followed the signs and pulled into Hickory Run State Park. As had been the case for the whole trip, we were the only people in the whole park, so we had our choice of camping spaces.

After unpacking our tent and setting it up, we started looking around for some firewood. Guess what, there was none.

In the entire park, not one piece of wood was big enough to burn. And the temperature was now down to six below zero.

Being as smart and resourceful as the average biker, we condemned a picnic bench which had seen 9

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Biker better times and reduced it to campfire size pieces. We stashed some and dumped high octane on the rest.

I doused the fire on my leg caused by careless handling of the burn juice, and slid up the evening can of beans. With this weather we should have brought fresh T-bones.

Our dinner guest that evening was a Smokey Bear Ranger. It wasn’t until he had stopped his car and walked over to warm himself by the fire that we realized the legs of the bench were sticking out, prima facie evidence a law had been fractured in a very literal sense.

A very long fifteen minutes later the ranger left.

He never did say anything about the two legs sticking out of the fire. I know he saw them. I guess he just didn’t want to hassle a couple of frozen bikers.

The following day we decided to head for some warmer weather. This cold was OK, but enough is enough. We checked out the map and decided south was definitely a good way to go. We turned left in Ohio, and headed for Kentucky and the bluegrass pastures.

That night we stopped in a small town just south of Cincinnati, on the Kentucky side of the street, for a quick cup of coffee. While sitting there, Billy Jack informed me his mother lived nearby, and he would like to stay there for Christmas. This meant an unwelcome split of a team of dumb biker bums that had become close and (yes, I’ll say it) proficient at bad weather, hard luck wintertime biking.

With me almost 1,000 miles from my brother, where we are supposed to be for Christmas, Billy wants to stay here.

10

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Bob Bitchin We stopped at his mother’s house for the night, and the next day, as the Snow Monster descended on the United States, I left for North Carolina by myself.

As I headed into Tennessee the snow got bad.

I hooked it over the mountains and down into Knoxville where the weather was a little better, but that was just to sucker me into trying to make the rest of the trip. Bikers are all pretty dumb, and I am probably the dumbest, because I fell for it.

I made a hard left in Knoxville, and soon I was heading up over the great Smokey Mountains. The snow started to come down again, but this time it was a little thicker. The first hint that I might be in a little bit of trouble was when I noticed there were no more cars out there, just me and the 18-wheelers. It was then I noticed no snow moving equipment was working, and only the big trucks could make it over.

As the snow increased it became a white blanket. My visibility was cut down to about 25 feet. I closed in behind a truck and followed him. All I could see was the left taillight.

For what seemed like an eternity I followed that lone red light. Every once in a while I heard another truck going the other way, but very few of those. It was just me, my bike, and that red light.

After what seemed a long spell of me trailing the red dot against a world of white, the snow lightened a little bit and I could see the truck that I had been following. It said “Frozen Food” on the side.

No shit.

The splash guards on the truck were about a foot thick with ice, and that started me thinking. I looked 11

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Biker down to find that my feet had become completely encased in frozen slush. It was all the gook the truck had kicked up for the last 60 miles. The ice and snow was about 4 to 6 inches thick, and it was as solid as a rock. The snowmobile boots and the special Calafia riding suit had kept me warm, but the snow and slush froze on the outside.

I knew I was in trouble when I tried to down shift from third gear as I pulled of to get some gas. My foot was frozen solid to the foot peg.

Damn, bikers are the dumbest people on earth.

I made about four figure eights while scheming what to do. I decided to pull up next to a wall in the gas station and stall the bike using my front brake. This I did OK, but I couldn’t take my hand off the bars to take off my helmet without falling over, and no matter how hard I called, the gas station attendant couldn’t hear me.

I imagined spending the rest of the winter as a frozen sculpture in a abandoned corner of an Exxon station. Just then a Highway Patrol car pulled in and asked the attendant what I was doing over there.

A few minutes later he had taken a hammer and screwdriver and broken my feet loose from the foot pegs.

How embarrassing.

Fifteen minutes of warming up in the station, and explaining how it had happened, got me back on my frosted bike and started down the hill again. Farther I got, the better the weather got until, as I headed into North Caroline, the weather was almost nice.

All of the snow and ice had melted off the forks 12

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Bob Bitchin and front of my bike, and it just looked like a normal old dirty bike.

As I pulled into Winston-Salem and my brother’s pad it was just getting dark. I pulled the bike into the garage and the rest of the night was spent talking about my close call and getting thoroughly wasted.

What a lovely way to spend a day, huh?

The next couple of days were like a dream.

Riding around in a car, with the heater on. Eating big steaks and home-cooked food. It was really enough to spoil me, even if I hadn’t been on the road for awhile.

The crowning glory was Christmas dinner. Turkey, ham, and all the fixings.

But all good things must end, and so must the holiday spirit and good times. Before I even knew it, the time had come to pack up the old scoot and head out to meet Billy Jack. We had made plans to meet in Knoxville the day after Christmas. It was hard to do, but I managed it. I made for the mountains again. This time I was lucky. No snow. Just a lot of cold weather.

That night Billy Jack and I tried our damnedest to make each other jealous with rundowns of what we had eaten and the warm beds we had lain in. Each claimed the better dinner and the tenderest care, and neither would believe the other. It turned out a tie.

We decided the best place to go in the winter was the Gulf Coast, so we headed south, for Mardi Gras Country. We didn’t care if there was no Mardi Gras this time of year, we were going to New Orleans any way, mostly for the warm weather and Creole cooking.

The farther south we got, the more we realized 13

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Biker we had made the right choice. Heading out over the long bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, the temperature was well into the 70s, and we were riding for the first time without jackets. Life was getting to be almost bearable. In spite of comforting warmth for the first time in what seemed years ,we stayed only a day then headed out again.

We headed west, out of New Orleans, towards that big Texas state, where we got a big lesson in weather and thermodynamics, which I will pass along to you for future reference: In the dead of winter, when you putt through a warm front, the next thing you will putt through is a wet front, and in this case it was almost a solid wall of water at the Texas state line.

The folks down there call it rain, but I know better. I’ve seen rain, and this was not rain — it was a solid wall of water. I wondered how they got it to stand up like that.

Well, anyway, for the next 300 miles we rode through this mobile ocean, all the way into Houston.

There, just as it was getting dark, the rain ended and once again it was almost nice out. Even though it was dark, the temperature was still in the high 60s and very comfortable.

The next day of riding was uneventful, until we jammed into this little town called Sheffield, just as it was getting dark. Sheffield stands out so well in my mind because people there are without a doubt the unfriendliest folks in the world.

We were about a quarter of a mile out of town when my chain slipped off the rear sprocket and 14

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Bob Bitchin lodged against the frame, locking the rear wheel up. I borrowed Billy Jack’s bike and headed back into town to try and get a hack saw to cut the chain loose so we could tow the bike into the next large town.

No matter how I argued, no one would let me use a saw. I even offered one guy $20 just to rent one, but to no avail. They were real sweet.

Back at my busted scoot, we flagged down a passing pickup truck, and the guy said he would give us a ride into Fort Stockton for just $25 and a tank of gas. Did you know there are pickup trucks with 40-gallon gas tanks? Well, there are. We found out the hard way.

We found a friendly biker in Fort Stockton, Rick, who helped us get a chain from Odessa, Texas, and it only cost us $130. The small towns in Texas definitely like to see stuck bikers, and then stick it to them.

After a two-day wait for the chain, we found the wrong master link had been sent with it. So, being your normal dumb bikers, we jerry-rigged it so we could get on down the road.

And down the road we went. It was December 30th, and we figured on making it back to California in time to celebrate New Years at home with some other dumb bikers we know.

But Texas was not ready to kick us free yet. It seemed like a conspiracy to keep us from making it.

Near Van Horn, still in Texas, the Mickey Mouse master link gave out. It was almost midnight, and the temperature was back around 20 degrees. Just to add to our fun, the wind decided to kick up, gusting to about 60 miles an hour. This made for much fun when 15

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Biker the big old 18-wheelers passed at 80. Slipstream and wind almost dumped our scoots.

Then we made one more neat discovery.

The spare masterlink didn’t fit. The posts were too big to fit the chain, and we would have to find a way to file or sand them down.

Once again I hopped on Billy Jack’s bike, and one more time I headed off on my own to get help.

Van Horn was about 25 miles away, but in the clear desert air it looked like it was only about 5 miles off.

The longer I rode, the farther away it got. I hooked it up pretty good and finally made an off-ramp. There was now a new problem: red lights flashing in my mirror.

I sat there in numb shock as the Texas Ranger explained that I was going to jail for speeding. It seems they have this neat little law for out-of-state speeders. You go to jail until you pay the fine. Unfortunately, the Justice of the Peace was home sleeping, so this meant I was to spend the night in jail, while Billy Jack sat out in the 20-degree wind storm and froze to death.

It was at about this point that our luck improved, but then again, it had to get better because it couldn’t get much worse. The ranger believed my story and called the JP at home and asked him to set a fine so I could pay it and get back out to fix the bike. The JP must have felt sorry for me, because he only fined me $25, which the ranger said was low.

That out of the way, with me 25 skins lighter, I got back to the problem at hand. Soon we would be on the road again, I thought.

I trucked on back to where the bike and frozen 16

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Bob Bitchin Billy Jack were and we proceeded to try and fix my bike.

Do you need more proof that all bikers are dumb? I got it.

We were trying to sand down case-hardened steel rollers with sandpaper. That, my friends, is dumb.

After about one and a half hours of cold wind and sanding, we realized, dejectedly, that it wasn’t working.

Three weeks of freezing my ass off, getting rained on, pushed off the road by trucks, of eating cold beans and constantly suffering the pains of a stiff and sore butt were just too much.

All of a sudden everything went red. I picked up the biggest Harley rock I could find and proceeded to beat the damn pins into the chain. To my amazement, they went! Who said force doesn’t work?

We put the master link together and packed up.

We still planned to try for New Years at home.

We pulled into Lordsburg, New Mexico, sun-up on December 31st. It was New Years eve, and we were still 800 miles from home. Not only that, we hadn’t slept in the last two days. Tired or not, we still were going to try and make it.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

As we sat slugging down 90 weight to wake us up, a truck driver came over and asked us if those were our bikes. After affirmative nods he commenced to tell us how he had ridden for a few years, but had given it up. He then offered us a few hits of this neat little white powder that he swore all truckers used to stay awake while they drove. Being your average dumb bikers, we 17

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Biker figured what the hell, and dumped some in our coffee.

Now I didn’t know what the stuff was, but in about fifteen minutes not only were we awake, we were ready to tuck our bikes under our arms and run all the way home.

We backed our bikes out of the parking lot and the next thing we knew, the sun was again coming up, and we were heading into California, about 200 miles from home.

Then we found out a neat little thing about crank: What goes up, must come down. And we did.

In a matter of minutes we had gone from feeling fine, to dead on our butts, and we were not yet home.

The next 200 miles took us almost 8 hours to ride. We had to pull over about every 5 miles to try and wake up. We hadn’t slept for three days and nights, and we were starting to see things that weren’t there, unless pink elephants are back in style.

At 7 p.m. on New Years Eve, we pulled into our driveways. We made it. After 10,000 miles of cold and wet and garbage food, we were back with the comforts of home. There was just one problem. We were so damned tired, all we could do was flop on the bed and deal ourselves out of the world for a time. We both slept though the celebrating and the start of a new year.

Like I said, bikers are the dumbest people on earth, and I am the king of dumb.

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Bad Craziness in Europe “We’ll be landing in two minutes. Please extinguish all cigarettes and put your seat in the upright position.”

I looked at the joint I had been frantically smoking and dabbed it out in the ashtray. Wouldn’t want to break any rules, you know. But, it was the last drugs I had brought with me, and I hated to see it go out.

I was about to touch down in Germany and I had never been to Europe, so a few minor sacrifices just might be worth it.

After making like a bunch of cattle, being prodded through baggage claim, then making like sheep as we waited for the Gestapo to check the 19

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Biker luggage for massive shipments of goodies, I finally struggled out the front door of the quarantine area and was greeted by Hans, Verkaufsrepräsentant for Harley-Davidson at the Tyrolia Division. It was he who would guide me through the pitfalls of Frankfurt’s big airport and get me to where my 1980 Fat Bob was waiting for me.

First Observations of Europe: The drivers over there are berserkoid. Nuts. Out of their flippin’ gourds.

They drive on the bumper of the car in front of them at 100 miles an hour, and that’s in the friggin’ parking lot.

By the time we got to the old hotel where I had a room waiting I was a wreck, and no drugs to alter my ego.

Hans stuck around and had dinner with me, which was a God send since I couldn’t even start to make head nor tails out of what the menu said, and after downing a few warm, thick glasses of what they call bier (beer) we supped on a meal of what looked like baked dog with meadow muffins on the sides.

After Hans dropped me at the hotel and left I settled down to kill time until the mom, when I could get out on the road.

The room I had consisted of a very squeaky bed, and a dresser that was new when God was just a wee tad. The bathroom was down at the end of the hall, and there wasn’t even a radio. After listening to the bed squeak for awhile I wandered outside to kill some time looking around town, but after a few minutes I found that I was the main attraction. Everywhere I walked folks would stop and stare at me. Kinda eerie, ya know?

Anyway, after a few minutes of that I walked 20

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Bob Bitchin back to my room and crashed.

For a couple of hours. Then my eyes opened up like a couple of clams at a feeding frenzy.

After laying there for a few hours it finally hit me that my mind (alleging that I have one) was running on Pacific Standard Time, while my body was in European time, 9 hours later. It was 3 in the morning here, but back home it was 6 in the afternoon, and no time to be asleep.

After laying there for what seemed like an eternity, listening to my bed squeak whenever I would turn over, it was finally time to get out of that miniature cell.

By the time Hans showed up to give me a ride to AMF Head-quarters in Wicker (just outside Frankfurt) I had munched down the two stale rolls they call breakfast, and gone to the bank to turn good American dollars into what looked like Monopoly money.

It took about an hour to get the bike rolled out of the building, loaded with camera gear, and filled with gas. Finally I was to begin my trek through Europe.

I wound through a couple of small country roads, keeping my eyes glued for road signs, and soon I was making a turn onto the world famous Autobahn.

For years I had heard of this famous road system, but this was to be a first for me. I had about 250 Kilometers to go on the Autobahn before I pulled into France.

I cranked the throttle pretty hard as I made my entrance, and I remembered what Hans had told me.

Keep to the right all the time, except to pass, and then watch your ass. Hell, it didn’t sound any different then the American Freeway system, except it was just a two lane version.

21

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Biker I was coming up behind a slow truck and checked my mirror. Nothing behind me, so I turned out into the fast lane and wicked on the throttle, taking it up to about 80 miles per. Before I passed the truck I heard the blaring of a horn and looked into my rear view mirror, only to see the grill and hood ornament of a Mercedes 220 Sedan sitting on my rear fender.

I cursed under my breath and wished I had my piece with me. The asshole shouldn’t have gotten that close, or so I thought. After I pulled in front of the big truck the driver of the Mercedes didn’t even give me a look. He just dropped the sucker down one gear (at 85 mph?!) and floored it, and was followed almost six inches behind by another Mercedes, which was followed at an equally crazy distance by a red Porsche. In a matter of seconds they were out of sight.

I kept up my “snails pace” of about 80 miles per, only to be whizzed by like I was standing still. Caravans of five and six cars, traveling in excess of 125 miles per hour, just inches off each others bumpers, would pass like one.

And I never saw one accident on the Autobahn.

Just after I passed through Muelhiem I turned off the Autobahn and headed west, through the city of Meulhous, and crossed the Rhine River, entering France.

I expected to have all kinds of hassles crossing the border, so naturally I hadn’t brought any drugs along. As it turned out, the whole damn trip went without a search. I could have brought bushel baskets overflowing with Panama Red and Acapulco Gold and never been apprehended.

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Bob Bitchin Oh well, anyway, I came upon the frontier, pulled up to the guard expected to be hassled, and sat there looking like a dummy as he started to spout off something in French.

I had no idea what he wanted and just kinda shrugged my shoulder and held my hands in the air, like saying I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

He muttered something about “Paassapoorta” and I whipped out my genuine, official US of A Passport, and sure enough, that was all he wanted. He checked it out, looked me up and down, shook his head slowly, like he had just met his first total idiot, and waved me on my way.

The rest of the day was spent cruising the very well marked roads of eastern France, and checking out the old bunkers built back during good of WWII. They were still standing, and being used to hold posters announcing the upcoming BeeGee’s concert.

Now folks, how many of you out there reading this shit have heard all about how English is a Universal language? Come on, hold up your hands.

A bunch of ya, right?

Well, I had heard the same dull shit. All you have to do is speak English and you will get along just fine.

Even in the back country.

Well folks, that is a bunch of horse hockey.

Where I was the only one speaking English was me, and I wasn’t a whole lot sure of what I was saying.

After managing to get a room in the first “real” (read: American looking) motel, I wandered into the dining room. Getting a room wasn’t too difficult. I just 23

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Biker looked lost, flashed a roll of French Francs, and was given a key.

But once into the dining room, you are on your own.

The waitress walked over, hesitantly (guess she never saw a 6’4”, 300 pound biker wearing a skull and crossbone T-shirt before. Least ways not with tattoos all over his body) and gave me the menu.

Guess what.

It was in French.

I gulped hard. This was the moment of truth.

I had thought about it plenty, and now the time was near. Could I get through it.

She walked over and smiled.

“Uh, Lemme have dis” I pointed to something that looked reasonably priced, “and some of dis here” pointing to the listing under “Boisons” that said “Bier”.

She looked confused for a second, and then scurried off, without writing down anything.

My first thought was that I had just ordered the owner or something, when she came back with the guy who had given me the room. Guess they figured since he could understand me enough to give me a room, he could figure out what I wanted to eat.

After about fifteen minutes we finally all had our heads bobbing up and down in the same directions, and I waited to see what gastronomical delights I would be confronted with.

In a few minutes the waitress came out, with a confused look on her face, and placed a plate in front of me. It held one slightly sick looking omelette. I don’t know what was in the fool thing, but the last time I saw 24

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Bob Bitchin anything like it was back in Junior High at a cooking class I broke into.

I managed to choke it down, wondering if the little slimy bits in the omelette were snail or frog eyes.

Just as I managed to get the final piece down, the main course was brought out. I don’t know what they call it in French, but I would call it filet of uncooked Muskox.

After turning down the “Frommage” (which I found out later was cheese, and I wished I had taken it) I promptly paid the tab of 60 ff (about 15 dollars) and wandered off to my room, to see if I could keep the dreck down for the night.

That night was a repeat of the previous night, passing out as my head hit the pillow at sundown, and waking at 3 in the morning. At least here the bed didn’t squeak.

In the a.m. I found that the room price included “Breakfast,” so after loading the bike I walked into the dining area and downed the two hockey pucks they called rolls, and drank the brackish black vile liquid they kept calling “caffee.” It no more resembled coffee than I resembled Farrah Fawcett’s undergarments.

While my innards fought to keep the garbage in place below my throat line I mounted the bike and headed west once again.

The sky was overcast and there was a slight drizzle coming down, but it wasn’t too bad. All I could do was hope it wouldn’t rain, because like a typical dummy I hadn’t brought any rain gear, and only had one pair of Levi’s to my name, and I was wearing them.

When I got about five kilometers outside of Moulins, the sky opened up and took a big dump. Just 25

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Biker as it started I saw an overpass, just like back in the good old US of A, and pulled under it. It was the first overpass I had seen.

For the next hour and a half I listened to the sound of the rain beating on the road and waited for it to let up. Soon it turned into a light drizzle, which wasn’t too bad to ride in, and I took off into the horizon, which was lighter then the skies behind me, and therefore drier.

I thought.

But it wasn’t About three kilometers down the road the sky opened up.

I started to look for another place to pull under to keep dry. The rain was coming down hard, and it was hard to see, but I kept checking. In fact, for the next 40 kilometers I kept checking, but there was no shelter. Not even one of those French barns I used to hear about in WWII novels.

Nothing. And I was soaked to the skin, through my Jeans, my Leather jacket, and through my bags, which now held soggy cameras and soggy t-shirts, not to mention soggy maps. $%tW»@§ + !!!

Finally, in the town of Montluçon I found an agricultural exhibit building, kinda like a fair building, and pulled under a canopy.

For three hours I sat, dripping water from every extremity, waiting for the rain to stop.

I kept asking myself what the hell I was doing here, instead of being back home, seducing babies and shooting flicks of naked females, and just could 26

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Bob Bitchin not come up with any logical reason.

By noon I decided that the rain just wasn’t going to end, and that I had to get to the run I had come to cover, which was still some 250 kilometers away, so I loaded all my soggy shit onto the bike and headed westward once again.

By about 3:30 in the afternoon the rain stopped and the sun actually came out. As I prayed to the Harley gods for enough warmth to dry out my soggy britches I noticed that the countryside was changing.

There were a lot more hills, and the buildings seemed to be getting real old. I passed into one town, or should I say a village, and the sign in front said something in French about being there since the 7th century.

I tried to check out some of the more interesting sights along the road, but whenever I would slow down the cars behind me would get about two inches off my rear bumper and rev their engines.

After passing through the town of Limoges, which is kind of the center of the old region of France, I turned off the main road and started on some of the backroads heading for the town of Nontron, which was just a little bit away from where the run was to be.

When I hit Nontron there was a big Carnival going on, with bumper cars, merry-go-round and even a midway. I rode through the midway with every eye in the place on me, and felt like I had a giant swastika painted on my forehead.

Just outside of town I ran into a bunch of honestto-goodness biker types, even riding some Harley-Davidsons, and before long I had been taken back, up some small roads, through the town of Saint-Estèphe, 27

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Biker which was built back when God was just an idea, and down a couple of dirt roads, to where the run was.

Finally I heard some English spoken, and I dam near kissed Max, the president of the Dakotas, which was the sponsoring club, when he spoke it. Seems he once visited America and could speak the language.

After a few minutes I found that there were some bikers at the run who had come from England, and from the Island of Jersey. They rode with a club called “Fort 72,” and soon I met Jean, who was the man who had invited me over here for the run.

The area for the run was just like any in America, and maybe even a little better. There was an old farm wagon piled with bread, tins of something they called “Pattie” which looked like diced cat with seal blubber, and lots of warm bier and vin (wine).

In Europe all they drink is bier and vin, and the bier is thick, dark and warm. Not quite like the “lite taste of Coors.”

That night the 100 or so participants in the run decided to go to the small town of Piégut (pronounced: Pay-go) where there was a carnival in progress. Seems that mid-August is when they have the Festival du Antiquities, and it’s a big party all over that region of France, celebrating all the old shit that there is around there. None of the towns are newer than Christ, and some are over 20,000 years old.

When we pulled into town the leader of the pack led the bikes right down the center of the midway, and the 100 or so townspeople just stood and stared. As soon as all the bikes were parked on the midway the place filled up with villagers. They heard the bikes 28

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Bob Bitchin coming in, and got out of bed to come see them. They had never even seen anything like it before.

Soon a full fledged party was going. The carnival came alive and all the little village girls stood around eyeing the bikers, and visa-versa.

After some brews had been downed it started to get a little loose, and soon the bikers had gathered around the “Auto-dromme” which is what they call the bumper cars over there, and the bikers all started to jump on the backs of the bumper cars as they collided with each other. In a few minutes the citizens had cleared out, and all the cars were taken over by the bikers. It was a madhouse as these little cars would be piled with 5-6 bikers and would bang head-on into the other cars. The poor dude running the thing was bleached white.

After the bumper cars were no longer in working order we all climbed on our scooters and headed for the Disco, which was an old (and I do mean old) mansion halfway between Piégut and the campsite.

Finally, about 5 in the morning, we straggled back into camp and passed out.

In the morning (if you can call noon morning) we sauntered into the little town of Saint-Estèphe and had some more of that brackish shit they call “caffee.” This time instead of stale rolls they actually had sweet rolls, just like home. Of course, there were only a couple of us downing coffee, the rest were downing great quantities of vin and bier.

After awhile we wandered back to the campsite and got ready for the tour that was set for the day.

If I had any idea of what was in store for me that 29

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Biker day I would have taken a lot more film and cameras.

It seems that the area we were in was settled literally thousands of years ago. We went to this little town called Bromtome (pronounced: Brom-toam) and pulled our bikes up across the street from this old building, but Jean pulled me aside and showed me around the back of the building, where it was built into the cliffs behind. Inside the building was attached to the caves, that cave dwellers had live in over 20,000 years ago. There were old utensils on display inside the old building, that had been built in the year 800, and there was even some “newer” artifacts, like a medallion commemorating the inauguration of Caesar.

The original Caesar, not Caesar Borgia.

While we were there the people who had come to gawk at the old goodies started gawking at the bikes, and a larger crowd surrounded the bikes than did the exhibit halls. A wedding was going on in the old chapel and the wedding photographer got too hung up shooting photos of the bikes, and had the wedding party wait while he shot a group portrait of the bikers.

Bet the bride and groom just loved that.

After we saw all we wanted to see of that town, we hopped aboard our scoots once again and headed towards the town of Bordeaullais, where a castle still stood that was used to house Charleamagne when he passed throughout the region in the years when knights rode the countryside.

By the end of the day it was an anticlimax to see anything that wasn’t at least 1,000 years old. We rode back to camp and all I could think of was how the oldest building I had ever seen in my life before 30

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Bob Bitchin this was in old Salem, North Carolina, where a building built in the 1600s still stands. Hell, hotels were still operating that were older than that in this region. That night we went and partied again at another carnival that was going on, and once again came stumbling back into camp around sun up. One of the bikers had actually managed to obtain a little smoking material, and I waited like a puppy in heat for a hit, after being without for almost three days straight (a new record).

I reached for the glowing joint and took a deep hit.

Then I started gagging like I had been poisoned.

Seems that in France they take a little bit of pot and mix it with a whole lot of tobacco. It was enough to gag a maggot.

It seemed to work though, cause I got a little light-headed from it, and wandered off to crash. I still think it was the tobacco that got me high, since I had quit smoking almost two years ago.

The Cafe-Restaurant De La Mairie, located in the small (population about 200) town of Badil, was to be the scene of a banquet that marked the end of the run. Advance reservations had been made for a dinner for 67, and that was the biggest meal they had ever served in the small hotel.

Around noon the bikers pulled into the square of the town, parking around the fountain that had spouted forth life giving water since the days of the Romans.

They wandered into the small cafe-bar-restaurant and ordered mass quantities of warm, thick bier and vin.

Soon the banquet room was opened up and the food was served. They started with thin slices of 31

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Biker uncooked ham, followed by a very good slab of meat (but I ain’t sure what it was) and topped it off with a fruit cocktail for desert.

Of course there were also multitudinous bottles of vin.

After the meal the bikers bid each other adieu, and most took off for the far ends of Europe, officially ending the biggest run that the French have seen.

But the fun was far from over.

It seems that there were still a bunch of folks who wanted to party some more.

One of the bikers produced a guitar and started playing, while the remaining fifteen or so joined in singing some French ballads. Then, American songs started coming forth. Soon we were all involved including the inn keepers, their 15 year old daughter (sigh) and a couple of townsfolk who had happened in.

Then a Gypsy came through the door. He was dressed in baggy pants and an old shirt, but he was obviously a gypsy. He started to dance when the guitar player did a flamingo number, and soon a couple of the bikers and the gypsy were dancing on top of the table.

Then the gypsy’s mother came in (she was about 60 years old) and started dancing too. The place got a little wild and beir was flowing fast and heavy.

Somehow a bottle of bier was spilled on one of the bikers by another biker, and he got the mop bucket and douched the guy with it. He, in turned, picked up the offending biker and hauled him outside to the old fountain, where he unceremoniously threw him in.

For the next few minutes it was a free for all, and there wasn’t a dry biker in the place. It was a 32

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Bob Bitchin madhouse.

After awhile we all hopped on our bikes and made our way back to the campgrounds.

Back at the campground the fire was stoked up and clothes were set out to dry. The sun was getting ready to set, and no one likes walking around in wet clothes at night.

While the clothes were drying we started to see who could throw a boulder the farthest. Soon the games had escalated until we had a log that was a foot in diameter and fifteen feet long in a Scottish style of log toss. Then out came the axe and we decided to see who could throw the axe farthest into the air and catch it. I upheld American honor in that event, but was outclassed in the running (cross country style) event, and when they started in with their rendition of football my overweight body had to be benched. Their idea of football is to take a helmet and throw it in the air, and whichever team gets it takes it across the goal line. No time outs, no downs, no rules.

Before the game was over there were a few black eyes and many bruised bones and muscles. It was a madhouse.

That night, after the clothes were dried off, the remaining fifteen or so of us decided to make it to the fun fair again, since it was still going on. About 10 p.m. we wandered to our bikes and rode to a small town. This time there were fewer bikes and a smaller commotion as we pulled in.

We wandered amongst the folks, checking out the midway for woofies to pounce on and other fun things to do. We got into a few bets on who could 33

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Biker shoot the closest bullet into a picture of the Mona Lisa, that was one of the prizes at the shooting gallery, but had to quit when the bullets went through the painting and into the trailer behind. It was called a draw and we split the bottle of vin that was bet.

As we stood by the bier stand refilling our dwindling supplies we noticed this punk rocker over off to the side, kind of shuffling his feet and drawing things int he dirt. His mind had slipped whatever cogs it may have had, and he just stood around, looking down and smiling at something. We noticed his ol’ lady off to the comer, just smiling at nothing. She wasn’t too shabby looking so Sacha and a couple of the other dudes walked over to get better acquainted.

At little while later the little lady was giving hand and head right there on the midway.

Hell, and I thought America was forward.

Now, you have to picture this. Here are a bunch of bikers, which France just ain’t ready for, getting head on the midway of this small town’s fun fair.

Hell, I was almost too embarrassed to get in line.

When we found the reason she couldn’t go back to camp with the crew for a menage-a-groupgrope (she had the clap) we immediately turned our attentions to new and better things.

In the morning the swelled heads mounted their bikes and headed out for the four comers of the country. I felt as though I were leaving friends, even though I had only partied with these guys for four days.

Jean and his old lady decided they would ride with me to Marseille (pronounced Mar-say) so we 34

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Bob Bitchin headed into the town of Nontron, where his folks lived, to pick up his stuff.

We wolfed down a quick lunch, and got ready to leave.

But first nature called, and I asked to use their head.

Now folks, you ain’t gonna believe this, because I didn’t but they directed me to this here little concrete room, about four feet square. Inside the room was a hole, about six inches in diameter, and two little bricks.

One on each side of the hole.

It seems that the name of the game is to stand on the two bricks, drop your pants, and try to hit the little hole.

Seems that is as close to indoor plumbing as they had in this old town.

It didn’t bother me a whole lot, but pictures of poor little old ninety year olds passed through my sick mind, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Soon we were all loaded up and on the road.

We passed out of Nontron, down past the old town of Bromtome that we had partied at just two days earlier, in through Périgueux (Par-i-go).

This was the old section of France and the roads are not traveled much by tourists. The roads were good, but the drivers just plain drive you nuts.

They follow at about a foot’s distance behind you, then they pass on curves, whether cars are coming or not.

It’s freaky.

Anyway, we managed to make it down to a town called Villefranche-de-Rouergue (Veelfrank-deRorg) and started to look for a place to crash. Jean 35

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Biker didn’t have room on his Sporty for sleeping bags, so we had to find a room.

We stopped at an inn that I would not have stopped at alone, and sent Jean’s ol’ lady in to get a room. The reason I wouldn’t have stayed there had nothing to do with the looks of the place, but it was right in the middle of town and it looked like we would have to park our bikes outside, and I didn’t want to do that.

As it turned out, they had a garage and we parked the bikes inside.

The reason all of that was surprising to me was that the hotel, called Cambounet de Petit Languedoc, looked to be about three days older than God. When we asked how old the place was, we were told it was pretty new, built in the 1600s, but down the block there was the center of town, and it was built in the 9th century.

After checking into our rooms, and after I sat there wondering how many travelers had stayed in the same room over the last 400 years (and it looked like the same bed, too) we walked down to find a restaurant.

The next day we made it all the way to the Mediterranean. I had read about it in history books, but this was a first for me. We made our way to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and checked out the halfnaked babes. Seems most of the ladies don’t wear tops there.

After eyestrain started to set in, and after Jean’s ol’ lady commenced to give him sly kicks under the table, we took off for Arles (Arley) which was to be our 36

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Bob Bitchin stopping point for the night.

Except we couldn’t get a room there.

Seems that bikers have a rep even in France.

We tried three hotels, and then we headed to the next town, which was much smaller, and found a place called the Hotel St. Victor in the town of Pont-de-Crau (Pon do crow). As we sat outside the hotel, after a damn good meal (the best I had in France), I noticed this odd looking bridge across the street, and we walked over to check it out.

It had water running over the top of it.

And it wasn’t a bridge. It was an aqueduct that had been built by the Romans when they occupied the area some 2,000 years ago.

You know what, our American engineers could take some lessons from those guys. The damn thing was 2,000 years old, with no cement, just blocks fitted together, and it still had a full river running through it, and no leaks.

In the morning Jean and his of lady took off heading back to Nontron, and I continued my trek east, toward Italy. I got on the autoroute, which is like a toll freeway, and made good time, all the way to Cannes (Cans).

From there the trip took a new twist. I stuck close to the beach and found that the terrain heading out of Cannes was about the prettiest that I had ever seen. The shore was like the rocky shores of Oregon, with water as clean as that in Tahiti, and the coast was dotted with old castles and even some WWII concrete bunkers. Top all that off with topless foxes and you have a small idea of what it was like.

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Biker I rode through Antibes, along the rocky shores of Cagnes-sur-Mer and into Nice. From here the beaches started to look more like the sandy beaches of home, and the traffic through Nice and into Monte Carlo, in the Principality of Monaco, was stop and go all the way.

The only difference being that the drivers were, as usual, totally berserkoid. The laws are non-existent, and the walking beauties drew many of the motorists’ attention, causing numerous bumper jumpers.

That evening I started looking for a hotel early, not wanting to be left out in the weather that night.

After I tried three of them I gave up, and settled for a campground in Monte Carlo.

The folks who ran the campground were the epitome of the word assholes. They were ripping off folks left and right for 37 francs a night to camp motorcycles, and only 20 for cars. Even so, there is no other place in Monte Carlo a biker could stay, so the campground was where most ended up.

That night I decided that Europe didn’t really have much that I didn’t have back in the good old US of A, and I made a mental note to start heading back to Frankfurt, for a plane ride home.

Once the Bitchin boogie fever hits me, slow travel is all over. I aimed the bike out the gate of the campground at 6:30 in the morning, and by 11 a.m. I had crossed into Italy, ignoring the odd looks by the gestapo at the border, headed north, away from the Mediterranean and up into the Italian Alps. I zig-zagged across the French border three or four times, and soon was crossing through the St. Bernard pass (where the 38

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Bob Bitchin dogs were made famous) and into Switzerland.

Where you cross into Switzerland there is a tunnel that was almost two kilometers long, and I really got a kick out of it, but when I went over St. Bernard pass I found that there was a tunnel five kilometers long, and inside the temperature was a constant 30 degrees.

Since it was in the eighties outside I was riding in just my T-shirt, and when I hit that tunnel I nearly froze my butt off.

The downside of the Alps was a fun ride, and soon I was heading into Lausanne, where there is a lake so big you can’t even start to see across it.

As I crossed back into Germany, just a little west of Zurich, the bike started to make strange noises, and soon I was running on just one cylinder. I had already changed my reservations to the next day, and all I could think of was that my bike would break and I would miss my plane, and end up as a prisoner in Europe for the next fifty years.

In a gas station on the Autobahn I tore into the bike trying to figure it all out, only to discover that the plugs had fouled, and that was all.

I borrowed a plug wrench from a passing biker (from Sweden) and soon I was on my way again.

I made it past the town of Heidelberg and into Manheim, and started to search for a room once again.

The first hotel I stopped at the manager just stared at me in stark disbelief, as if I couldn’t really have just walked in. She shook her head frantically saying what sounded like “Noo rooomes.”

As I walked back to my bike in the parking area 39

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Biker I noticed that there were no other cars around. The place was empty.

I rode down the road a little and found another hotel. I walked in and found a repeat performance of the previous hotel. But she did point down the road and mumble something about another hotel.

I finally found the place she was talking about.

It was a rundown dump that looked like a rooming house. I figured I might as well try it, and walked up to the door.

When I opened the door I knew I had made a mistake. The place was full of smoke and it was a bar.

Not that I have anything against bars, but this was not the kind even I would go into. As I opened the door everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

That was it. I’d had it with Europe. I turned around and walked out of the dump.

A few minutes later I was sitting in a coffee house on the Autobahn. As I sat there I noticed that everybody in the place was blatantly starring at me.

Not the sly little looks that I am used to seeing in America, but looking at me like I was a freak in a freak show.

Now I always knew I was a little odd looking, but it was really starting to get to me. Folks were openly pointing and saying God only knows what.

And the worst thing about it was I didn’t have anyone to talk to to take my mind off of it.

Finally I got fed up with it, walked outside and mounted my only friend, my Harley.

I rode to one of the numerous roadside rest 40

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Bob Bitchin areas, where folks stop to drain their lizards, and found an unlikely area to crash for the night. After three days of hard riding and sleeping on rocky ground I could have slept on anything.

If it hadn’t rained.

Since it did rain I spent the night, my last in Europe, huddled under a bench at a roadside rest.

When the sun finally came up I looked like Godzilla, complete with red eyes and large bushy head dress.

I won’t even go into how lost I got when I hit the town of Frankfurt, or how it took me two hours to finally find a place that had a phone I could use, but I was sure happy to see Hans’ smiling fact as I got back to the Harley headquarters.

Once I got to the airport I felt like I was almost home. The stares of the people around me didn’t even bother me. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

I found my seat and fell into it. The two folks that were sitting in the seats next to me made some excuse in German and headed for other seats. I had the whole thing to myself.

I dropped the two Quaaludes I had saved for my flight home, and dozed while the plane went over Greenland, waking as I landed in the Good Ol’ US of A. God Bless America.

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Kind of a Trip While the rest of the work-a-day world was busy doing whatever it is people who work do, I had to be out there on the road, working my poor tail off. I don’t know why I do it. Guess I’m just a masochist, huh?

Take this last little jaunt I had to take. Boy, it was a real bitch.

It all started when I was sitting in my office, contemplating whether I should try to seduce my secretary or go to lunch. Just as I was about to make my way out to the office in front, where the secretarial pool is waiting for those who like to take an occasional dip, the phone rang. As I stifled thoughts of letting it ring, I decided to answer it. After all, it was almost noon and I hadn’t done a thing but drink coffee since I had gotten there, almost an hour earlier.

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Biker The distant voice on the other end of the line was Bill Dutcher, public relations man for Harley-Davidson, my favorite motorcycle-type company. He had this offer I just couldn’t refuse. It seems that the 75th anniversary ride was going on, and I was being invited to fly to Louisville, where the participants were getting together, and then to ride a factory bike up to the factory, where I would get a VIP tour.

Since I didn’t have another deadline for almost three weeks, I went for it.

After I hung up, ideas started to filter through my feeble little mind. I was going to buy a new Harley Low Rider anyway, so why not work it out so I could pick it up at the factory, and ride it home.

Oh boy, a couple of weeks extra to ride it home, maybe a stop at Beech Bend to party at the nationals, and I could probably convince the owners of Choppers to pop for all the expenses. Talk about your tough jobs.

I took the rest of the day off to contemplate the approach I should use in conning the various and sundry bosses, and also to lie on the beach. Can’t work too hard, dontcha know.

In the morning I went into the boss’s office with a bedraggled look on my face, telling him how I had been invited to participate in this history-making anniversary ride, but how my travel budget just couldn’t handle the added expense. After a whole bunch of sniveling, and many promises of how much good it would do the magazine, he went for it.

Two days later I was boarding a 707 at L.A. International and plopping my overly large buttocks 44

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Bob Bitchin into a seat next to some sweet little country girl. Yeah, life must be tough.

A few hours later I landed in Louisville. It was about here in my trip that I realized I had made a small error in my calculations. It seems that I had forgotten to make a note of what hotel all the executives were staying at, and I couldn’t remember the name.

For the next hour I sat in a phone booth, dropping dimes into the slot and calling every hotel in town.

Sometimes being dumb ain’t a whole lot bright. (Does that make sense?)

Anyway, after awhile I found out they were staying at the Executive Inn (where else?) and I was soon in a cab and on my way.

Once I arrived I found that all the folk had gone to the racetrack, so I dumped my pile of garbage off in my room and headed to the track.

Once at the track I wandered around, checking out all the scooters and waiting for the race to start.

Roundy-round races have always bored me to tears, but I love to wander around and watch all the bouncing boobs and the fine looking rear sections on the low-mileage pit woofies. It seems when the woofies get around racers they grow bigger boobs and nicer butts. Not only that, but they wear tighter clothes, too.

After eyestrain started to set in, I made my way back to where all the biggies from Harley were downing cold suds, and got acquainted with the other riders on the ride.

One of the trippiest things I saw that night was when some super hardcore bikers found out who Willy G. Davidson was. One of the bikers was standing next 45

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Biker to the Davidsons at the beer line when one of the other execs started talking to John, and when the biker heard his name he stopped and just stared, like ol’ JC had suddenly come back again. Then he wandered over to where his friends were and whispered the big news to them.

For the next few minutes they all just stood there and stared. Finally, one of the bikers got up enough nerve to walk over and shake John’s hand.

That was all it took. Soon the Davidson brothers were surrounded by autograph-seekers and well-wishers. It was pretty neat. After all, who else has their name on the arms of thousands of bikers?

That night an impromptu party was held in John Davidson’s room, and by about three in the morning he managed to kick most of us out.

A mere five hours later we were lining up outside the Inn (or was that inside the Out?), and we were on our way downtown, to the Louisville Harley dealer.

While we were all standing around having coffee and donuts at the shop, one of Louisville’s finest pulled up on, what else, a Harley. After a few minutes he decided he would show the Davidsons what their machine could really do, and he hooked a big chain up to the rear of it, with the other end of the chain wrapped around the bumper of a motorhome that was there with one of the local radio crews. Then the policeman commenced to start his bike and pull the motorhome down the street.

Everybody was visibly impressed.

After that we all lined up and were escorted out of town, by the fuzz.

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Bob Bitchin It wasn’t the first time I had been escorted out of town, but it was one of the best jobs. At least this time they didn’t have any guns pointed at me or anything.

We rode up to Indianapolis, made a quick tour through the museum and around the big oval track, and soon we were heading into Lafayette, Indiana.

Now, Lafayette, Indiana, whether you know it or not, is a pretty poor town to party in. There were two bars near the Ramada Inn where we stayed, and one of them was closed. The other was empty.

Definitely not your basic party spot.

But soon we made it into one.

About one in the morning the party crowd was down to Tom Bolfert, John Davidson, Willy G., Gene Wirwahn of the AMA (motorcycle-type), Bill Dutcher and his lovely wife and a few other diehards. About then there was a discussion over the attributes of certain motorcycle organizations, and a meeting was set for the following week between the two largest motorcycling organizations in the country, the AMA and ABATE. Just goes to show that things can be accomplished while partying.

The next day we took a bunch of small side streets and back roads all the way to the end of the ride in Milwaukee. It was a good ride, and about the only really memorable experience was when we got lost just outside of Chicago trying to find the local McDougal’s Gland of the Swollen Starches and ended up making a series of U-turns, much to the happy grins of the local law.

At the end of the ride we were greeted by the 47

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Biker Milwaukee, PD, all on Harley Police bikes, and we were escorted into town (for a change), all the way to the factory on Juneau Street.

It looked like the end of a ticker tape parade as the employees came out to greet their bosses.

It was also about here that I realized who the hell we had been riding with. I mean, until then these guys were just that, a bunch of guys riding around the country. As we pulled up and I saw the size of the factory, and all the employees kowtowing and bowing and scraping, I finally realized that I had been riding beside the brothers God, and their 12 disciples.

After a quick reception in the factory itself, we were trucked, with all our belongings, over to the Phister Hotel. I thought the Phister was a name made up on Laverne and Shirley. It isn’t though. It actually exists.

After a great party and awards presentation that night, and a little bar-hopping around town that evening, we crashed for the night and I got ready for the real fun part of the trip.

In the morning, an almost-new (800 miles) Low Rider was wheeled out, and the little tag on it said “For Bob Bitchin.” I walked around it a couple of times just diggin’ it. It was black and beautiful, no doubt about it. After strapping my saddlebags on it and loading it with tent, sleeping bag and camera junk, I was anxious to hit the road.

I also had one hell of a hangover, and felt like five pounds of shit stuffed into a two-pound bag.

I threw a leg over the new Low Rider and soon I was heading south. My hangover kept getting worse.

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Bob Bitchin That night I must have been close to death, because I stayed in a sleazy hotel just a few hundred feet from a nude bar, and I never once went over to it.

I just dropped into the sack and passed out.

Last time I passed up an opportunity like that I was near death.

In the morning I felt a lot better, but the weatherman decided that he wanted to crap on me for awhile, and he set up these storm clouds to drop large molecules of water on me as I made my way into Chicago.

I had planned on stopping at Munch Choppers where some buddies of mine hang out, but it was too early in the morning for them to be open, so I just beat it through the rain and traffic and soon I hit the Indiana state line on the toll road.

Now, just over the line into Indiana is the town of Gary. Gary is noted for being a dump of a town, but they have some far-out folks there. I made my way over to a friend’s house, and soon we were down at the local Big Wheel Restaurant downing road tar and eggs.

After breakfast Roy Boy and myself rode over to the tattoo parlor that he runs. It had been decided at breakfast that I had too much bare skin on my upper arm, and a tattoo was needed to fill it.

For the next hour I sat trying to maintain a manly grin while stifling back tears. When it was all over I had some new skin illustrations, and damn good ones at that.

After a quick wrap job on my arm, everybody piled on their scoots and we headed out to Bums 49

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Biker Harbor Lounge, where Roy Boy and a couple of other bikers work as bouncers at night. The rest of the day was spent downing drinks, checking out the local woman supply, and just generally screwing around.

That evening Roy Boy had to work the door at the bar, so I was forced (ha!) to party until three in the morning. See what sacrifices I go through for a story?!

The next day, a little after noon, when we woke up, we once again met a bunch of local bikers at the Big Wheel, and decided on a plan of attack for that night. A little bar-hopping in Gary was decided on, and we got an early start.

But first we took a ride out to a clubhouse near Michigan City.

Now folks, I have never heard of the Unknown M/C. The reason for this is simple. They wish to remain unknown. And if the location of their clubhouse has anything at all to do with it, they will always be unknown.

It took a half-hour of twists and turns, dirt roads and small back roads, and finally we found it.

No one was there.

So I commenced to blow their minds. I took out one of my business cards and wrote a little note on the back of it.

It said, “Hi, I was just passing through and saw your clubhouse. Thought I’d stop in. Sorry I missed you.”

I am sure it blew their minds. Now they will know how it got there.

That night we partied in a couple of small bars and then ended up across the street from Roy Boy’s 50

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Bob Bitchin tattoo parlor at a small bar where most of the bikers’ ol’ ladies work. You know, they sure do build ’em good in Indiana.

In the morning we hooked it out to shoot some flicks of a good-looking Sporty, using Dragon, Beautiful Butch’s ol’ lady, as the model, and then I decided to hook it down the road a little.

But wait, there was going to be some company on the next leg of my trip.

It seems that in Elkhart, Indiana, where I was headed next to see some folks with ABATE, there was going to be a destruction derby the next night, and a bike club there, the Caretakers, had a car entered to be smashed to smithereens. It sounded like fun, so most of the bikers who I had been partying with in Gary rode out there with me.

When we arrived at the home of Steve and Wanda Hummel, the directors of ABATE of Indiana, we were greeted by Sherm and Big Steve from the Caretakers, and soon The Mad Doctor and Maggot were over in a corner with the Caretakers discussing mutual friends and runs. Meanwhile, the rest of us kicked back on the cool green lawn and did what all bikers do. Decided where we would party next.

It was an easy decision, as the Caretakers were having a signing party that night to paint the car they were going to wreck that next evening. We sat around sipping suds until the sun set, and then after a quick dinner of some far-out pizza bread, we made it into South Bend to one of the local nighteries.

Once again the early morning light was greeted with the sounds of Harleys heading home. It was a 51

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Biker good time.

In the morning we loafed around awhile and then we headed over to the Caretakers’ clubhouse.

Now folks, I have seen some clubhouses in my time, but this one was pretty trick. Not only was it in a great location, but it also had this neat little garden out back.

Keep ya in smoke for a long time, for sure.

We partied and kicked back there for awhile, and when it got to be close to time for the big destruction, we went out to the track.

The excitement was pretty high at the track as the cars lined up for the first round. The Caretakers’ beast was an old station wagon and it was all ready for the fight.

It made it almost five minutes, then it was creamed by three cars at once, and left in a steaming heap in the middle of the track.

Of course it didn’t bother the Caretakers a whole lot, since they were so busy checking out the local woofies, they didn’t even notice they had lost.

That night we headed over to the clubhouse again for some party time, but I snuck off early to catch up on some zzz’s. Tomorrow I had to hook it down the road, and I wanted to be ready.

And ready I was. Once I turned onto the open road I did nothing but ride. All the way out of Indiana, down through Ohio, and across into Kentucky. By the time I finished talking a cop out of a lid law ticket, and stopped for a quick Wendy’s Burger (I love ’em), I was crossing the Ohio River and going into West Virginia.

Now folks, right about here I must add a small 52

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Bob Bitchin note about the roads and road signs in West Virginia.

They suck.

It took me almost an hour to find the right road, which was Highway 52, and once I did find it I got off of it three times without even knowing it.

Finally, I was so tired I had to get some shut-eye.

Trying to find a motel along Route 52 in West Virginia is like trying to find a virgin at a hookers’ convention. I won’t say it’s impossible, but the odds are pretty slim.

Oh, by the way, just so you don’t think I’m a pussy and always stay in motels, there is a reason.

You see, somewhere between Milwaukee and Chicago there is a whole set of tent pegs and poles. I know; they used to be mine.

Also, there is this thing about sleeping in a soaking-wet sleeping bag. I don’t care for it.

Anyway, I found a motel finally, and after checking into El Sleazo Motel, and after locking my bike with two large locks, I crashed.

In the morning things looked a lot brighter. It was warm enough to ride without a jacket from git-go, and the roads were really pretty neat.

They were two-laned and well-signed.

For about ten miles.

Then the signs disappeared.

A few miles farther up the road, the dividing line disappeared.

And a little while later the pavement disappeared.

Soon I was bouncing over a road that looked like it was built for old ox carts and coal trucks.

The reason for that similarity was quite simple.

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Biker The road had been built for old ox carts and coal trucks.

It seems that somewhere about 15 or 20 miles back there was a fork in the road, with no sign.

Guess what? Lunkhead took the wrong turn.

By the time I figured I might be going the wrong way, I was heading up a dirt road with potholes big enough to swallow small 747 jumbo jets, complete with towing devices. There were a couple of old houses that looked very familiar, and I saw a woman out in the back of one hoeing a garden.

It was just after I asked her where I was that I realized where I had seen these shacks before.

You ever read Li’l Abner?

Well, folks, there is no doubt in my mind that I had found the original Dogpatch. Daisy Mae was in the middle of answering my query.

“Shore ‘nuff. Dis heah road goes on into a little town just over the top.”

“Thank you. Do you know if the town has a road that will get me back on Highway 52?”

She scratched her head for a minute.

“Noo. I don’t think there are any roads in dat town. If’n I recall they don’t have no cars dere.”

It was right about there in the conversation that I gave up any thoughts of further exploration, turned the Low Rider around, and headed back to the highway.

Sure enough, when I got back on the road, about a half-mile up was a sign telling me I was on the right path.

After getting stopped a couple of times at the summit for road repairs, and after a close encounter of 54

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Bob Bitchin the fourth kind with this here broad holding a stop sign at a construction site, I hooked it on down 52, across Virginia and into North Carolina.

As the rain started to sprinkle lightly I pulled over on the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway for a little rest under a large tree, and then made it into WinstonSalem, where my brother lives and I could get some rest.

For the next three days I kicked back and relaxed, getting ready for the real fun part of this ride, Beech Bend Park. While I was kicked back, I stopped by Cable Harley-Davidson in Winston-Salem and had the bike checked out. When it was ready to go, so was I. Thursday morning I aimed the Black Bitch (which is what I nicknamed my neat new Low Rider) due west, and soon I was pulling into Nashville, home of country music, foxy women, and a friend of mine who goes by the name of Milt the Drag.

Now, Milt came by this name about as honestly as any biker ever came by a nickname. You see, Milt, whose real name is Travis, likes to build go-fast Harley-Davidsons. Not only does he like to build them to go fast, but he likes to build them to go fast in weird places. He doesn’t build them for the dragstrip. He builds them to race on the sand at Daytona Beach, where his K-model H-D made history by winning two years in a row. While he was running it in Daytona he took it out to a place called the Cabbage Patch, where he also ran a clean slate.

When he’s not kickin’ butt in Florida, he has his go-fast machines at local field meets, beating the competition at every turn.

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Biker Anyway, I crashed at Milt’s house after having a few cool ones to quench what ails ya, convinced him he should write a story for me on the drag races at Beech Bend (so I could be free to party), and in the morning took off for Kentucky’s land of motorcycles.

The next three days were kind of a blur. Suffice to say, there was plenty of party time for everyone, and I had my fill of it. When the finishing bell sounded I was almost glad to bid adieu to everybody in Kentucky and head for the land of sunshine and women, California.

Bright and early I awoke from a drugged (just kiddin’, mom) sleep and loaded the bike. As I was taking the last bit of garbage (some stolen towels) out of the motel, I felt strange wet beads dropping on my feeble head.

You guessed it, folks. Rain.

Shit!

For the next two hours it came down like someone had dumped Lake Mead and the Colorado River on me.

When it quit for a few minutes I boarded my trusty, and very soggy, scooter and headed down I-65 to Nashville. I made a hard right on I-40 and soon I was dodging thunderstorms and heading home.

Until the rain hit again.

Now, if you have ever doubted how small a world this is, check out the following.

The rain started to come down pretty hard, so I decided to head for the biker’s refuge, the freeway overpass. I spotted one up ahead just when the rain started to come down the hardest and made a dash.

Just as I started to pull under I saw a bunch of other 56

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Bob Bitchin bikers there, and joined them. As I pried my soaked ass off the seat I looked up under the bridge itself, and heard my name shouted out.

It took a couple of minutes, but soon I recognized Joe Gibson, a biker I had partied with almost a year ago in San Antonio, Texas. He had ridden to the run in Kentucky from his home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Now, let’s see if we can get this straight. A biker from Los Angeles, California, runs into another biker from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in a flooded underpass outside of Nashville, Tennessee, after being at the same run in Bowling Green, Kentucky, and they had met before and partied together in San Antonio, Texas.

Naaa. It ain’t a small world, is it?

Anyway, after sharing some smoking herb, and after the rain stopped, we bid each other adieu once again, knowing we would meet again in South Buttfugue or something, and I headed west once more.

That night I managed to make it all the way into Missouri, and in the morning I started the hard ride.

Missouri and Oklahoma drifted slowly by. Texas was but a flash as I crossed the panhandle through Amarillo. The weather stayed about as good as a man could want, and it wasn’t until just after I crossed into New Mexico that I looked for a place to crash.

In the morning there was a warming trend on, or that’s what the weather man said. When I walked out of the motel it was almost 85 degrees.

It got hotter across the rest of New Mexico, and as I passed through Arizona it was over 100. Crossing the Colorado River into California, the temperature 57

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Biker was over 125 degrees.

If it ain’t raining it’s roastin’. Take your pick.

I got a room at a swank motel, knowing this was my last night on the road (and knowing the company was picking up the tab), and turned the air conditioner up to high. All of a sudden life was bearable again.

In the morning I hopped into a shower then started to brush my matted hair. It was right about then that I noticed a slight mistake I had made.

I only brought one pair of sunglasses.

Now why, you may ask, would I want more than one pair of sunglasses.

It’s because the sunburn and windburn lines make your face look like a raccoon in heat unless you alter the tan line.

I looked like a raccoon in heat.

The rest of the trip into Los Angeles was uneventful. I hit the smog line just outside of 29 Palms in the Mojave Desert and coughed my way into a gray city. Sure is nice to get home.

I pulled up in front of my garage and unmounted.

I was home.

But I forgot my keys to the house and the garage.

Bikers ain’t a whole lot bright. Just ask me.

Four hours later my ol’ lady got home and let me in.

In two and a half weeks, me and my Low Rider (or is that my Low Rider and I?) covered a little over 5,000 miles and 15 states.

And I got a new tattoo.

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Great American Expedition In all my years of riding a bike, I have always tried to imagine what would be the perfect trip. This ain’t it.

What I am about to do, you see, is to cross 35 state lines, from New York to California, in about three weeks. During this misbegotten trip I will get rained on, laid, snowed on, sandblasted, laid, ripped off, thrown in jail, laid, ticketed, drunk, and laid, and I will get very high. But other than these highs, it will be your regular balls-out marathon, high-speed, almost-get-skragged putt. Boring.

This whole foofaraw started on day when I was puttin’ down the street on my rigid chopper. I flew over a chuckhole that made the Grand Canyon look small 59

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Biker and that rough riding son-of-a-bitch motorcycle of mine came up and hit me in the ass for the umptyumph time. Right there I swore I would take any better way that came along. Just about then, like an omen, I saw this dude come around the corner on one of them new Honda Goldwings.

As I pulled up to the spotlight, using my feet to stop me since my brakes worked much like my lights, which didn’t, I noticed this nerd. He looked like something out of Road Rider. I sat there in a growing puddle of oil, being deafened by my holey exhaust pipes, while I watched this here dude lean over and turn his stereo up. My bike coughed and sputtered as I pulled away, and billows of smoke laid like a blue-snit haze at the light. The dude eased off the line and beat me by a mile. While I coasted over to the roadside with a broken chain wrapped around my broken cases and my aching leg, the Goldwing dude just hummed down the road and outta sight. I tried to justify being on this piece of shit when I could be just as cozy as that dude. Then it hit me. Why was I riding this damn thing instead of a comfortable bike?

I stood on the comer, looking at the poor broken pile of shit I call a motorcycle. Then something snapped. I was mad as hell, and I wasn’t going to take it any more (I think I heard that somewhere).

It was there I decided I would sell my sled and get a real touring bike, a Goldwing. Then I would take off on a dream trip.

After I got myself together, I got a Goldwing, loaded it with all the bullshit I used to laugh at, and got ready for my trip.

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Bob Bitchin I equipped the bike with the following (this is what’s known as a product plug, also known as paybacks, for the goodies on the bike, so it might be a tad boring). My brand-new black Goldwing was fitted with a set of Calafia saddle bags, seat, guard rails, and trip trunk. An Ancra “Free Spirit” Fairing, loaded with CB and stereo 8-track, went on the front. A cruise control was obtained from Vanda-Cruise, and the trip was set.

Now all I had to do was figure our where to go.

The Madison, Wisconsin, folks were planning a motorcycle show, and since I had never been there before, I decided that would be a neat destination. I bid adieu to my dump and headed east.

The first day found me cruising at 85 to 90 mph out of Los Angeles and into the great desert that surrounds it. I made my way out through Barstow, Yermo, and into Nevada. I fought back a great temptation to stop in Las Vegas.

I cut across Arizona at the Virgin (I love that name) River Gorge, and I filled up with no-lead in Utah.

As the sun arched toward the horizon, I was heading up into the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

It was at about this point I realized something.

Even though it may be warm in southern California, there can still be snow in the Rockies. This I learned when I came around a bend and saw this neat snowcapped range. But I didn’t realize I was going to go through it.

I pulled over to the side of the road to take a picture of the “scenic grandeur.” This was my first mistake. My second mistake was catching my heel 61

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Biker on the trip trunk as I remounted and tipping my scoot over. That started the bike falling. I tried jamming my right leg between the bike and the ground, but there was no ground there. I just dropped off down the hill.

I laid there, watching eight carloads of tourists pass by, laughing, before I managed to get my poor foot free. Shit.

At the next gas stop I met this dude who also was heading over the pass. We both got ready for the snow and cold weather. I put on my long johns, leathers, helmet, snow mask, and heavy gloves.

He put on his Levi jacket. That was all he had.

The sun dropped and the temperature did the same. We headed up into Vail Pass.

It got cold. It snowed. I made it. The dude didn’t.

He made it almost to the summit and then pulled off into a motel, frozen to the point where he couldn’t unlatch his fingers.

But, even better outfitted than he, I got chilled to the bone, as they say.

That night I made my way into Denver, found a warm motel, and spent the night in a warm tub, thawing out my poor frozen extremities, all five of them.

It was about there that the trip took a turn for the better. I cut across Iowa until I hit Minnesota, just so I could say I had been there, and then headed east into Wisconsin. It was Friday and that was the day the big show was supposed to start. It was sponsored by the Better Bikers Association in Madison, and M.C.’ed by the CC Riders. It was going to be a good one, and included a big party later.

Two things stand out about Madison—they got 62

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Bob Bitchin more bikes and more friendly ladies per square capita than anywhere I’ve ever been.

A band had been arranged for the night at a place called the Freedom House, and after the show closed on the first night, the party commenced. When that party closed we moved over to the CC Riders’ clubhouse, where we picked up the tempo again.

Since I had been on the road for a few days, and being a normal (read perverted) male, all I could think of was a warm place to lay my head.

They have some very friendly young ladies in Madison. I definitely have to go back there, very soon.

Anyway, friendliness being what it is, the sun came up as we went down, this very friendly young Madison lady and I. A few hours later everybody was back at the fairgrounds, and it was time to open the show. While the Wisconsin bikers checked out the scoots on the inside, I checked out the cool grass on the outside.

That evening it was party time again; it was kind of a repeat of the night before, only the band was a lot better, and there were a lot more low mileage pit woofies on hand. In fact, there were so damn many women there, I kept hopping around like a tomcat in heat. And then, like I figured, I glommed onto the young sweetie that I had the first night, and we trucked off to her pad. You know what they say, old friends are best.

The next day was the one where I had to bid adieu to all my new friends in Madison and hook it southward. You see, there is this fox in a small suburb of Chicago, oh, never mind, you’ll see.

I climbed on the Black Bitch and aimed south.

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Biker Since it’s not such a long ride from Madison to Chicago, I was there in just a few hours. I found a motel and checked in. The rest of the day was spent catching up on the sleep I missed out on in Madison. It seems that I have spent half my life catching up on lost sleep.

That evening I wandered into the bar at the hotel to wait for my true love. I found a comfortable place at the bar, and ordered a shot to get my blood moving.

As I sat there idly sipping I clamped an eyeball on four dudes over in the comer. A couple of them appeared to be old friends. In fact, real old friends because they were holding hands.

That’s funny, I don’t hold hands with my old friends, but maybe that’s how they do it in the midwest, maybe a new fad.

One of the “friends” came over and pulled up a stool next to mine. He said something about the “beast” sitting next to him over there, and wanted to know if I would be his “friend.”

I ain’t real slow to catch on usually, but right about here it hit me that I had picked the wrong bar.

This place was fruitier than the green grocer’s display.

As my new “friend” reached over to check the fit of my jeans, I decided that I would hold his hand, too, right about in the small of his back.

I wrenched it up to about his neck line, just short of snapping off. Just then my true love walked through the door, and saw me in what must have looked like a compromising position—in a fag bar with my arm around a cupcake.

Anyway, I let go of Tinkerbell’s arm and walked to Sweet Thing, and we walked out the door as the 64

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Bob Bitchin fag’s friends all came over to kiss his owie. Yech.

After a quick dinner at the local McDougal’s Gland of the Swollen Starches we adjourned to my room, where we performed lewd and unnatural acts all night long.

The next AM it was hook-it time once more, and that I did. I wanted to stop by a friend’s shop. He had a place call Munch Choppers, right in downtown Chicago.

There is one thing about me and Chicago. I get lost a lot. I phoned my friend and asked directions to his pad. It sounded easy.

An hour later I was cruising down a small street, in the middle of nowhere, with the only white face in view the one staring back from my mirror. Each time I hit a stoplight the group (gang?) on the comer would check out my scoot, handling, tugging at parts, pushing at the bike and making racial slurs. I had to run a couple of the lights. I don’t know if it was paranoia, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I felt pretty alone and, as they say, vulnerable.

Finally, after about an hour and a half, I made it the six miles from my motel to Munch Choppers.

We sat around shooting the shit, and had a little liquid lunch. But my feet started shuffling. It was time to ride again.

Since the weather was starting to cool, I decided to make my way down toward sudden summer—south.

I aimed the Bitch out of Chicago, the land of fruits and nuts, and headed for the Gulf Coast for a little R&R. About 3 p.m. the next day l was truckin’ out of Arkansas, heading into Texas at Texarkana. I had trav65

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Biker eled through Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee and Mississippi. Some far out country to putt through, for sure.

Memory flashed back (gotta stay away from that blue dot) to days gone by. This was only minutes from where I had last seen my wife, daughter, and son.

It was just about 10 years ago. My mind started to wander and wonder. Like if they were still in that little town, what they looked like now, how they were, things like that. I suppose after 10 years of neglect I had no right to wonder, especially after getting the itchy heel one day and just puttin’ away from them.

Still, I decided to find out.

I headed 32 miles south, to a little town called Queen City. It didn’t take a whole lot of time to locate my family. I mean, after all how invisible can you get in a town of 300 people. The motel manager told me all about them.

The next two days were spent getting reacquainted with them. It was a real trip, having a family after all those years.

Like with anything good, it had to come to an end. My wandering urge hit me on the third day, and it was time to hook it one more time. I decided that I would make it to Dallas, to see what the big city life is all about. I had a friend there, one Chuck Bear, who ran a little bike shop out of his garage, so I hooked it to his house.

Once I got there, all I really wanted to do was rest, but Chuck had other ideas. After he told me about a run down in Austin, I decided to go.

After all the plans were made he decided that 66

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Bob Bitchin he couldn’t go because of work, but by then I was committed. You see, I had called this woofie I know in Houston, and she was flying to Austin to meet me.

I arrived in Austin in the morning and searched until I found the run and set up camp. All day long it was hotter than hell, but as the evening came on, it started to cool off. Then the clouds came.

On the way to the airport to pick up my true love it started to drizzle. As her plane landed it became a downpour.

Seems whenever this chick and I get together it rains. Three other times our bodies meeting triggered a universal cataclysm. This was no exception. We made our way to a motel and licked each other dry.

The next day was cloudy, but no rain. We wandered out to where the run was and partied with the folks. It was a damn good group, about 200 of them, from all over Texas and Oklahoma, with a club called the Gypsies, hard partiers, all.

As the sun set, Sweet Thing and I decided to go to Houston for a run coming up there. We packed up the Bitch, and made our way east.

Then the rain came and it didn’t stop. We rode all the way from Austin to Houston in a downpour.

There wasn’t a dry spot between us. But we sure had a lot of fun drying off when we got there.

That night I made the mistake of calling Los Angeles to see how things were at work. They said I would have to get my ass back there for a couple of days. They offered to pay the airfare. Never being one to pass up a free trip, even home, I promised to be on the next plane, in the morning.

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Biker The trip to Houston had taken two weeks. It took three hours to get back to Los Angeles. If the stewardesses had been as warm as the cocktails, and the cocktails as cold as the meal, it would have been a good trip. But they weren’t, so it wasn’t. I made a mental note to fly back on a different airline.

The next two days back home were spent between getting things together at work and getting caught up on my sleep. Then, after just three short days, I was back on one of them big gooney birds and winging my way east.

I had planned to make it to see my kids that night, or at least to get to Queen City, and I allowed myself five hours for the 300-mile ride. The plan was to arrive in Houston at six, so I figured I would get to my kids by 11.

You know what they say about the best laid plan.

It’s true. I arrived at 6 p.m. like I was supposed to, and Sweet Thing was there with a big smile, ready to truck me to where my bike was. We got on the freeway, and that was when the Vigoro hit the mix-master. It seems there was this ammonia truck and it decided to overturn on this particular day. Not only did it decide to overturn, it figured the best place to do it would be at the main interchange of two main freeways. Actually, that was pretty neat figuring since in Houston, if the interchange is blocked, all the traffic has to be routed onto one-lane streets. It being 6 p.m. on a work day added to the fun.

In a matter of mere hours we were back at Competition Motors, and I had the Black Bitch pointed north. It was 8 p.m.

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Bob Bitchin At midnight I pulled into Queen City. I don’t know what speed I averaged, but I ate my dinner while riding to improve it some. Two McDougal burgers in my pockets, and a Coke spilling between my legs. Yech!

I had breakfast with my family, and hooked it once again for a helmet law protest and party scheduled for Albany, New York, on May 8, and I wanted to be there. I figured it would take two hard days to get from Texas to Albany. I also saw Winston-Salem, North Carolina, wasn’t too far off the path, and since my brother was there, I figured I would try to make it to his house for the night.

I didn’t know it was 1,165 miles from Texarkana to Winston-Salem.

It was 3 a.m. when I pulled into his driveway. We sat there for awhile shooting the shit, and as the sun came up, we passed out. A few hours later I awoke, beat and red-eyed. Everyone else looked so rested and relaxed, but I didn’t stop to ponder my discomfort.

I hoped on the Bitch and rode out. Up through Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and into Pennsylvania, all I thought of was white sheets in darkened motel rooms.

It was in Virginia that I met this dude riding a Goldwing bike like mine. He urged me to catch the Blue Ridge Parkway. An hour later I met another dude, also on a Goldwing. He told me the same thing.

Now if one guy recommends scenery I might pass it up. But when two bikers say it, I feel an uncontrollable compunction to try the suggestion. I did, and it turn out Mistake Number 25.

The Blue Ride Mountain Parkway is a 300-mile road winding along the crest of the (you guessed it) 69

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Biker Blue Ridge Mountains. Views are just spectacular.

While I was puttin’ along it got real warm. In fact, it got up into the 90s. I pulled off my leathers.

Then, later, I pulled off my shirt. That felt so damn good I pulled off my helmet, and before long I was standing on my pegs, cruising the winding, scenic road, listening to John Denver tapes on my stereo and really digging every minute of it.

Then this goddamn, motherfucking siren comes on and scares the living shit out of me.

You know something? Helmet laws suck.

I picked up a ticket and lost my feeling for riding the parkway any more, so I got back down off the mountain and hit the interstate, headed for Pennsylvania.

Pennsyltucky didn’t share Virginia’s warm weather. It clobbered up and built rain squalls into a steady downpour.

Finally, in desperation, just outside Wilkles-Barre, I threw out my sleeping bag under a picnic table and froze my butt off.

After three hours of that torture, I decided no sleep was better than pneumonia, so I packed up and kept riding. As the sun was warming the upper strata of the clouds, I swam/rode into the New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania tri-state area.

Fortunately, the weather started to clear as I picked up the toll road to Albany. In fact, by the time I pulled into Albany it was sunny.

I headed over to B&B Cycle, headquarters for the run, and when I got there it was almost warm.

Warren Bennett, organizer of ABATE of New 70

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Bob Bitchin York, was busy making arrangements. A lot of you guys don’t know what it takes to organize a big protest. If you did, you would have a lot more respect for the people who get involved.

This run was even harder than most since this was to be a party, protest, swap meet, and bike show combined.

The camping area for the three-day party was a place called Six Mile Waterworks, which is actually a park with a lake, and plenty of green grass for camping.

A bunch of picnic tables were jammed together and some plywood was thrown on top for a stage on which bands would play. The immensity of this bash is best measured by the 25 beer keg lineup.

Two hundred bikers were on hand by Friday night to party. Local restaurants were full, but camping was still plentiful.

By Saturday about 600 bikers had arrived, as had the band, and it was party time. The beer flowed like beer, and the weather was as perfect as it could get. Even late at night we were riding without jackets.

The band played until early morning, and when the sun came up there were half clad and spent bodies laying all over the park.

Sunday, an impromptu ride was planned to go to the governor’s mansion. About 300 of us threw our helmets on the ground and took off. Temp was in the high 70s. We made our way to the mansion only to find the governor was out of town. We were informed of this by about six armed guards at the gate.

Here is where rule 17 was invoked: If you can’t protest, party. We all made it back to the park for more 71

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Biker brew and games.

A drag race was set up on the street in front of the park, and soon all cars were being diverted. At the same time, in the park itself a swap meet was in full swing, with hundreds of choice items at giveaway prices, but how do you carry a straight-leg frame 3,000 miles on a Goldwing?

Over in another corner of the park all of the far-out machines from around New York were lined up for judging in the cycle show, which was being sponsored by the Free Riders from Schenectady.

The police finally showed up, but when their 25 cars pulled onto the street in front of the park the heckling and cheering got so loud they backed down and pulled out. They then pulled up to the edge of the park and set up road blocks. Only bikers could get in. No citizens were allowed. This way anybody who came in did so at his own risk, and the police were relived of responsibility.

If there was every any doubt in your mind that the CIA has mastered weather control, forget it.

A little after sundown the clouds started to come in, and then it started to rain. In an hour the rain turned to snow. All day long we had been riding around in our shirt sleeves, in 75 degree weather, and then, the day before the protest and just when the partying was getting good, here comes the goddamn snow.

Well, snow wet down the party, and that’s for sure. Every motel in town was packed with bikes and bikers. Maybe wet, but undaunted, the party just transferred indoors.

A rapidly disappearing two-foot blanket of 72

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Bob Bitchin snow greeted me for breakfast. Not because of the heat, because of the drizzle. You want to talk about your blue Mondays, this was it. Shit.

U-Haul trucks started to show up. All the “bikers” from upstate were loading up. Other bikers tried to talk them into waiting until after the protest, but they wouldn’t.

Now I can’t blame them for wanting to truck the bikes home, but since they had spent the night freezing their asses off anyway, or had paid for a motel room, why not make it for a reason? They could have waited.

Of the estimated 2,000 bikers who showed up for the protest, only about 250 made the ride to the capitol. Luckily, the press was sufficiently impressed by these cold and wet bikers for coming out in that weather. They gave good coverage.

After the protest I aimed the Bitch south again to get out of that damn wet and cold. Passing out of Albany I hit some snow, but not a whole lot, and by the end of the day I was well into West Virginia, where it was a little warmer.

The Black Bitch and I just cruised down towards the warmth of Texas. A run was scheduled for San Antonio, and I wanted to make it, but I was in no hurry at all. I cruised through Tennessee and Arkansas, down into Louisiana, like one big, long downhill slide.

The sun came out, and it was warm, a day just made for jammin’ a scoot. I cruised through Dallas to pick up my old friend Chuck, and we both loaded up and headed for San Antonio.

The site for the run, Canyon Lake, was better 73

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Biker than any I had ever seen. Hundreds of bikers from Texas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma were united in partying fun, with bountiful cascades of beer, games, fun, and good war stories. The weather was fine, and the skies stayed clear. A perfect party to back up the perfect riding day yesterday.

As the run wound down in midafternoon I began to reflect on the time I had been away from home—three weeks of everything from shivering cold to sunburn. Since I had pretty well covered the country, I packed the Black Bitch and started finding my way to an interstate.

I followed a little back road for a while and before long I came upon a sign saying “I-10, 35 miles.”

My last 35 miles of fun cruising before I hooked it for home. The weather was great. Before long I had my helmet off and in my lap, eating the soul food of bikers—a good bike, good weather, and a good road.

But it wasn’t in my cards this day. A red light was in my rear view mirror. I was caught again.

As the sheriff approached me, I had to stifle a laugh. This dumb cluck looked like he had just stepped out of a Dodge commercial from the late ’60s. He was a redneck from the word go. I just knew his name was Buford T. Wheems or something equally hick. He hitched his gun belt up on his over-padded gut as if to say, “OK, biker, it’s you or me,” and sauntered over.

“Boah, y’all sposed to weah a hemut round heah, and you wahn’t!”

I took this to mean I was supposed to be wearing my skid lid, and told him I was from a state that didn’t have a helmet law.

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Bob Bitchin “Boah, ah cain’t hep dat, y’all sposed to weah it, and since ya ain’t ya gonna to ta jail.”

I thought he was kidding, and said so.

“Ah ain’t jokin. Ya gatta see the Justice o’ da Peace and pay a fine, and since it’s Satdidy, the JP ain’t workin’, so y’all gonna wait ’til Monday.”

It was at about this point that any humor seen in the situation completely disappeared. I mean, a joke is a joke, but three days in a joint called Boeme, Texas, wasn’t a whole bunch funny. It was then that I turned to Game Plan 2, also known as sniveling. I commenced to the “good ol’ boy” about my poor ol’ mom, whom I hadn’t seen in years, and how’s I was supposed to be at her house that night if I was in jail. She was going to be so disappointed in me. Wasn’t there something he could do?

Well, after a few minutes of hardcore sniveling he finally agreed to radio in and see if he could get the JP to come down and set a fine. I got up off my knees and followed him into town.

When we pulled up in front of the medieval looking dungeon that he called home, I was sorry I didn’t lay it on any thicker. The place looked like something out of the Marquis de Sade’s worst game plan.

I could picture torture chambers and all kinds of neat things inside.

When he unlocked the door to my cell he gave me the good news: The JP would be down to set bail.

Then he gave me the bad news: It wouldn’t be for a couple of hours.

As the door swung shut with a “clunk” of finality, I got ready for my wait. I mean, I had seen enough 75

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Biker kung fu movies to know all I had to do was cross my legs and meditate, and the time would pass on the wings of Mercury.

Bullshit.

The next two hours were the longest I have ever spent. When I wasn’t moving around to get off the lumps in the concrete mat they called a bunk, I was waging war on the damn roaches.

Just as the jumbo cockroaches were about to descend on my body, the sheriff came and opened the door. It was time to go see the JP. We walked across the street to the office and had a seat until the JP came in. It was just about here I got some more good news! The JP was a bike rider, way back when, in the early thirties.

It was also about then I got the bad news! He was a motorcycle cop, and he hated every minute he spent on that bike, and swore he would get even someday. That someday had arrived.

They looked at each other, then at me. He asked me how I wanted to plead. I figured this would be as good a time as any to test his feelings, so I asked him what would happen if I pleaded not guilty.

He didn’t take too kindly to the smirk on my face when I asked him, and said, in no uncertain terms, that I would be tried by a jury of my peers, in about ten days, and I would be held in jail until then, since I was a big time crook from out of state.

I pleaded guilty.

The JP picked up this big book that made Webster’s unabridged look like a comic book and read the statute that I had broken. After all the “wherefores” 76

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Bob Bitchin and “parties of the first parts,” he said something about “maximum of $200.”

My heart jumped into my throat. He had to be kidding. Two big ones for a skid lid?

Fortunately that was a maximum. He said that the fine would be $20 plus costs, which made a total of $29.50. I breathed a sigh of relief, and reached into my pocket. When I finished counting, I had exactly $29.08. I was short 42 cents. After informing me that he could have me locked up for a day for the shortage he decided to let me go, after I promised to send him the 42 cents. (I never did send it.) I asked what would happen if I didn’t pay, and he said I wouldn’t have to worry about anything then because I’d be locked up.

I paid, fast.

As I stood up to leave, the JP and the Sheriff started to talk about vagrancy and the like, since I was now broke. This is what they call humor in small Texas towns. I guess I just don’t have a sense of humor.

When I got the Bitch pointed west, and was well on the highway, I started to figure my position. I was 1,500 miles from home, with no money, and one credit card of dubious origin. It was going to be a very hungry trip.

And then I made a great discovery. Ramada Inns take Exxon credit cards, the one I had. That night when I hit Tucson, I pulled into one. They took my card without an eyebat. After pulling my bike up to the door, and finding it wouldn’t fit, I left it in the hallway right outside, and called room service for a couple of welldone cows, and a side of pork chops. I was starved.

Thanks to Exxon I hit the sack with a full stomach.

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Biker I was about 35 miles down the road when I noticed something was missing. Some asshole had ripped off my custom-made water seat. I had traveled over 10,000 miles on it, and I was damn well used to it. Shit.

I was almost home and nothing else adverse could happen to me. Wrong. How about a sandstorm?

I was heading across the California border in 90 degrees of puttin’ weather, couldn’t have asked for a better day. Then, as I was passing Palm Springs I noticed these black clouds up ahead. Now, when you see black clouds over the desert it means one thing.

You are about to be pelted with sand.

And I was, for almost 50 miles.

Then, almost miraculously, it stopped. There was no more sun, and no more 90 degree weather, but at least I wasn’t getting a free sandblasting anymore.

The rest of the ride home (all 60 miles of it) was uneventful. When I pulled into my garage I looked for my friends to tell them about my neat trip and everything, but they were all out on their scooters, seducing young babes on the beach. They just don’t know how to have fun.

I wandered into my living room, and that was as far as I made it. When I left, a couple of my friends got kicked out of their pads and decided, since I was gone, they would use mine. Heaped dead center was a pile of beer and wine bottles mixed with some Harley oil cans, and a miscellaneous assortment of old Harley parts.

It was a mess.

I did what any self-righteous biker would do in a 78

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Bob Bitchin situation like that. I calmly sat down on my oil soaked couch, took the cover off my favorite copy of Hustler, dumped in a full ounce of home grown, and smoked myself into oblivion.

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Trippin’ Americana Who knows what evil lurks on the open roads and highways of this here country?

Well, we weren’t a whole lot sure, but since there was a motorcycle rally planned for Sturgis, South Dakota, and since deadlines fell just right, we decided to make a little “business” trip and find out.

Sometimes being a big-time editor pays off.

After cramming together an issue of Choppers, we called up Honda and asked them for some bikes we could “test” ride up to Sturgis. The dude there was real helpful and promised us we would have a Goldwing and a Honda CX500 twin waiting for us. Oh boy, not only would we be puttin’ around the country, but we would get to do it on other folks’ bikes, so we 81

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Biker didn’t have to bust ours up.

Or so we thought.

It seems that this dude who lined us up with the bikes went on vacation a few days before we were to pick up our machines, and nobody at Honda knew a thing about it.

And that was how our trip started. Now, if we had any sense at all, we would have taken that as an omen and quit right there. But as you know, bikers ain’t the brightest folks on earth, and we are a couple of prime examples.

I managed to get one test bike for assistant editor Joe to ride, but it looked like my poor, bedraggled Goldwing would have to haul my lard butt all the way up there. That normally wouldn’t even bother a Goldwing, but mine had just returned from a 20,000mile trip around the country, and she was over 50,000 miles old totally. Even for a Goldwing that’s a lot of miles.

I looked around my garage at my Harley chopper and decided that she would be good to ride, but as I rode her home from work two days before departure she decided she didn’t want to haul my 300-pound carcass all the way to South Dakota, and she puked oil all over my leg, just to let me know.

So the Black Bitch was decided on. She didn’t even complain as I bolted on a fairing and some saddlebags, and on the morning of departure she sat proudly in front of our local Home of the Big Boy awaiting the other two dummies who were to attempt this trip.

About 7 a.m. Indian Joe, our trusted Indian scout and assistant editor, pulled up, and a few minutes later 82

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Bob Bitchin Billy Jack, our technical (hah) editor, pulled up on his 750 Honda. We were all set.

After caressing the waitresses good-bye, we hooked it out onto the freeway, and soon the feeling of traveling took over. We were on our way.

We boogied out through Los Angeles and Riverside, and soon we were heading into that great wasteland known as the desert.

Now, for those of you who aren’t into deserts (and who the hell is?), I must digress for a moment and explain what a desert is.

A desert is a large kitty litter box with a surface temperature of 130 degrees in the shade, with absolutely no shade anywhere.

By late evening we were pulling into Needles, and as we sat in an air-conditioned Sambo’s sipping lemonade, we decided to find a motel and get in out of the heat. You see, it was still over 100 degrees, and it was after 10 p.m. That, my friend, is a bummer.

The next morning we awoke in a very rested state. The air conditioning was humming softly and we were feeling good to be on the road.

Until we opened the door. It was 7 a.m. and the temperature was over 105.

We aimed our trusty steeds into the east once again, and soon we were riding topless across more of the great kitty litter desert. Our bikes were running a little hot, but not too bad, and except for the excessive heat it wasn’t too bad.

We got off the interstate and started to head north to a little place called the Grand Canyon. I mean, really, just because we were working doesn’t mean we 83

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Biker couldn’t enjoy the trip, right?

We came over a slight rise and all of a sudden the earth ended. If you have never seen the Grand Canyon, there is no explaining it. Let me put it this way. If all the deserts in the world are made of kitty litter, this is the place they dug it out of. It’s the biggest hole since Cleopatra.

After oohing and aahing for awhile we turned eastward again, and soon the desert swallowed us up. We stopped a couple of times to partake of some wacky tobaccy that was stashed miraculously on one of the bikes, and soon our alleged minds were far off reliving Star Wars as we went across the stupid desert.

As the sun began to dip behind some mountains, we decided to find a camp for the night, and after a quick stop for some food to cook, we headed into a small grove of trees on this Indian Reservation.

Now folks, before choosing a campsite, it is always a good idea to check out the terrain. We all knew this, but it had been so hot that day and we were so beat, all we wanted to do was unload and get our tents up to keep the bugs off us. We pulled into a decent-looking campsite and started to unload.

Then we noticed that the whole place smelled like an outhouse.

It didn’t take us a whole lot longer to figure out the reason why. It was just that. An outhouse. Every tree hid a new surprise. Of course we had our tents all set up before we realized it, so we just decided to live in it.

The next day, with sunlight to light the land mines, we carefully packed our bikes and found our 84

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Bob Bitchin way through the shit (gotta call a spade a spade).

Shortly we were on the road again and our sense of smell started to recover. After all, when you are from Los Angeles, a little bad air doesn’t even slow you down. In fact, it makes you feel at home.

When our heads straightened out enough for us to ride again we aimed to the east and started out across more of that blistering desert. Why all the neat stuff like the Grand Canyon has to be buried in a bunch of overheated kitty litter is beyond me.

We made a stop at Four Comers, where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico come together (Gee, I love foursomes), and contemplated robbing some of the local merchants. After all, what state would have jurisdiction? When we realized that there were more Indians there than there were at Custer’s Last Stand, we decided to maintain our good guy images (and our hair), and confined our enjoyment to checking out all the tourist types’ youngest female offspring.

Didja ever notice how small short shorts are getting?

Disgusting! (Sigh) When the last beautiful young thing loaded her ripe little derrière into one of the big motor homes, it was time to resume normal breathing and hook it again.

The three musketeers mounted their trusty steeds, and were soon sweating their way into Colorado.

About ten miles after we left Four Comers, my bike, the Bitch, decided it was time to live up to her name. Every time I would back off the throttle I would hear thunk.

A few miles later it was a thunk, thunk.

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Biker And farther down the road, as we came limping into Cortez, Colorado, it was a thump, thunk, thunkity, thump, clank.

Being your normal dumb-type bikers, we figured that the drive shaft just needed a shot of grease, so while Billy Jack and Indian filled their tanks, I filled my shaft.

As we cruised slowly through Cortez it seemed to have worked. We passed the local Honda shop (closed on Sunday, which it was) and headed northward toward the Rockies. We could almost smell the fresh Rocky Mountain High, and just as there started to be some trees at the edge of the road, a final clank was heard from my poor 50,000-mile Goldwing.

We casually drifted to the side of the road (if you can call sliding with your back wheel locked up casual), and started to disassemble the beast.

The farther we got into it, the worse it looked.

After three hours of sweating, cursing, and busting knuckles, we discovered the worst. It was a broken drive shaft.

Sometimes chains aren’t such a bad way to drive a rear wheel after all.

While Billy Jack and I discussed the various ways of making the best of the situation, Indian trucked it the seven miles back into town and did a little detective work. Since the Honda shop was closed, he went there to see if there was an emergency number.

There wasn’t.

But then he saw a license plate holder that said “Gene Patton Motors,” and it was on a Honda, at that.

To totally disprove the fact that all Indians are proof 86

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Bob Bitchin that waterheads mate, he put two and three together and came up with six. He picked up the phone and called Gene Patton. Sure enough, he was the owner of the local Honda/Kawasaki emporium.

About a half-hour later Gene and his wife pulled up beside our poor, busted bike and commenced to help us give absolution to her. Then we loaded her up and made plans.

It being Sunday, there wasn’t a whole lot we could do, so Gene took us over to a campsite near his shop. On the way one of the local gendarmes decided that he didn’t like bikers a whole lot, and pulled Billy Jack and Indian over. He was just getting ready to write ’em up (Indian wasn’t wearing any glasses and they have an eye protection law there) when I hopped out of the truck with my camera. You should have seen the look in the cop’s eyes when I asked him to smile.

When he found out we were with a big-time rag he got real friendly and cut them loose.

Wonder what he would have done if it had been just a couple of bikers? Busted ’em for felony existing and for being known bikers, probably.

After Gene and his wife dropped us off at the campsite we set up our tents and started to consider what a night in Cortez, Colorado, meant.

After we had considered all the possibilities (watching the paint dry on the wall, going down to the intersection after dark and watching the signals change, counting pickup trucks that passed), we were saved by an invite over to Gene’s place for some fresh peaches and cake (excellent).

We sat and talked biker talk until the wee hours, 87

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Biker and then wandered back to our tents.

In the light of day things are supposed to look better.

Whoever wrote that sucks.

When the shop opened we went over to check out what we could do. There was no spare drive shaft in stock (naturally), and a call to Honda said it would take all day just to get the part out of the warehouse.

We still had to get it from Gardena, California, to Cortez, Colorado.

After much figuring, we had the plan. I would call Honda’s PR department and see if they couldn’t rush through the order. Then I would get a runner from my magazine to pick it up and take it to the airport to Albuquerque. Gene, aside from being a Honda store owner, was also a pilot. He would fly to New Mexico and pick up the part. We could have been on the road within seven or eight hours.

But I forgot I had to deal with Honda. Not only that, but I had to deal with the same guy who fixed us up with the test bikes and then got lost.

Why me, Lord?

Anyway, I called him up and asked if there was any way to cut through the red tape and get the shaft (no pun intended) on a plane. He said he would call be right back.

Five hours later I was just a tad pissed off. He hadn’t called back. When I called to see where he was, they said he was out. Period. $#@#!!@# Now, I am a normal biker, with a normal temper, and I was losing it fast. I started to think of alternative 88

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Bob Bitchin plans.

Then I noticed this brand-new Goldwing over in a corner of the shop.

Why not?

I tried to buy the drive shaft out of it. I offered Gene $100 for it.

No sale.

Then he offered to sell me the new bike.

At first I scoffed. My bike was fine. And besides that, it had a fairing and saddle bags on it that I was testing for the rag, and a bunch of chrome and, well, I don’t know what else. I just wasn’t ready to buy another bike.

Three hours later I finished bolting on the last piece of my luggage off my old bike. I took one last look over my shoulder at her, sitting there like a puppy dog with a busted rear section, stifled an urge to walk over and kiss her good-bye, and turned on the throttle of my brand-new, 1978, bright and shiny blue Goldwing.

It was just a matter of minutes until I had forgotten the old bitch. From now on the Black Bitch was dead. It was the Blue Bitch.

Once again the three musketeers were on the road, and we were heading into the great Rocky Mountains.

We checked out our maps and found a neat way to traverse the Rockies. If we stayed on course we wouldn’t have to use any interstate highway at all, and we would cross the Continental Divide at least three or four times. Pure heaven for a true biker.

The country turned from scruffy underbrush to high and majestic pine trees. A cool river was beside 89

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Biker the road wherever we went. It was like leaving the hell of the giant kitty litter box called desert and entering heaven. It was great.

Higher and higher the travelers went, and the farther up the mountains we went, the prettier it got.

Then all of a sudden the road ended.

Oh, I don’t mean that it went over a cliff or anything. Hell, that would have made the story too interesting. Actually it just turned to dirt right as we passed a neat little lake. We were about 10,000 feet up at that point.

Now here we had a choice to make. We could either keep going, not knowing how bad the road was above us, or we could turn around and travel in excess of a couple of hundred miles and bypass the dirt.

We opted for the unknown and pushed on.

Of course, first we had to dip into the wacky tobaccy once again for sustenance.

A little while later we were oblivious to any dips or bad spots in the road. We simply boogied down the street—or should I say motocross course, because that was more like what it really was.

Soon we came to this big meadow, filled with flowers and a clear stream that ran like a snake down the center of it. The whole valley was a little over five miles long and about two or three wide, but it was like a world unto itself (damn, but I get flowery when I’m loaded). We crossed the valley, and soon we found that the road was deteriorating fast. The two-lane graded road was down to a one-lane gravel pit, then to a cow trail. About the time we came upon this here large bull, who didn’t want to move, we figured we just might be 90

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Bob Bitchin off the right road, and did an about-face.

Sure enough, about a mile down the path we found some guy out on his four-wheel-drive Jeep, and he informed us (after a hearty chuckle) that we had turned wrong about two miles back.

Awhile later we were hurriedly making up for lost time.

About 20 miles farther up the dirt road we hit the summit of Cottonwood Pass.

Now folks, you will just have to bear with me as I try to explain what it’s like, after forging through 20 miles of bad road, to come to the summit.

There was a sign that said we were at 12,126 feet, and all we had to do was try to breathe and we believed it. The top of the whole mountain range was just a couple of hundred feet above us, and we decided that we should try to climb to the tip-top and take our pictures there.

You will notice there is no such picture with this story.

That is because just as we were ready to go for it, these three college types came straggling down the hill. They looked like two were on the starting lineup for the Arkansas Razorbacks, and the other had to be the winner of the King Kong look-alike contest. To put it straight, the worst shape on any of them made the best of our crew look like Jack LaLanne rejects.

After they told of harrowing minutes trying to breathe way up there, and after we saw how close to exhaustion they were, we turned tail and hooked it back onto the bikes.

‘Tis better to run away and live to breathe (and 91

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Biker ride) another day.

Who needs summits anyway?

From here the rest of the day was downhill ridin’. The road resembled a washboard more than a road, but it was so darn pretty we just didn’t care. We stopped a couple of times to take pictures of waterfalls and other earthly delights we just don’t have back in Los Angeles, and soon we found our tires back on the blacktop of civilization.

We followed the small road we were on for a few miles, and soon our little trip into nature’s wonderland was ruined by a quarter-mile-wide strip of asphalt known as Interstate 70.

Interstates suck.

We managed to endure it for a few miles, until we hit the turnoff for Highway 40. This was the road that would take us into Rocky Mountain State Park.

A few miles up the road we noticed these large black things over our heads, somewhat the shape and consistency of licorice soup, with large flashes of light and sounds like large bowling balls with a hangover, and we ducked into a campground just as a leak was sprung.

That night we sat watching Indian eat his goulash (or whatever it was we cooked up) while wearing a helmet to keep the rain off his head. It did get a little wet out.

Of course it didn’t bother us a whole lot, since we just sat inside my tent most of the night, played backgammon, and smoked the finest of imported tobaccos (hooray for Colombia).

When we regained consciousness the sun was 92

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Bob Bitchin shining again and all looked good. We packed up our bikes and soon we were heading back up into the high (no pun intended) mountains.

We took our time cruising through Rocky Mountain State Park, and then we went down into the tourist-ridden town of Estes Park and stopped for a pizza and a couple of pitchers of Rocky Mountain Cool Aid (thank you, Mr. Coors).

From there on for the rest of the day it was a real drag. We hit Interstate 25 a few miles farther down the road, and the way to Sturgis was right up that ribbon of black. It was hot and miserable for the rest of the day, and we finally decided to stop in the beautiful town of Lusk.

Now folks, let me tell you about Lusk, Wyoming.

There is this little place there that traps unsuspecting tourists with its inviting little sign out front, but don’t be fooled like we were. It’s a trap. Inside the Coffee Cup Cafe there are a whole bunch of the ugliest women ever assembled on the face of the earth. Godzilla and Frankenstein would feel right at home here, and would have little trouble getting hooked up for the night. I ain’t gonna say they were pigs or anything, but we had been on the road for almost a week, and they even turned our strong stomachs.

Yeecchh!!!

By the way, if you do stop by, say hello to Ol’ Rhino Haunches for me. (Well, it had been a week, ya know.)

As we entered the Black Hills the next day we could see more and more bikes the closer we got to Sturgis. We knew we were on the right track when we 93

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Biker pulled into Deadwood and saw all the bikes. From there the 12-mile ride into Sturgis was one large parade of bikes.

We rushed to the city park to set up our camp, and then it was time to kick back and enjoy the run.

After three days of hearty partying, we were almost anxious to hit the road again. Late-night parties and early-morning rides just don’t get it when packed end to end for a few days. The bod tends to need some sleep.

After a meeting of ABATE that was held late Saturday afternoon, we packed up our scoots and bid adieu to the land of bikers.

We aimed our trusty bikes to the west and hooked it. First stop, the Devil’s Tower, where visions of Close Encounters danced in our heads. We had planned to stay there that night, but the campground was too dusty, and there were no showers, and after three days in the Sturgis city park, a shower was the first thing on each of our minds, if only for self-protection.

We turned our throttles on pretty good, and before it got dark we were heading into Gillette, Wyoming. We planned a gas stop there, but just as we pulled off the ramp Billy Jack’s bike started to cough, and then died.

We pulled to the side of the road and checked it out. All we could find was a burned fuse, so we replaced it. He started his bike up, and once again we headed for a gas station.

His bike puked again.

In fact, every time he would hit his brakes his bike would die. The last time I saw him start to pull 94

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Bob Bitchin over to the side I pulled up just behind him and put my foot on his exhaust pipe. Then I pushed him on into town.

A few minutes later we realized that we were tired as hell, and decided to opt for a room for the night. I went ahead to find one while Billy Jack and Indian wrapped the foil from some cigarette packages around the burned fuse.

After we settled into the room, and fixed Billy Jack’s bike, we went out to gobble down some good Western-style cooking (Cap’n Jack’s Fish Fry), and then we returned to our sleazy dive.

Now folks, if you have never been in Gillette, Wyoming, on a Saturday night, let me try to fill you in on what you have missed. ...

That’s about it. Absolutely nothing.

For the first couple of hours we sat on the curb in front of our motel, watching 20 or 30 pickup trucks cruise “The Strip.” When that got too boring for words, we decided to hook it to find the nearest bar that looked good.

The search took almost five minutes. There were none.

After awhile the curb we were sitting on became a tourist attraction for the cruisers, and more than one would pass, hang out a short-haired head, and shout something like, “Hey, hippies,” or “Longhairs” (read with disgust).

Billy Jack palmed a large rock, just in case the locals got hostile (it seems that the Indian had had a little too much of the finer smoke and was calling the 95

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Biker passing cowboys off-the-wall names, even though they outnumbered us 50 or so to one), and I started to limber up my knuckles.

Then all of a sudden it hit me. There weren’t any bikes cruising the street.

Now folks, I have been in some small towns, but on cruise night there are always a few bikes making the rounds. Then the idea hit me. If we pulled our bikes out here in front, where the action was, so to speak, maybe we could get some of the young woofies to stop and chat, and maybe even share some body.

A few minutes later we had the bikes in front, and were kicked back in our best “Easyrider” poses.

No women stopped, but a miraculous change took place in the passing pickups. They stopped being hostile. They started to wave when they passed, and even slowed down to check out the scoots.

See, sometimes motorcycles ain’t all that bad an image-maker after all.

In the morning the town of Gillette looked just like any other shit-kickin’ town in the West. Lots of trucks full of hay (where are they going with all that stuff?) and more trucks full of Lord only knows what.

Guess the car dealers there don’t do a whole lot of business with standard door slammers.

Anyway, we packed up our belongings and started the trek westward again. As we boogied up the road we checked out our map. We had a stop to make on the way home, and today was the day.

You see, there is a man by the name of Chattanooga Charlie, who hails from (could you have guessed?) Chattanooga. At a trike meet in Thermo96

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Bob Bitchin polis, Wyoming, ol’ Charlie was out doing his normal, raisin’ hell, when some geriatric who had too much to drink ran into him. Charlie was racked up pretty bad, what with his hip bone trying to dislocate his neck, and he had to miss the Sturgis Classic, which he never does. We decided to bypass Route 14-A, which is one of the prettiest roads in the country, and hooked across on 16, straight into Thermopolis.

It didn’t take long to find the hospital there, and all we had to do was pull up on bikes and the staff pointed the way automatically to Charlie’s room.

Guess we weren’t the first bikers to stop for a visit.

After a few minutes discussing bikes, broads, and other good things, we bid Charlie adieu. There is just something about hospitals that makes me nervous, and I was anxious to get out of there. I did feel bad about leaving after such a short visit, but I know Charlie understood (don’t you?).

Anyway, after a stop for lunch at the Manhattan Cafe (highly recommended), we hooked it north to meet Highway 14 again, and soon we were heading up the eastern slopes into Yellowstone.

Just before we got to the gates of Yellowstone we decided we should find a place to camp, since there was little doubt that all the camping sites in the park would be full, and we found a really neat state campground with just four campsites in it, and picked one out.

It sat just below a bunch of cliffs, and after we unpacked our garbage and set up camp, we decided to take a hike.

Now folks, bikers and hikers got very little in 97

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Biker common, except maybe for the spelling. Bikers sit on their sleds and let their hand do all the work, but hikers got to walk, climb, and otherwise get all sweaty.

No fun. Believe me. If it wasn’t for the fact that Billy Jack and Indian were so hot to climb that fool mountain, I wouldn’t have even attempted it.

About half way up this cliff, which looked big and steep from the bottom, and impassable from the middle, I decided to lightweight out and found an easy way to the top. It exhausted me, but that is to be expected when you weigh 300 pounds.

And besides that, I beat the other two “lightweights” to the top, and that was what counted. Like they say, it ain’t how you play the game, it’s if you win or lose that counts.

Or was it the other way around?

Oh well, not important.

Anyway, after we got to the top, and after Indian and Billy Jack opted for the easy path too, we sat there and looked out over our domain.

Then we decided it would be fun to throw rocks and see how far they would go.

The rocks kept getting larger.

Then we found this boulder that weighed at least 600 pounds, and it was loose. That was all we needed. The three of us planted our feet and started to push. In a matter of seconds the rock broke loose from its mooring and was plummeting over the cliff.

As it bounced down the mountain it hit a large tree, and snapped the top right off it.

The next 15 minutes were spent finding loose boulders and letting them fly.

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Bob Bitchin The next day, after a good night’s sleep, we climbed out of our sleeping bags, and froze our butts off.

It seems old man winter wanted to come out of retirement. During the night another bikers, from Idaho, had pulled into one of the other campsites, and he told us that the day before, while we were in Thermopolis, a rainstorm and cold front had come through, right over Highway 14-A, and had drenched everything.

If you ever believed in Karma, this was a time.

We stop to do a good deed and see a friend in the hospital, and miss a gigantic rainstorm.

But we didn’t miss the cold front. The temperatures were down into the low 40s and then into the upper 30s.

We strapped on all the clothes we had, and headed up the pass.

After paying the toll at the gate for Yellowstone we kept on riding. It was almost too cold to stop.

Indian even put a bandana around his face, and his name changed instantly from Indian Joe to The Frito Bandito.

We made all the tourist-type stops, like the steam outlets and Old Faithful, but the cold weather kept us from enjoying it a whole lot. The only good thing we could say about it was that the cold weather made the hot steam billow up with more gusto and it looked neater than I had ever seen.

By the way, the next day it snowed in Yellowstone.

Who ever heard of snow in August?

Only when you are a biker, right?

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Biker The rest of the day was spent doing the in-saddle boogie, and as the sun set we had passed out of the park, through a small corner of Montana, and down into southern Idaho. We camped in Massacre Rocks State Park that night.

After crossing the Snake River Canyon, where we had all three been a couple of years back when Evel Bollweevil decided to fly his steam-powered plane halfway across the canyon, we stopped for some breakfast, and then made it down into Nevada.

Now folks, once again I must digress. You see, a little after we went into Nevada we were pulled over by this State Patrolman. There is a thing called a helmet law in that state, and we weren’t wearing ours.

After we deftly talked him out of the ticket by taking his picture and telling him how neat he was going to look on the cover of Choppers, we sat and discussed the Nevada judicial system.

All we wanted to know was, in a state that never had a speed law, allowed unlimited gambling and was the only place in the country where whorehouses were legal, how they could enforce a law that said all bikers must wear these artificial toilets on their heads.

It didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

After discussing it at length, and after we were sure there was no ticket forthcoming, we mounted our steeds, with brain buckets in place on our pointed little heads, and hooked it to Reno, to take advantage of what was legal.

That night we did just that. Everything that was legal, and boy, was it expensive.

After we all lost our money to the gambling 100

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Bob Bitchin gods, and Billy Jack and I were down to our last $20, we decied to split up. Indian had a little sweetie he wanted to see on the coast of California, and Bill and I just wanted to see if we could get home on our measly 20 bucks. Indian hooked it out of sight over the Interstate, while Billy Jack and I hooked it south on Highway 395.

There is always something about the last day on the road. You kind of spend the day looking back over the whole trip, and trying to imagine all you have done and all the miles you’ve covered.

As we passed out of Nevada and into California, my (alleged) mind wandered back up to the Rockies, sitting on top of a 12,000-foot peak looking down into valleys that appeared so small, yet were over a mile high themselves.

And the waterfalls that fell from solid rock.

And of my poor old Black Bitch, that some nerd in Cortez, Colorado, would soon be abusing.

And of good ol’ Chattanooga Charlie, laid up for six to eight weeks in a hospital thousands of miles from home.

And of snow, falling where we had just passed through.

But most of all I was thinking of the weather.

You see, this is the first trip I have taken in over 15 years where I was not rained on.

The next day, it rained like hell.

But by then the three dumb bikers were home.

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Puttin’ Across America There are good things about takin’ off on a long trip, and there are bad. No doubt about it. The good is that you get out of the friggin’ office, where you are surrounded by four walls and a bunch of hassles, and the bad is that you know there will be at least one time when you wish you were back in that office.

This trip was no different, just a lot weirder.

What brought this stupid trip about was a glance at the calender section in the rear of Chopper. It showed that there were to be a couple of lid law protests, one in New York and one in Pennsylvania; both on the same weekend. That meant I could probably con the cheap assholes in the front office into letting me go and cover them, since I would be covering two stories at once.

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Biker At least it made sense to me.

Of course they are so damn cheap that they wanted even more for their traveling bucks, so by the time the planning was all over I had to cover a helmet law protest in Pennsylvania, one in New York the next day, a show in Massachusetts, another protest in Michigan three days later, and last, but not least, they wanted a story on a run in Oregon (Oregon? That’s 3,000) miles away!).

Of course I was to shoot a couple of feature bikes at each event, and end up with at least 10 stories from the one trip.

Told ya they were cheap, didn’t I? After weighing the options (I could stay in the office and work, or go out on the road and ride), I decided to go for it.

Goes to show just how dumb bikers can be, huh?

Anyway, I got them to approve the trip and minimal expenses, and soon I was packing for the trip.

A day before I was to take off I realized that the bike I had planned on riding on this trip, a Sturgis model Harley I was to do a story on, was not going to be ready.

No big problem really. I just dusted the seat off my Old Black Bitch II, which is a 1980 Goldwing, and got ready for the trip.

Of course this meant that: (a) I would not have time to service the poor old Black Bitch, which I had just finished riding back from Daytona Beach. The poor thing had 7,000 miles on it and it was only a month old. Now I would be taking off on a 7,000 mile trip, and 104

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Bob Bitchin not even an oil change.

I slapped a few things on the bike on Tuesday night, and at dawn it was boogie time. I had three days to get to Pennsylvania, some 2,800 miles away.

As I crossed the California line I said goodbye to the overcast skies and headed into the mountains around Flagstaff, where the snow on the mountains was a stark contrast to the sun-heated roads.

Talking about contrasts, the fact that the sun was shining and it was raining at the same time seemed to be a strange contrast also.

Weird.

As I crossed into New Mexico, out of Arizona I started to calculate how many miles a day I would have to ride, to make it in time to the Pennsylvania protest.

I fucked up.

It seems that I had to do a little over 900 miles a day to get there, and that is a bitch.

Why me, Lord?

I checked the map I had in front of me on the tank bag and figured mileage. I would be able to stop somewhere after Albuquerque.

That wouldn’t have been too bad, but the rain was coming down pretty hard after I got into New Mexico, and visions of my nice warm office and bouncing young secretary started to look pretty good compared to this cold, wet, long day in the saddle.

I made it to a sleazy fleabag in Moriarty, New Mexico, and finally closed my eyes for the night. 915 miles.

In the morning I turned on the Boob Tube as I 105

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Biker packed, to check out the weather. Figured I might as well be in tune for what was coming.

Now folks, have you ever had the feeling that the whole world was after yer butt?

It seems that the weather was to be beautiful all over the country, with temps in the 80s everywhere.

Except the Texas Panhandle and Oklahoma.

Any guesses where the stupid one had to go?

No cheating now. Any guesses?

You’re right. The road headed straight through the Panhandle and into Oklahoma.

And I had 900 miles to go.

The whole day was spent dodging thunderstorms, listening to weather forecasts on the radio I had installed on the bike, and wishing I was back home nibbling on my old lady’s ear.

By 11 p.m. I was pulling into Missouri, where the temperature was down into the low 40s, and got a room. Since it was still raining I didn’t feel like camping much.

Five a.m. comes early when you want to sleep, but I had 900 miles to do, and no time to waste. I wanted to be in Pennsylvania that night, so I could be ready for the run in the morning.

I packed the bike up, stopped for a plastic burger at McDougal’s Gland of the Swollen Starches, and hooked it on up the road.

Until I got stopped by the unfriendlies.

You see, it was about 32 degrees out, and colder than a bitch but the weather man kept saying it was warmer up north and to the east.

For the first time I had heard some good news.

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Bob Bitchin Warmth was ahead.

I turned the throttle a couple of degrees more, and headed for sun and fun.

But Buford T. Wheems, Friendly Sheriff and resident asshole decided that large bikers should not get to where it is warm, and pulled me off the road, for a little tête-à-tête.

Now folks, here I must digress. You see, I get a little sleepy when I am on the road, and to keep me “up” I sometimes use a little, uh, well, pharmaceutical help.

In other words, I down some drugs.

Well, on this particular trip I was fortunate enough to have a friend who had just returned from the shores of Colombia, and snow was offered up as a going away gift.

How nice.

To make this ‘snow’ able to keep me up, I added a little secret white powder, known as pure crystal methedrine, and topped the mixture off with a dab of extract of the weed, better known as THC. Now this little mixture was in my front right pocket, for easy access when I would start to feel a little drowsy. It would wake ya up, make you feel good, and do all kinds of other neat things.

Like give you things to talk to when they ain’t there.

Anyway, I had this vial in my pocket.

But wait, there is more.

You see, when I get into paranoia, I like to do it right. No screwin’ around, ya know.

In my inside jacket pocket I was also carrying 107

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Biker a four barreled .357 magnum derringer. Just in case I would be attacked by warring natives or other unfriendlies.

So there I sat, exchanging pleasantries with this escapee from a 1956 Brylcreem commercial.

All I was trying to do was think of what it was going to be like doing 20 to life for felonious existing.

But what’s this? Sheriff Buford has a soft spot.

Right smack dab in the middle of his head. He’s letting me go, with just a warning.

Seems the boy has a younger brother (if I were his mother I’d have stopped with the first one) and he rode a bike. I gave him a copy of our rag, smiled with all the pretty white teeth my folks paid so much for, and rode off into the sunlight, jamming large doses of “medicine” up my nose.

The rest of the day was spent bouncing along the highways of Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio.

As things will happen, the later it got, the worse things got. First the temperature dropped to below freezing. Then, as I shook in my boots crossing into West Virginia, I made a great discovery. It seems that the roads in West Virginia suck.

At least the Interstate I was on. It was like a motocross track.

I bounced from berm to berm, barely able to keep the fool bike between the lines, and made it the few miles across the tip of West Virginia.

And then I was there. “Welcome to Pennsylvania.” Man, I never thought I would see as beautiful a sight.

It was near midnight as I pulled in and found 108

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Bob Bitchin a warm room for rent. It was a sleaze bag, but it was warm, and I slept like a rock.

In the morning, like about 5 a.m., I crawled out of the most comfortable bed in the world and pulled my clothes on. Only a couple of hundred miles to go, and I had to be there by 10 a.m. I packed my nose with some “Bitchin Powder” (that’s like itching powder only better), and headed towards Carlisle, where I was to meet up with some folks from ABATE of PA. I found the campground they were staying at, and after smoking a few “doobies” to get our heads straight, we headed towards Harrisburg, where the big protest was to be.

Four of us left ahead of the pack to get down there and make sure all the arrangements were made.

We hopped onto the interstate and rode.

And we rode.

And we rode some more.

Pretty soon even I knew we were lost, and I had never been there before.

Seems we missed the stupid turnoff, and went about 20 miles farther than we should have.

All I could think of, as we headed back, was that I had ridden 2,800 miles without a wrong turn, and now, just 20 miles from the protest, I might miss the damn thing because of a wrong turn.

But I worried for naught. As we pulled into the capitol the bikes were filling into the parking lot. Since it was Saturday, and the place was closed, the lot was reserved for bikers only.

After a few speeches by boring speakers like myself, the fun part of the protest arrived. It was time 109

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Biker to parade lidless down the main streets of Harrisburg.

As thousands of citizens looked on, and with a police escort both front and rear, we wound our way through the Capital City.

As the parade wound past an entrance to the interstate I made a quick right, and I was on my way to New York, and another fun protest.

The ride to New York, Albany to be exact, was about the most pleasant that I had so far. Nice sunshine, good roads, and, even though I can’t get used to toll roads, no stops. I arrived at the sight of the Albany protest, bike show, and swap meet.

The whole thing had been set up at a parkn-ride off the interstate, and it looked like an armed encampment.

The weatherman had been screaming that the rain would soon be on us, so I decided that instead of sleeping in a soggy sleeping bag, I would get a room.

Never can tell when you might need a warm place to go.

I headed to the same motel that I had stayed in two years earlier when I had come up to cover a protest, and pulled into the driveway.

The big welcome sign in front blazed “Vacancy” for all to see, and the parking lot was empty. Far out.

Or so I thought.

It seems that there was a Greyhound bus coming in at midnight, and they were holding all the rooms for it.

Now folks, I am a pretty gullible guy, but there are limits to my gullibility.

As I stood there listening to this asshole tell me 110

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Bob Bitchin there were no rooms, a car pulled up and while I stood and listened to one clerk tell about this magic bus that was on it’s way, the guy in the car walks in, signs up for a room (no reservation) and goes to his room.

What the hell.

After balancing my options in my head (a thump on his head for a few nights in jail), I decided to forget it and boogied back to the park-n-ride.

That night the skies opened up and the rain dumped down as 15,000 bikers partied and enjoyed the preparations for the big protest.

When the protest was finally over and done with, I packed up the Black Bitch once again, and kept up my eastward trek, belching sausage burgers and warm beer.

The weather was fine as I hooked it down the Taconic State Parkway. I wasn’t used to paying to ride down a road, but, as they say, when in Rome, whatever...

Anyway, I was feeling pretty good, when all of a sudden there is this sign, right there in the middle of the friggin’ road.

“New Massachusetts gun law. 1 YEAR MANDATORY JAIL”.

Now folks, let me tell you just how I feel about jail.

Well, on second thought, your ears probably ain’t ready for such language. Let’s just say I cannot remember one good thing about being in the can.

I pulled off the roadway and took out my trusty cannon. I took out the hollow points and stashed ’em in a safe little pocket on my tank bag. Then I took the 111

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Biker barrel off the gun and stashed it in my camera bag.

The rest of the gun went into my raincoat, that was rolled up in a saddlebag.

Didn’t want to take any chances, dontcha know.

Feeling a little better, the trip into Boston wasn’t too bad. When I arrived I went over to Paul Jamiol’s house, our staff cartoonist, and the rest of the night was spent shootin’ the bull with Bob Doiron from the MMA, and munching on Italian food.

The next day was time for me to get my butt back to Los Angeles to put together an issue of Chopper and to put together an issue of FTW News Magazine, that also had a deadline.

For the next three days I sat chained to a typewriter typing out shit like this, to fill enough space to justify my traveling all over the country.

When that was all done, after three days of uppers, speed and more uppers, the issues were ready to go to press, and I boarded another airliner for Boston, some 3,000 miles distant.

As I sat there, traveling 30,000 feet over the ground, I couldn’t help but think how boring flying is.

Here I was covering the same ground I covered over the last week or so, but it was a drag. I had to watch some off the wall movie about love in bloom, or some other such horseshit, just to kill the time.

Riding a bike’s a bunch more fun. No doubt about it.

The flight back took 5 hours and 25 minutes.

The ride out in the first place took 5 days.

I arrived early afternoon and Paul was waiting for me. We made it right over to his place, packed up 112

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Bob Bitchin the bikes, and were soon on the road to Fitchburg, where the MMA show was planned.

The ride up was perfect, with the temp in the high 70’s, and soon we arrived at the center where the show was being held.

After shootin’ the shit with some of the folks who were putting the show together, we went over to the Coach Inn, where the MMA was headquartered, and we check in.

Now, I should have figured something was going to be wrong when I went to grab the pen from the man behind the desk and his limp wrist almost dropped it. I ain’t gonna say the dude was a pansy, but, really now, pink slacks?

Later that night a bunch of us went back to the bar, to have a little sleep tonic prior to crashing. As we sat in this lounge that looked like a set out of the 1940’s movies, a weird warbling was heard from the main part of the bar.

Now I now you ain’t gonna believe this, but there, in all her splendored glory, was this chick (and I use that term lightly) that had to be in her late 80s. She was singing with the man playing the piano.

Are you ready for this? They were singing, “When the red, red Robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along.”

Now, ya know, there has to be a limit to what a man can take. Here I was in a bar that was a throwback to the era of bobby socks, listening to some over-thehill gang’s mother warble tunes that even Stephen Foster must have found obnoxious.

And then the topper. Two of her older sisters 113

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Biker got up and joined in.

With a look of sympathy for the bartender I got up, invited those who had survived the first song back to my room, where we turned on the idiot tube, watched I Love Lucy re-runs, and got higher than a kite on some very good Columbian herb.

The next day, as the show was in full swing, the great weather gods of the east decided to take a shit on us, and soon the rain was dumping like a drunk at a pie eating contest.

When the show was over I mounted the Black Bitch once again, and headed out into the wet.

And proceeded to get lost trying to find the highway.

You see, for those of you who have not been to the great northeast, there are no straight roads there.

Not one. Every road has to have at least 8 curves per mile and can’t end anywhere but into a residence or driveway.

It took me almost an hour (a very wet hour, I might add) to get to a road that was on my map.

And then my luck changed.

The road I had found was called the Mohawk Trail, and it followed old Indian paths through Massachusetts and into New York. It was one of the most beautiful rides I can remember taking. Late into the night I rode through the backwoods of some of the prettiest roads in the northeast, and soon I found myself halfway across New York.

In the morning I checked my map and found a new route to take. I had to be in Michigan for a protest run on Wednesday, so I decided to cut through Niagara 114

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Bob Bitchin Falls, into Canada, and then along the top of the Great Lakes into Detroit.

When I hit Lake Erie I made a right and went up to the great Niagara Falls.

Now I’m not a whole lot into sightseeing and the like, but when I got this close I had to make like a tourist and check it out. I rode out onto Goat Island, wandered around with a camera around my neck and my thumb in my mouth, like a million other nerd tourists, and as soon as I felt secure in the knowledge that I had seen what there was to see, I headed to the Canadian border.

But wait. What’s this? There is a thing that says no firearms.

Oops.

Think I screwed up. I had almost forgotten that Canada was another country, and they don’t allow things like small cannons, smoking herb, or nose candy.

All the fears from Missouri came back, only now, instead of being “Cool Hand Luke” in a Missouri work camp, I was going to be Papillon in a foreign prison camp.

I stuttered something about forgetting my birth control pills and was soon heading back the bottom side of the lake, in the good ol’ U.S. of A. I spent that night in Toledo (can’t resist it... Holy Toledo!) and in the morning made my way up into Detroit.

It was about this point that I noticed a draft somewhere about my footal region. Looking down I saw that there, where my sole used to be, was a sock, 115

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Biker with large holes and bunions sticking out.

For the next hour I stood in a shoe repair shop in Detroit watching a grandfather-father-and-son team do a rebuild on my clod-hoppers.

Then it was over to Jim Rhodes’s, the power behind ABATE of Michigan, and one of the promoters of the Michigan Helmet Law Rally, that I had come to cover.

That night we picked up a young suckie for Jim to play with (no, she didn’t have a friend, dammit) and then we sat and got high and talked until the wee hours of the morning, with some folks that came up from Indiana and Kentucky to join the protest.

In the morning, some 250-300 bikers met in a shopping mall parking lot, and rode bare headed to Lansing, for the protest. It really felt good after being trapped in a fiberglass toilet bowl, to be able to ride free again. Living in California has spoiled me.

After the protest I joined up with Indian from Indiana and rode on down to Gary to party some with Roy Boy and some of the folks down there.

While we were standing in front of his place in Gary, just talking and shit, Doc shows up. We partied a couple years back, and had a lot of things to talk about.

I wanted to show him my gun, since he was into such things, and after he told me he had been busted for having one when he shouldn’t have.

We walked into the shop, and I pulled it out and handed it to him. Just as his hand closed around the stainless steel handle the door opens up, and lo-and-behold. Two of the narciest looking dudes in 116

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Bob Bitchin the world were standing there.

It took Doc and I almost two and a half seconds to stash the gun and walk back into Roy’s place behind the store.

After the dudes left it turned out that they were police, investigating a murder that happened a couple months ago.

All I could think of, as I stashed the piece again, was what would have happened if Doc had been busted holding my piece, with a concealed weapons beef already against him.

The rest of the night was spent discussing such possibilities.

In the morning I packed up the Bitch once again and aimed her towards Oregon, where I was to cover the Choosey Beggars Memorial Day run, some 2,200 miles away. I had two days to get there.

Like I said, the check writer at the magazine was kinda cheap, and time is cheaper than money in their book.

Out of Indiana, across Illinois, through Iowa and into Nebraska. The weather was great. In the high 80’s and so was I. When I pulled into Greeley, Colorado I had covered 1,080 miles. Just 20 miles short of my goal for the day.

I checked my map and saw a “shortcut” that went over the Rocky Mountain State Park and across highway 40, into Salt Lake City. I made a mental note, and in the morning I started up the mountains.

The beauty was unbelievable as the flatlands dropped away. Snow capped peaks and dark green 117

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Biker pine forests greeted the eye at each turn. Each time I would stop to take a picture the next bend would bring an even more beautiful vista.

Then, just about the top of the mountains, some asshole had put this barrier across the road. It said “Road Closed.”

Now folks, when you are in a hurry to get somewhere, and some nerd throws a bar across your path, what do you do?

Me too.

I pulled around the road closed sign, and headed up the road.

For about a mile. Then, as my front wheel sank about four feet into a snowbank that was once the road, I knew I screwed up.

I pulled the bike out of the snow, took one last look up the area where the road once was, and headed back down the mountain road, some 75 miles, to the main highway. From there I had to take a 100-mile detour around the closed roads.

There was one good thing that happened because of this. The road I ended up taking around the closed area was unbelievable. The beauty simply was staggering. Once you have ridden those roads west of Denver, in the high Rocky Mountains, well like John Denver said, “It’s a Rocky Mountain High,” without any drugs.

For the next couple of hours I rode through the Rockies and then down into dinosaur country.

Yeah, that’s right. dinosaurs. The northwest corner of Colorado and the northeast comer of Utah are covered with old bones. Not too exciting for me, 118

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Bob Bitchin but the other folks were going nuts shooting pictures of these old dog munchies.

Oh well, some folks think I’m nuts too.

As I headed towards Salt Lake City, these large black clouds started to form over my head. As I got close to the city they started to leak, all over my head.

Now folks, when it rains in Utah it’s not like other places. It comes down in large, hard buckets. The rain turned to hail and as I crossed from the small country road I had been on, onto Interstate 80, the rain turned to a steady drizzle.

Yuck!

As I passed away from the Great Salt Lake, the land flattened out to a smooth, white, dry lake bed, the world famous Bonneville Salt Flats.

Only this time they were the great Bonneville Salt Water Flats. The wind was whipping across the dry lake bed at well over 50 miles per, cutting directly across the road.

Now, if you want to know what misery is, try riding in that for about a hundred miles or so.

Just a hundred miles, you ask?

Yeah, because after a hundred miles the rain turned into sleet. The temperature dropped into the low teens, and the wind kicked up. It was so cold that when I stopped to take a picture as I entered Nevada, I couldn’t stop shaking long enough to change the film.

And from here, believe it or not, it got worse.

After stopping at the state line to take a picture, I mounted the now frozen Black Bitch and headed west. I remember the last time I had been through Wells, Nevada (the next town), it had been too hot to 119

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Biker spit. I hoped it was the same now.

After all, it was almost June and that’s summer, right?

Well, the closer I got to Wells the worse the weather got. By the time I was dropping down into the town it was a full-force blizzard.

Now folks, who the hell would think there would be a blizzard in the Nevada desert late in May? No one I know.

Anyway, I stopped at the first motel I saw, got the last room they had (almost had to arm wrestle a truck driver for it) and crashed for the night, with my poor bike outside, covered with a Gazebo bike cover, freezing its ball bearings off.

For some reason I figured that when I woke in the morning everything would be alright, and the snow would be gone.

In the a.m. I awoke and walked to the window.

At first I thought that it was just a fake window, painted white.

It wasn’t. I was seeing outside alright. The snow was totally covering everything in sight. The only way I could tell was when a section of the snow started to move. It was an 18-wheeler truck taking off, covered to the top with cold, icky, slimy, white snow.

I turned on the TV that was in the room and found a weather station.

It seems that there was a “freak” weather front stalled over Nevada (naturally) and it would be there for at least two days.

Now I don’t know about you, but there was no way in hell I would sit in some two-horse town for two 120

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Bob Bitchin days. Not me. I’d rather take a chance and get out.

So I checked my map and found what I was looking for. Since the Choosey Beggars run was due west, and the weatherman said that Donner Pass and all other passes were closed, there was no way I could make it. I had to head south, where it should be warm, and where, by coincidence, I lived.

I uncovered the freezing Bitch and started to pack her up. I then went inside my room and put on every piece of clothing I had. Longies, leather pants and jacket, the works.

Except for warm boots.

You see, when I had taken off on this trip I figured I wouldn’t hit any snow this late in the year, and besides they were so bulky to pack. Next time, no matter how warm, I take my snow boots.

Heading south out of Wells on 93 it looked like it might start to clear up. The first twenty miles weren’t bad at all, then as if on cue, it started to come down harder. The farther I got from town, the harder it snowed. By the time I was in Currie, which is a town with a population of two, and they were still asleep, the snow was two feet deep on the road.

Ok. So here I am, 70 miles from Wells (behind me) and 75 miles from Ely (in front of me). In other words, just me, the vacant road, and a blizzard that was getting even worse.

I knew that I didn’t want to sit in the closed gas station in Currie, so I got back on the Bitch, and continued riding.

By now the snow was so heavy I could only see a few yards in front of me. I put it into second gear, 121

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Biker took it to about 25 miles per, and held it steady. I just watched the small poles on the side of the road and kept in the middle. I tried to hit my rear brakes once, and found my front end trying to pass my back, so from then on it was a steady 25 miles per hour, no slower, no faster.

And it kept snowing.

Every once in awhile the snow would let up, as I would drop down into a valley, and it was absolutely unreal. Nothing but white, as far as the eye could see, except up. That was black. It was the scariest thing I have ever been through.

Almost.

I hit the town of Ely, took a break for some hot coffee, and let my frozen feet thaw out a little before heading south again. It was only a couple of hundred miles to Las Vegas, and I knew that it never snowed like this down there, so I was getting closer to safety.

About 80 miles from Vegas I came over a snow-covered mountain and, in front of me, it was green. No snow.

I shook my head and stared. I could not believe it. I had been in snow for over 200 miles, and it had taken almost 8 hours to cross.

As I headed down into the green valley with the still black clouds overhead, I started to get a sinking feeling.

The clouds were even darker than the snow clouds, and great black pillars dipped to the ground, filled with rain, hail, and sleet. Between these pillars of black, shafts of lightning would hurl to the ground followed instantly by thunder that would scare the 122

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Bob Bitchin gods off Mount Olympus.

As I reached the end of the 40-mile valley, a pillar of sleet started to pummel me with hail as large as ping pong balls pelting me all over.

I remember holding my arm up to stop them from hitting my riding glasses and the lightning, first on one side, then on the other, then in front of me, not 100 yards away, and the fierce, ear-shattering thunder that accompanied it.

All I could do was to think, well, if there is a God, you sure have pissed the boy off about something.

Then, as quick as it started, it stopped. I came over the last little hill in the valley, and there was sunlight on the other side.

As I dropped down into the next valley I looked in my rear view mirror. I could hardly believe my eyes. I turned in the seat to check it out. It looked like the gates of hell right behind me. The dark, almost black clouds, pillars of rain and sleet, and lightning everywhere.

And I made it.

The next small gas station I came to I got to a phone and placed a call to my old lady.

Now I ain’t a sniveler, but the more I thought about the hell behind me, and the heaven in front (Las Vegas), I figured that my poor old bod needed a rest.

In a few minutes I was back on the road, and my old lady was packing and heading for a plane. It was a 45-minute plane ride for her from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, but I still had 80 miles to go.

As I lay having my third member stroked into submissiveness, in a warm room, with rich red carpet and smooth ivory skin just a whisper away, all I can 123

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Biker think about is what fun it is to be a biker.

Course, now I’ve gotta go back to that stupid office and write trash like this just so I can get some cheap pencil pusher to pay for trips like this.

Could be worse.

I could have a real job.

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Touring America, Harley-Style It all started one day when I was busy at the office. After trying none-too-successfully to seduce the receptionist, I called Bill Dutcher up at AMF headquarters in Stamford, Connecticut, to shoot the breeze for a while. During the conversation we got into which was better, Connecticut or California. I opted for my home state of California because of the neat beaches and redwood forests, and he said that Connecticut was better because of the changing seasons.

In order not to be too hasty with my decision (and to get out of the fool office for a while), I decided that this would be as good an excuse as any to check out the changing colors (trees, that is) around the country.

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Biker After arranging for a bike to test on the trip (a Harley, naturally), I practiced my woebegone expression, and shuffled into the boss’s office. I put on the old, “Oh, gee, boss, I gotta ride across the country again” look and commenced to convince him that I really didn’t want to do it, but that we badly needed the material for a story, and besides, it would get us some good brownie points with Harley, and maybe they would throw some more advertising bucks our way.

After about ten minutes I walked out of his office, with a check for the estimated expenses of the trip. I think he actually believed that I didn’t want to go. Wouldn’t want him to think I was out there having a good time, right?

Four days later I was packing my sleeping bag, cold weather gear (it was almost November) and two pairs of gloves onto a 1979 Fat Bob Super Glide. The time had come for departure.

You know, there is nothing on this earth better than taking off on the first leg of a cross-country ride.

Your mind drifts to all the possible adventures that are ahead of you. As I crossed out of California into Nevada, the desert was really fresh and clear. After being in Los Angeles for a few months, just the sight of clear air (does that make sense?) is an adventure.

Somewhere about St. George, Utah, after crossing through California, Nevada, and Arizona, I pulled in for my third tank of motion potion. I check my oil, as I had done at each of the previous gas stops, and once again found it to be a quart low.

Now, when it was low the first time I checked it 126

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Bob Bitchin I just figured that it had been a little low when I picked it up. And the second time I attributed to not having filled it completely the first time. But now, on the third tank, finding it low again made me drop to my knees.

No, lunkheads, not to pray, but to check for leaks. It had to be leaking if it was losing that much oil.

But there were no leaks. Not even small ones.

Since the bike was still running well, I pointed the trusty beast toward the Rockies, and kept up my 70 miles an hour pace.

About 10 o’clock I pulled into a closed United Campground of America in Green River, Utah, and got a free night’s sleep.

About 5:30 a.m. I awoke, packed my stuff, and I was on the road and out of the camp before they opened for the day.

As I entered Colorado the landscape started to change drastically. Scruffy sagebrush turned into lush pine trees, and the level desert sand of the southwest turned into first small, and then very high peaked mountains.

As I reached the summit of Vail Pass, looking down on Denver, the mountains were covered with snow, and even through there was snow all over the ground, it was still warm enough to wear only a leather jacket.

As the sun disappeared behind me I descended into the city of Denver, past the Coors Brewery in Golden (sigh), and out onto the Great High Plains.

Now folks, I have still not found out why they call them the “great” High Plains. In my personal opinion they suck. There is nothing to look at for mile after 127

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Biker mile except farms, flat farmland, and tumbleweeds.

Talk about boring!

I managed to say awake into central Nebraska, filling my oil tank at each gas stop, and finally opted for a sleazy $8 room in which to rest my weary bones.

The next day I watched Nebraska disappear into my rearview mirror, along with Iowa and a big chunk of Illinois, and as the last quart of oil chugged into my poor, bedraggled engine, I was heading the back way into the megalopolis called Chicago. As I made my way down the small back roads, all of a sudden my bike started to make strange noises. That worried me a little, but not as much as when it stopped making any noise at all. That worried me a whole bunch.

I aimed for the shoulder of the road and coasted to a stop. There wasn’t a building around for miles. As I sat there wondering whether I should shoot my bike or myself, a pickup pulled in behind me. Thank the Lord, he had a Harley sticker on his rear windshield.

A couple of minutes later we had the bike running on one cylinder and I was following Ed Starlens of Rock Falls, Illinois, to the local Harley dealer, Twin City Harley.

Since it was Friday afternoon (4:30 p.m.), the mechanic had already left for the day, and I thought I was going to be stuck there, but much to my relief the owner of the shop, Harold Stewart, broke out some tools, and found the trouble real fast. The front plug looked as if it had been dipped in rock candy. The oil I had been burning for the last 2000-plus miles had taken its toll.

After a change of plugs the old bike started right 128

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Bob Bitchin up, and I was soon winding my way into Chicago land.

As I was cruising through St. Charles, a small suburb of Chicago, I remembered that I knew a foxy little lady from there, and pulled over to check out the phone number I had.

Sure enough, the number was still good, and so was she.

And they call this work.

In the morning I loaded the bike up, bid adieu to the sweet thing, and made my way into Chicago to look up some old friends. Since they didn’t expect me, most of them had been getting into a bunch of fun things the night before, and they just weren’t up to partying, but when I crossed over into northern Indiana I ran into one of the real good groups.

I stopped at a small tattoo parlor that is run by Roy Boy, and after shooting the shit for a while we went up to a place called the Big Wheel for some breakfast. When we pulled up in front there were a whole bunch of bikes there, and as we entered we ran into the Mad Doctor. For the next few hours we just sat there sippin’ coffee and discussing the good things in life, like women and bikes (is there anything else?)

After all the women had been discussed (and disgusted), we decided to go back into Chicago because I wanted to stop in at Munch Choppers, and most of them decided to come along for the ride. There were ten Harleys in all when we turned off onto Pulaski and headed over to Archer Street to see George and the boys.

Once there, we stood around, like in any other bike shop in the country, talking about things like bikes 129

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Biker and broads (never do get tired of talking about either one), and then we got into some of the legal hassles that are going on. You see, George at Munch Choppers is very active in an organization called ABATE, and so am I, so we had a lot to discuss.

After about an hour we packed up and left, heading down the street to the Southwest Tattoo Emporium, where Snake, a member of the Hell’s Henchmen, does his skin illustrations. Roy Boy had never been to his shop, and wanted to compare notes.

You see, unlike most other businesses, the tattoo business doesn’t really compete, they nearly all get along and compare techniques.

While we were there we decided that we might as well do a little sightseeing while we were in town, and soon we were on our way to Chinatown, where we got more looks than we did looking. Guess they don’t get a bunch of choppers down there all the time, huh?

Anyway, after checking out some of the local shops, we once again loaded onto our trusty scooters, and were winding our way back into northern Indiana.

Until Roy Boy ran out of gas.

Seems that we forgot he was running a one-gallon tank, and that just don’t get it for long-distance runs.

But I didn’t mind a whole lot, since I had to footpush him to the next gas station, and while I did that his foxy ol’ lady rode my bike. I think I actually enjoyed it.

In fact, I almost left him and boogied with her.

(Just kiddin’ Roy, honest.)

That evening a party was called at a small, 130

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Bob Bitchin out-of-the-way bar called the Harbor Lounge in Portage, Indiana. A couple of bikers are the bouncers there, and they have a pretty good band on weekends.

Long into the night the Invaders, the Wanderers, and a whole lot of outriders partied and had a hell of a good time. Never knew that they had such good smoke in Indiana. Whew!

In the a.m. we went back to the Big Wheel Restaurant for face-feeding time, and then we decided the plan of attack for the day. It seems that Roy Boy had to do a couple of tattoos over at a dude’s house a little outside town, so we decided that today would be a good day to kick back there and party, at least for a while.

When we arrived at the house I was introduced to VD. No, I don’t mean I caught VD, I mean the guy who owned the house was named VD. It seems that his nickname used to be Virgin Dave, until he caught VD three times in one year. Then they shortened the name to just plain VD. Anyway, he has the neatest little house right smack dab in the suburbs, and soon there were about 20 bikes and 30 or 40 people just sitting around doing what bikers do best: emptying beer bottles and smoking fine weed.

Roy Boy was busy inside doodling on people’s arms, and the rest of us were just kicked back partying.

Then this little sweet thing named Sheila came bouncing down the street walking her pooch, and lo and behold, she was wearing a Harley T-shirt (I might add it fit very well, also). Anyway, after a little discussion about fame, fortune and other lies, we had her 131

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Biker posing on a bike, sans clothing.

I shot up a couple of quick rolls, and Doc did the same. Before long another fox decided that she wanted to be famous also, and she doffed her duds.

Another roll of film through the camera.

Then a chick who was there with someone getting tattooed decided that she wasn’t about to be outdone, and she took off her clothes, and pretty soon we had four foxy young ladies, posing all over Doc’s bike.

We were really getting into our work, when all of a sudden the place was swarming with Indiana’s finest.

Seems one of the neighbors decided that the open backyard was not the place for nude photo sessions, and called the fuzz.

What a bummer.

After the Man left us, with many words of “no more of that,” we mounted our trusty steeds and headed out to eat, and then for more party time.

And they call this work.

In the morning the temperature had dropped to about 28 degrees and there was a little drizzle in the air, but not enough to call rain. I put on my longies, covered them with my Levi’s, and topped it all of with leathers. It was almost bearable as I wound my way up the toll road to Milwaukee and headed for the Harley factory.

You see, the whole reason for this trip was supposed to be to get inside info from Harley-Davidson, so it only stood to reason I would have to go there for at least a little while.

When I arrived I was ushered into Willy G. 132

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Bob Bitchin Davidson’s office, and introduced to Gordon Rickies, who is the Harley dealer in Birmingham, Alabama. It seems that we were to be a threesome, and a little while later we were out on the road, heading for the Kettle Moraine area just north of Milwaukee.

Now folks, for those of you who have never seen the Kettle Moraine during the fall, you have missed out on a lot. It has to be one of the prettiest sights in the whole world. After a quick lunch at a quaint little roadhouse, we hopped on our trusty steeds once again and rode up to an old monastery that sits on top of a hill, surrounded by miles of colored trees and shrubs.

It was unreal.

While we all putted around this beauty, I was riding Willy G.’s Low Rider because back at the factory the mechanics were tearing into my FXEF. It seems they were a tad upset that it used 18 quarts of oil to get from Los Angeles to Milwaukee.

After much checking they found that the oil filter was clogged, forcing the oil up through the breather and out through the rings. In the morning it was all done.

As I rode back down through Chicago and into Indiana again, all I could think about was the ride the previous day. Riding around the countryside with Willy G., on the bike that he designed, was exhilarating, to say the least. He is just like any other Harley nut, and it’s hard to believe that I was sitting in a little, out-ofthe-way pub, talking bikes, with “the” Willy G. And they call this work.

After munching down some more vittles at the Big Wheel with all the folks who had become like 133

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Biker friends to me, we went back to Roy Boy’s while he did a couple of tattoos. It’s kinds neat kicking back, smokin’ an occasional doobie, and just relaxing like you’re at home, almost 2,500 miles away. Makes you glad to be a biker.

That night I stayed with some friends in Elkhart, Indiana. Steve and Wanda Hummle are the driving force behind the ABATE chapter in that state, and they have done more for repealing the helmet law in that state than anyone has. Mike Farabaugh, another old friend, also stopped by, and it was a pretty kickedback time, talking and just plain relaxing.

In the morning it was boogie time again, and I jumped onto the Indiana toll road to make some time.

All the way across Indiana, Ohio, and into Pennsylvania I kept the throttle wicked on. At each gas stop I found that the problem with the oil had not been fixed. It still took a quart for every tank. By the time I pulled into York, Pennsylvania, I had eaten another four quarts of oil, bringing the total to 22.

At least I knew the oil pump was working, right?

The Harley-Davidson assembly plant at York is one of the most impressive places I have ever seen, and if you get within two or three thousand miles of it you ought to go out of your way to visit it.

I took the standard tour, with the foxiest tour guide I’ve ever seen (she is worth the ride there all by herself), and after visiting the museum, where all the neat machines are kept, we were lead out into the factory itself.

Now folks, I gotta admit, it really got to me. Here in one building were all the Harleys a man could ever 134

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Bob Bitchin want. As you walk into the entrance you are greeted with rack after rack of engines. Not just one or two, but hundreds and hundreds of 74s, 80s and Sportsters.

After that you see mountains of fenders, gas tanks, frames, and wheels. It was all I could do to keep the drool off my lower lip and out of my beard.

After watching the production line, we went to the finishing area, and there I really was impressed.

You see, I never knew all the inspections that a Harley goes through before it is sent to the dealer.

Dented tanks are fixed or thrown out. Bad paint is taken off and redone. And at the end of the assembly line every bike that comes off the line is run up and tested.

As if that weren’t enough, an audit team pulls every 25th machine off the line and goes totally through it. The guys at that end of the line are so into the machine that they even check the torque on nuts and bolts (not just the heads, but all nuts and bolts), and test ride the bikes on a test track at the rear of the plant.

One of the funniest things they talked about there was the hunting that they do out on the track.

It seems that there are large badgers out there, and every once in a while they don’t get out of the way fast enough.

Can you picture a test bike coming in with a large badger or small deer strapped over the handlebars?

Anyway, the most impressive thing about the whole production facility, no matter how you look at it, was the inspections.

After we toured the plant, George Kagel, the 135

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Biker head of public relations for the York plant, took me to lunch in the executive lunchroom. While we were sitting there, John Davidson, the president of the company and Willy G.’s brother, came in. We talked awhile, and I told him about the oil problem that I had getting there.

Before I could say no, the word had been given that my bike would be running right before I left, and Bob Conway, the head of the audit team, said that he would find out the problem, no matter what it was.

Now, I ain’t gonna say I live right, but my original plan had been to ride to Stamford, Connecticut, that afternoon, where I was to meet with all the biggies from AMF there at the corporate offices. But since they were going to be working on my bike, I had to stay over another night.

That day and night it rained like Noah never saw.

They pulled my bike right back onto the line where it was made, and systematically tore into it, checking everything.

When they pulled the front cylinder we found the problem. It seems that the pressure of the clogged oil filter had forced the oil up around the rings, and they had gone bad, causing the cylinder walls to be badly scored. A new set was bolted into place, and the bike was bolted back together.

The whole operation took about three hours.

But since it was raining, and it was after 5 p.m., I decided to go ahead and stay over.

Bob Conway and I headed over to my hotel, where there was a neat little bar, and decided to have 136

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Bob Bitchin a few cool ones to wash the day’s work out of our mouths. About two seconds after we sat down a couple of the local sweeties sauntered over and sat down too. That was the beginning of a very long night.

Somewhere around closing time Bob wandered off to his bike, leaving me with the two woofies. And I thought he was my friend.

Anyway, a few minutes later I found myself trapped in a motel room, doing fun and exciting things.

The sun was coming up as they left.

And they call this work.

I dragged my poor, sleepless body out to the bike, and started loading her up for the trip to Stamford. The clouds were just starting to disappear as the sun came up. It was going to be a cold but clear day.

I stopped to fill up my gas tank, and then made my way once again onto the open road.

Then some really strange things started happening.

As I rode down the road with my freshly filled gas tank, I smelled gas real strong. I looked down and found gas leaking out of the gas cap and spilling all over me. I pulled over to the side and dumped some out, but it would start leaking every time I started to ride.

After about 12 miles that stopped, and everything seemed to be all right once again.

Until I had about 80 miles on the tank. Then it was like it ran out of gas. Usually I was getting at least 130 miles before I went on reserve.

I pulled over to the side and looked into the tank. One side was empty, and the other was full to 137

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Biker the top.

That seemed a little strange, but I flipped her onto reserve and made it to a gas station.

From there on into Stamford I stopped every 90 miles to fill up the empty side.

Somewhere around the New York state line I noticed that the bike was starting to act a little strange, but I attributed it to the grooves they had cut in the streets for drainage.

Then, just as I was passing under Harlem on the freeway, my back wheel started to act real weird, almost as if it were flat. No matter how I turned the front wheel, the back went where it wanted to. It tried to control it and ended up on the side of the road, with a thousand eyes looking down on me from the overheads.

I got off the bike and checked out the rear tire.

Much to my surprise, it was not flat as I expected.

Then it hit me. If it wasn’t flat, and the front wasn’t flat, why was it acting so weird?

When I lifted my saddlebag I found the reason.

It seems that when they adjusted my chain at the factory, they neglected to tighten the axle bolt.

It had fallen off.

Now folks, have you ever wondered what you would do if you were broken down in the middle of nowhere? Well, triple that feeling if you are broken down in the middle of Harlem. It ain’t a good feeling.

After a couple of seconds considering my predicament, I managed to kick the axle bolt back through the swingarm, and slowly rode to the next off-ramp.

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Bob Bitchin I asked a passing truck where the closest hardware store was, and it took almost 15 minutes to creep the five blocks to where it was.

A little while later I was heading back to Stamford.

After getting lost for about an hour trying to find the AMF headquarters (don’t they have ANY straight streets in Connecticut?), I finally asked a cop and found my way. It was almost quitting time, and I found Bill Dutcher hard at work, doing whatever it is PR men do. In a few minutes we were heading to his house.

Now folks, what do you think a guy wants to do when he has just ridden all the way across the United States?

Why, that’s easy. You want to go for a ride, right?

Right.

So we unloaded my bike, after a sumptuous meal, and headed for the Big Apple. New York City.

Now, I must digress here for a moment. You see, I have been around New York City many times, but I always had a little fear of it, like I would get gobbled up.

But it seems that Bill had actually lived in the city for a while, and he offered to show me around.

We raced the 15 to 20 miles from Stamford to New York, and before long I was standing like a stagestruck farm hick on the comer of 42nd and Broadway.

If you have never been to New York City on a Friday night, you have never lived. That town has got a whole lot of everything. Weirdos, faggots, hippies, and even large, fuzzy-headed bikers on occasion (with their mouths hangin’ open).

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Biker We did the whole scene. We cruised 42nd Street, walked to Times Square to be saved by some Jesus freaks, were molested (or at least it was attempted), saw a fire in a skyscraper, and saw more limousines than I ever believed existed in the theater district. Then we hooked it over to Central Park, after a ride on a subway, and over to Rockefeller Square.

I did everything that I ever heard about doing in New York City.

And I loved it.

I felt like a kid in a candy store.

After things started to cool off a little, somewhere around two in the morning, Bill finally persuaded me to head for home. I guess it was old-hat for him, but it was a real trip for me.

In the morning, after a wrestling match with Bill’s pet skunk, named Blossom, we went over to the AMF offices again. It seems that a bunch of the executives were going to be going for a ride (since it was Saturday), and I had been invited along.

The air was a little crisp that morning, but not really cold. There was not one cloud to be seen, and it was just the end of the changing of the leaves, which is the prettiest season there is in Connecticut.

All morning long we cruised through some of the most beautiful country I have every seen. It was hard to believe that the folks I was riding with were the same people that you hear the “old-time” Harley riders talking about. I have heard it said that when AMF took over Harley, things changed. This is true. If the top executives have anything to do with it, then it has changed for the better. I don’t see how any management could 140

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Bob Bitchin be more into their product than the AMF execs are into Harley. They all ride, and not because they have to. To go riding with Vaughn Beals, the group executive for Harley (that’s right next to God), and Ed Lary, one of the AMF engineers, and Bill Dutcher, makes you know that they love the machine. Hell, even Kathy Jackson, one of the executive secretaries, joined us.

After a quick lunch stop at the Pantry in Washington Depot (home of a military school that was founded over a hundred years ago), we rode out to The Inn on the Lake, for a little dessert.

That afternoon we covered hundreds of miles of back roads, and I really started to fall in love with the country.

In the late afternoon we rode over to Vaughn Beals’ home, for a little surprise.

It seems that aside from the FL Classic that Beals rides, he has his real pride and joy.

Awhile back Mr. Beals decided that the Low Rider was really a far-out machine, but he wanted a little power increase. Being the boss has its advantages, so he had the factory install an 80-inch engine into a Low Rider.

As I pulled out of his driveway, I couldn’t believe the power that the 80 had. It was much more than the mere increase of inches would account for. It was so smooth that it made you want to lay down into the curves.

When they finally pried my hands off the handlebars of the 80 Low Rider it was time to go back to Bill’s house. You see, that night they were having a goingaway party for Kurt Woerpel, a vice-president at AMF 141

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Biker who was moving to the York plant. I felt that I would be out of place, since all I had was my blue jeans and T-shirt, but they insisted that I go.

As it turned out, I was very glad that I did. The folks were about as congenial as could be. All the executives, Ray Triton, Vaughn Beals, Kurt Woerpel, Bill Dutcher, hell, even the executive secretaries, were just like you and me. They talked motorcycles, and loved ’em.

In the morning it was time to hook it again, to get back so I wouldn’t miss deadline for an issue of the ragazine.

I loaded up the FXEF once more, and headed out of Connecticut and back into New York, heading south on 95. I crossed in New Jersey and soon was well into Delaware. Each time I stopped for gas, I learned something.

The bike was still losing oil, to the tune of one quart to each tank.

But at the time I didn’t know that it was my fault.

You see, nobody ever told me what oil to use, and being a typical dumb biker, I used the heaviest I could get at a station.

Thirty-weight just doesn’t cut it. The bike is designed for 50-weight oil.

Of course at the time I didn’t know it. So I just kept dumping it in, and it kept burning it out. All the way to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, as I crossed out of Delaware, into Maryland, and even through Washington D.C., the bike left a soft blue haze.

And the gas tank still ran out while it was half full.

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Bob Bitchin After spending an afternoon with my long-lost brother in North Carolina, I rode down into Georgia, and got a room for the night in Atlanta. A couple of friends — Rogue, owner of Space Coast Custom, and Padre, director of ABATE National — came up from Florida, and we partied the night away. There were also a couple of old friends from the Atlanta area, so we had a full house.

The next day, with my head bulging at the seams, I rode from Atlanta, Georgia, through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, and into Atlanta, Texas.

When the sun came up in the morning, I hooked it westward again and ended up in Dallas.

Now folks, at about this point in the trip I was getting a tad upset with my machine. I mean, really, stopping every 90 miles for gas, and oil, and chain adjustments, was really starting to get tome.

I knew a good mechanic in Dallas by the name of Chuck Bear, so I decided to stop there and see if he couldn’t straighten out my problems.

I pulled into his yard only to find his garage/ shop closed. I found Chuck sitting dejectedly inside.

You see, there is some dumb law about running a business out of your garage in a residential neighborhood, and they had closed him down the day before.

Musta known I was coming.

Anyway, in spite of the stupid law, Chuck tore into my sled.

He also informed me that the reason I was burning so much oil was my own stupid fault. Seems there was a little adjustment on the carburetor, and the guys at the factory had flipped it to the right when it 143

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Biker should have been to the left. That made the bike run lean, which made it run hot. The heat of the engine, when coupled with running the wrong oil, made the bike suck it down. He adjusted the little lever (two seconds) and we changed the oil to 50-weight (four minutes), and I was on my way. With the bike running perfectly.

I made it all the way into Monahans, Texas, that night and in the morning started off again.

So far the trip hadn’t been what you might call work. But this day was to be my undoing.

It was started early. I pulled the gas tank cover off to see if there was a pinched tube or anything that was causing the gas to feed funny. After all, it got a little tiring stopping all the time for gas. There I found that indeed there was a problem. The guys at the factory, when they fixed the cylinder, had pinched a breather tube in the gas tank. I unpinched the tube, but the speedometer broke while I was doing it.

Why me, Lord?

I decided that I could make it anyway. After all, who needs a speedometer?

The answer to that was down the road, when I misjudged a gas stop and ended up with a dry tank three and a half miles from a gas station.

I pushed the bike for almost two miles (what a bummer), and finally a man by the name of James Pevehouse from Spur, Texas, stopped and gave me a lift to a gas station. It turned out that he rides a bike too. We bikers gotta stick together.

Anyway, after we drove back and poured some motion potion into the tank, I jumped on and headed 144

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Bob Bitchin westward once more.

For about 30 miles.

Then all of a sudden I heard this weird rattling noise, and as I bent over the bike to hear it better, the kickstand, complete with the electrical “black box,” dropped off the bike.

Why me, Lord?

I coasted to the side of the road and picked up the parts. All except for one little bolt that I couldn’t find. For the next half- hour I worked on putting everything where it belonged.

To make the job easier, and since the pavement was hurting my knees, I decided to throw my leather jacket down and use it for a blanket.

Here’s a hint for you. When you throw your leather jacket down to cushion your knees, take your sunglasses out of your pocket.

Otherwise they break.

Why me, Lord?

I finished the repair work on the bike, cleaned the broken glass out of my jacket pocket, and once again aimed the old bike westward.

Things were starting to look pretty good. I would make it into Tucson by that night, and home the next day.

Or so I thought.

It seems that I had neglected one little thing.

When I stopped for gas (and it didn’t need any oil!), I decided to adjust the chain.

But lo and behold, I couldn’t. It was at full extension.

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Biker so I started trucking again.

I made it all the way into El Paso.

And then the chain fell off.

Why me, Lord?

As I sat there on the side of the freeway, with my chin cradled in my palms, I looked back on the day. It wasn’t one of the best I had ever had, and I was starting to get just a tad PO’d.

I pushed the bike off the freeway and into a parking lot, and called my local Harley dealer.

Now folks, let me throw in a word here for Barnett Harley-Davidson of El Paso. Jim Pilant and Bill Pevey came out to pick me up with a truck, hauled in the bike, and got all the mechanics working on the bike to get me on the road with the least possible delay.

While the chain was being put on, they checked the whole bike out, made sure everything was shipshape, and even took me out to eat at a neat little Mexican restaurant. They are good folks from the word go, and they make riding a Harley a real pleasure.

The rest of the trip home to Los Angeles was pretty uneventful, but I did a whole lot of thinking.

You know, I have crossed the country probably 25 to 30 times, on all kinds of bikes, but only on a couple of motorcycles. In my opinion the Harley-Davidson is the only motorcycle made. The rest are bikes.

Even though the bike I was riding had problems, many of which were caused by me, I had one hell of a good time, and the fact that I was on a Harley got me into more good times than bad, for sure.

I also discovered what it is that makes Harley the only bike that bikers tattoo on their arms, and on 146

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Bob Bitchin their old ladies’ hind sections.

It’s the people.

It’s Vaughn Beals, who loves to ride, and Bob Conway, who wouldn’t let me leave the factory until the bike was right. And it’s Willy G., who loves his motorcycle more than anything.

And it’s people like Jim and Bill at Barnett Harley-Davidson, and Harold at Twin City Harley, along with the people who ride as if it were a religion.

Willy G. once said that Harley-Davidson is love.

I think Harley-Davidson is people, and I am proud to call many of those Harley people friends.

Thank you, Harley. For the best trip I have ever taken.

And they call this work. Hah!

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California Here We Come You are about to be given an insight to life that has taken me 15 years of bug-eating, freezing, and soggy riding to learn. The more trouble and hassles you run into on a trip, the better it is after you get home. The last four words are the kicker.

Here is what I mean. In one leg-wetting issue of Chopper I wrote about my trip to Daytona Beach for Speed Week. It took less than one page to tell the whole story of riding over 3,000 miles. Why? Well, it’s simple. The weather was perfect, the bike ran fine, and everything went about as well as could be expected.

It was one of the most boring trips I ever took.

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Biker me, and gave me adversity to conquer, so that years from then I could look back with pride at the abilities I’d had to use to overcome the crap that was thrown at me.

To begin with, in order to screw up the whole trip, a first was accomplished. I packed an ol’ lady all the way home from Florida to California. This in itself is enough to put any man into a straitjacket for at least a year.

It’s not the ol’ lady that was the big problem, but they always have to bring their mouths along, and that usually causes problems. Fortunately Ding-Ding learned early that her mouth was for either eating or talking, and if she did one, she could not do the other.

That worked pretty well the whole trip.

The first obstacle the gods threw down on us was a “small” rainstorm our first day out of Atlanta.

It seems they decided to have the heaviest rain they have seen in three years, with over three inches of rain dropping on our heads in just one hour. It was so heavy the cars had to pull over because their windshield wipers couldn’t clear the glass fast enough.

Of course, being on a bike, we didn’t have windshield wipers, so we just kept riding.

Until the water got so deep on the road that we couldn’t ride anymore.

It was at this point I did something I have never done before in all my riding experience. I got a motel room in the middle of the afternoon.

Usually I would have just pulled off and waited for the rain to let up a little, but since I had a sniveler along (actually she didn’t bitch, but I felt kinda sorry 150

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Bob Bitchin for her, since she didn’t have any rain gear and was soaked to the skin), I decided to get a room.

It was during that afternoon I learned that there were some advantages to packin’.

The next day we loaded up again and headed east, into the mountains of North Carolina. We decided to try to make the trip a little scenic, and headed over the Great Smoky Mountains.

Now folks, even though my name is Bitchin, I really ain’t a whole lot into bitching, but really whoever heard of snow in late March?

Well, the folks in the southern Smokies have, because all day long this white slippery stuff kept falling out of the sky. The water that was seeping out of the mountains was dripping into icicles and the temperature dropped into the low 20s.

As thoughts of the afternoon before drifted through my lewd and lascivious mind, I decided another short day was in the offering, and popped into a motel at about 2 p.m. At the rate we were traveling, I figured we could expect to be in California somewhere around August 2001.

After a night of fun and games (I was starting to like having a riding companion), we loaded up the Gold Wing we called home and headed west once again. By noon we were coming down out of the mountains into Tennessee, and it was actually getting warm. We cruised through Chattanooga, cut across the tip of Georgia, and into Alabama. By six in the evening we were approaching the Mississippi border.

The temperature was up into the 70s, and it was a fine night for cruising.

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Biker It was a good thing the night was warm, because it seems there are a whole lot of motels that don’t like bikers around that end of the world, and we had to cruise through five motels before we found one with a “vacancy.”

The next couple of days were perfect (read: boring) and about the only highlight was a quick lunch with a friend in Dallas. It took us two days to get a little over halfway across Texas, so we figured we were doing pretty well.

Oh, by the way, so far Ding-Ding never once sniveled, about the rain, about the snow or about the cold. I was starting to think I had misjudged women.

Then we hit West Texas.

Now folks, let me tell you about the rectum of the world, known as West Texas. The only thing of beauty out there is a state line, telling you that you are leaving it.

As we got off the interstate and headed for Carlsbad for a side trip to the caverns, I noticed a very strange sight. The horizon was black.

Now, I have seen black horizons before, but they are usually accompanied by large clouds, which would be blocking the sun.

There were no clouds.

Just a sky full of dirt.

You see, out there in the land of the armadillo they have wind storms that pick up all the sand from the great kitty litter pile they call West Texas, and hold it in the air, until an unsuspecting biker comes along.

Then the gods of the dust drop all this gritty garbage on you, in a wind somewhere around 50 or 60 mph.

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Bob Bitchin We rode in a state of autopilot for the next three hours. The wind and sand was so dense that you couldn’t see much farther than 40 or 50 feet, and sometimes a lot less than that.

As we pulled out of Texas into New Mexico, I waved the universal one-finger salute back over my sandblasted shoulder, and trudged into Carlsbad.

We had decided to check out the caverns the next day, so we got a room, with a large bath, and settled in for the night.

By the way, as luck would have it, just about an hour after we checked into a room the wind died down and it turned into a very nice afternoon. Who says bikers have no luck? We have plenty, it’s just all bad.

In the a.m. we popped into the coffee shop for breakfast, where we ran into someone who had been foolish enough to read some of my shit, and after some good conversation (and a quick stop by his sporting goods store to pick up some ammo for my plaything), we made our way to the Carlsbad Caverns.

All the bad things of the trip faded into oblivion as we spent the next few hours wandering around what has to be the biggest hole in the ground I have ever seen. If you want to feel really insignificant, just think about the three to five million years it took to make that hole.

After playing tourist, complete with camera around neck and open mouth, it was time to climb back onto the lead wing and head westward once again.

The roads were so desolate that strictly to beat off the boredom I would pull out my pocket automatic 153

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Biker and take pot shots at the cans on the side of the road.

We traveled a couple of hundred miles on back roads and never once saw a car or truck. For awhile we figured that the road might have been closed and we didn’t know it, but that wasn’t the case. We had just picked a really off-the-beat road.

By the afternoon we were way up in the high country of New Mexico, and there was snow all over the hillsides. It gets pretty cold up there.

All of a sudden we came out over the mountains and could see for hundreds of miles, out over White Sands Missile Range. The road dropped rapidly and soon we were no longer in a cold mountain area, but in a desert, and the temperature had risen almost 40 degrees, from the low 30s in the mountains to well into the 70s on the desert. It was a welcome change.

The next day the weather stayed good, but we could see signs of the rainstorm that had passed through Tucson and took my normal shortcut/bypass around Phoenix to beat the stupid speed traps that they always have set up there.

We turned off of Interstate 10 and on to Interstate 8, planning to cut back across to 10 at Gila Bend.

As I say, that was the plan. As we turned off on Highway 85, which is the 32-mile road that cuts across to Buckeye, there were a bunch of signs saying that the road was closed due to flooding.

Of course we didn’t believe the signs, knowing the rain was a few days ago, so we cut around the signs and headed for Diesel West, which is a station some friends own on the bypass.

When we stopped there we found out that the 154

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Bob Bitchin road was indeed closed ahead, but we were told of a way around it, so we headed out once again.

I could not believe my eyes as we came over a hill and saw a river of muddy water that stretched for at least a mile before us. There was a bridge over a narrow portion of it, and after we crossed over we stopped, along with a bunch of other sightseers, and just stood there staring.

Sometimes it is hard to imagine the strength of nature, but for the rest of the trip home I kept thinking about the gamut of weather we had seen on this one trip. A rainstorm that dumped three inches of rain in one hour in Georgia. Snow that almost closed the roads in North Carolina. A windstorm that blinded you in West Texas. A rise in temperature from 30 degrees to 70 degrees in just a few miles. And a wall of water for three days where only a desert had been.

And an ol’ lady who never once sniveled about any of it.

Will wonders never cease?

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The Sailing Life

By Bob Bitchin

This is a collection of insights into why people love the sailing and cruising lifestyle. Each one has an example of a lesson learned at sea.

Excerpt from From The Sailing Life You’ve just pulled out of Gibraltar and headed around the southern tip, on your way to Ibiza, Spain. Your significant other is down below, and you’re on watch. You stand holding the wheel watching the ships that squeeze through the bottleneck at the straights of Gibraltar, and wonder, “How many centuries have men felt this wonder?” In front of you is all the history you have read about, and you are about to discover it for yourself, at your own pace. An unsurpassed feeling of anticipation fills you. .........

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Your arrival in the Marquesas was supposed to be after 22 days, and here you are, pulling in after just 18 days. The storms that pushed you were hell. The rain seemed to find every place that leaked on the boat, and you were really getting pretty tired of trying to find a dry spot in the bunk.

Beans and cold stew had been your meal more nights than you might have hoped, and the auto-pilot going out at the halfway point didn’t help much either.

But there, in front of you. Nuku Hiva! Look at the spires. The harbor looks like heaven. More colors of blue in the water and more colors of green on the hills than you even imagined, and you are here on your own boat.

You’ve done it! As you look at the small tear in the mainsail, a feeling sweeps over you. You prepared your boat to the best of your ability. You planned for the storms, and the fuses that went out, and the wet weather.

And now you are pulling into your first South Pacific paradise under your own power. The storms, the seas, the 2,800 miles behind you seem like nothing. You can’t help but smile, as you wave to a passing cruiser who is heading out of the channel.

“Yeah!” You say to yourself, almost aloud.

“Yeah, I made it. The boat made it. The crew made it. And only a handful of people on Earth can ever say they have accomplished such a feat.

The feeling is so strong you almost feel a chill.

Pride. The pride of conquering unknown peril to accomplish a goal. .........

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The squall hit late at night. Your wife was on watch, and she hesitated to wake you, but the sails had to be reefed, and it takes two.

Since she’s on watch she feels it’s her place to go out and handle the reeflines, so you turn the boat into the wind to let the sail luff, and watch as she ties each line. All the miles behind you, and she still has the same feeling for the boat. And for the lifestyle.

She finishes tying the lines and gives the high-sign. Everything is okay. You turn down wind to fill the sails, and adjust the sheet line. The rain is coming down hard now, and as you look up you see her walking between the house and the lifelines.

It had been warm on her watch, so she was wearing a bathing suit. Then the rain hit so she has a poncho on. You look up from the winch and she’s standing there, rain running down her face, with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. Your heart melts.

Love. Pure and simple. .........

There is no other lifestyle on this water-planet that can evoke such feelings, such depth of emotion, as cruising. The challenges that meet you only make them stronger. Being in charge of your own destiny becomes a way of life, and most cruisers find, if they ever stop cruising they can’t return to their old lifestyle. But then again, who the hell would want too?

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Starboard Attitude

By Bob Bitchin

This is the sequel to The Sailing life. Once again, taking small vignettes from life at sea, and bringing forth a lesson to be learned.

Excerpt from From Starboard Attitude Why is it, when I look up at my flag halyard and see the Jolly Roger flying proud in the wind, I want to smile? What’s up with that?

Every day we hear of ships off the coast of Somalia being boarded by pirates. I find myself taking offence at the use of that term. They aren’t pirates. They are thieves, terrorists or hijackers, but they are not pirates.

No, to me, pirates are a romantic notion of a lifestyle best portrayed by Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean! A bunch of seafaring gypsies that lead a life of adventure.

The fact that real pirates stole, killed, raped and murdered has no place in my dream world. To me they were adventurers. It’s very much like the image of the Old West. The heroes we have from Dodge City and the cattle drives on the Chisholm 159

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Trail were, for the most part, murderers and bad guys. But after a couple hundred years, they have become something else.

Yes, I know pirates were not nice people. But the fact remains, and I can’t explain why, when I see another boat with a skull & crossbones flying from the yardarm, I feel a kinship. It’s kind of like meeting a kindred spirit; someone who looks at life the same way I do.

It’s funny, because when I meet someone with no sense of humor (I really try my best to avoid people like that, but as you know, sometimes it’s not that easy!), I find it difficult to justify my admiration for thieves, cutthroats and murderers.

But none-the-less, when I look up and see the Jolly Roger smiling from my flag halyard, it makes me smile. It makes me feel good, and when I am lucky enough to be around a few hundred people of like mind, well, it just plain feels like home.

I have been enjoying the cruising lifestyle for over 30 years, and in that time I don’t think I have ever really met a pirate. Oh, I’ve met some thieves, mostly in urban areas of the world. One must keep an eye out to protect their goods. In Papeete I remember standing watch to protect our dinghies from being stolen. But they weren’t pirates. They were people who didn’t have anything and looked at cruisers as rich people with boats.

When we were sailing to Europe in the mid 1990s we were told to avoid visiting Naples, as there were a lot of thefts going on. As it turned out, we had to anchor off a suburb of Naples awaiting parts for a busted generator. It was one of the best stops of the voyage and nothing happened.

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When anchored off the Nicaragua/Honduras border at Media Luna Reef, we were approached by a suspicious vessel late at night, with no lights on. They were probably thieves. Standing watch with a sawed off 12 gauge seemed to change their attitude, and we had no trouble. I don’t know if they were thieves, but they definitely were not pirates! As a matter of fact, in the 30 years I’ve been sailing I have not only never met a pirate, I’ve never met anyone who has met one.

The earliest documented instances of piracy are the exploits of the Sea Peoples who threatened the Aegean and Mediterranean in the 13th century BC. The Illyrians and Tyrrhenians were known as pirates, as well as Greeks and Romans.

But the real age of pirates came much later. In medieval Europe the Vikings from Scandinavia raided from about 783 to 1066. Vikings even attacked coasts of North Africa and Italy, the Baltic Sea and rivers of Eastern Europe as far as the Black Sea and Persia.

Muslim pirates terrorized the Mediterranean Sea. In 846 Muslim raiders sacked Rome and damaged the Vatican.

The classic era of piracy in the Caribbean extends from around 1560 up until the mid 1720s.

The period during which pirates were most successful was from 1700 until the 1730s. It was here the classic view of the pirate was born.

And here is where I get my best ammo against the nay-sayers who denigrate pirates! It was the pirate brotherhood who invented democracy (kinda!). Pirates were some of the first to use a system of checks and balances similar to the one used by the present-day United States 161

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and many other countries. The first record of such a government aboard a pirate ship dates to the 1600s, a full century before the United States’ and France’s adoption of democracy in 1789.

So I guess that gives me a slight edge when talking to those weirdos who say, “Why do you have a pirate flag flying? Pirates are nasty people!”

I can point with pride at my Jolly Roger and say, “I support democracy! And it was the pirate captains that first practiced it!”

Aaaargh!

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Emerald Bay

By Bob Bitchin

A novel featuring Treb Lincoln and others from A Brotherhood Of Outlaws. But now Treb is living on a Sailboat, and an explosion in Emerald Bay in Catalina starts he and his friends on an adventure that ends up leading them to Central America and right into the middle of a CIA partnership with the drug cartels.

Excerpt from Emerald Bay The San Pedro Channel was pretty calm and there were four- to five-foot swells spaced very far apart. It made the 120-foot boat roll a little, but not enough to be uncomfortable. She got up to her cruising speed of 22 knots and settled in, while the partiers did their damnedest to drink the bar dry.

On the aft deck, a bunch of girls were dancing to the music being piped over the speakers, and much to the enjoyment of the guests and crew, a couple of them started to strip. It was normal for them to do since most of them worked at Shipwreck Joey’s back in LA, which was one of the nicer titty flop bars.

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Matt was the bouncer at Joey’s, and he was acting as master of ceremonies and wardrobe assistant. As the girls would take off a piece of clothing, they’d hand it to him. He would smile and then throw it over the side.

A trail of clothes followed the boat almost all the way to Catalina.

On the bow, Treb, Dick, and Rom passed a bottle of Southern Comfort and a joint.

“Well, Bro, you gonna miss this kind of life or what?” Rom asked.

“Why should I miss it?”

Dick looked at him hard.

“In case you didn’t notice, you’re getting old and you just got married.”

“Who you calling old?” Treb smiled. “I ain’t no older than you, and I can kick your ass just like always.”

Dick started laughing and passed the joint.

Treb saying he could kick his ass had always been a standing joke. When it came to fighting, there was no one who could beat Dick.

Dick Bondano and Treb had met 13 years earlier in a bar fight in Las Vegas. Treb had come into this small bar just off the strip while he was riding across country.

About five or six very large truckers had decided they wanted to see if this big biker could handle a whipping, so they jumped him.

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and he relished the idea of a real kickass brawl. He watched as three truckers took turns on the big man, and soon he could see the biker really didn’t need much help, but he wanted in, so he jumped in with both feet.

At six feet and 180 pounds, Dick wasn’t all that large, but his Hawaiian ancestry gave him a mean look, and he was wiry as hell. Besides that, he had been raised in a martial arts family. His father, his grandfather, and all of his uncles were Masters in Filipino Kali, the ancient art of weaponry. Dick had been trained since childhood in Kali and Jeet Kune Do. He had worked as an instructor at Bruce Lee’s old school, the Jeet Kune Do Academy, and until Vietnam, martial arts were his life.

After all the killing in Nam, he decided to opt for a little less violent occupation and ended up in Las Vegas working as a guard at a chemical company.

As he waded into the fight beside the large biker on that day 13 years ago, his life changed.

Ever since then, they had been inseparable friends. They rode around the country for awhile and then settled in the South Bay area of Los Angeles.

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A Brotherhood of Outlaws

By Bob Bitchin

A Brotherhood of Outlaws is a novel, and has been called the most relevant look at the outlaw bikers culture in the 70s & 80s era ever written. It was initially published by Bentree House Publishing, and is currently in its 7th printing. It was translated into German and was a best-seller in Germany.

Excerpt from A Brotherhood of Outlaws I glanced up from my speedometer and saw the broadcaster eyeballing down on me. Hell, I hope the pack is centered. I would hate to go to all this horsecrap and lose out on any of the exposure.

My fatbob Harley was running as good as it had ever run and the feel of the vibrating power came right through the handlebars. All I could think about was the snake behind me. I looked into my rearview mirror and once again my heart beat a little harder.

Jesus H. Christ, there is no better feeling in the world than leading 30,000 bikes down the road. Unless it might be leading 40,000 bikes down the road.

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Just before we passed under the bridge I looked back up at the broadcaster. I had seen him before, at the park. He was kind of a little guy, but he seemed to know the score. I like him. Most of the newsmen that were sent to cover this protest were cocky new, because, after all, it was just a bunch of bikers sniveling about their rights being stepped on.

Makelray was different. Like he knew I had plans for this group. I don’t know how, but he knew.

Passing under the bridge made us sound even louder. The thunder roared and it was beautiful. I glanced next to me at Rom and he had this big shit-eating grin on his face. I guess the sound was getting to him too.

Rom and I had been through a lot in the last two years together, and this was going to be the payoff. I reached into my cutoff jacket and felt for my security. It was my 357 Magnum. The heft alone made me feel good.

We turned off the Golden State and onto the Pasadena freeway, toward the civic center.

Hell I hope those cops got the blockades up and the traffic re-routed. If they don’t, I would just as soon take this pack through downtown Los Angeles. I was sick and tired of the bureaucracy bullshit that had been going on for the last few days and right now I really didn’t give a rat’s ass if they were ready or not. We got a point to make and brother are we going to make it.

We turned off the Pasadena and onto the Hollywood freeway. Just one more mile to go. As we dropped into the hollow under some bridges the echoing sounds of the pack came back to me and I was ready for anything. I could ride like this forever.

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Our off ramp loomed ahead and I slowed the pack from 45 to 30 miles and hour. No use dumping some sidewalk commando and listening to the government turkeys harp on unsafe riding or other such horsecock. This day was set aside for bikers and dammit, that’s whose day it is. Period.

As we approached the Civic Center I could see all the police there. A quick glance up showed a couple of helicopters in the silver sky. I could see this was going to be a well-chaperoned event.

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Biker To Sailor

By Bob Bitchin

The mid-70s through the 80s were a unique time in King Harbor, Redondo Beach, CA. Boating in general was at a peak and there was a long waiting list for slips. There was a huge liveaboard community both in the marinas and at the mooring field in the outer harbor. Everybody pretty much knew everyone and it was a very social lifestyle.

The liveaboard community crossed every demographic and you became friends with people you’d probably never meet if it wasn’t for the common denominator of boating. Old, young and everything in between, doctors, lawyers, engineers, construction workers, mechanics, secretaries (remember those?) all hung out together.

No one really cared about what you did; it was all about boats and life aboard. Once we shed our business attire and we were in our boat clothes we were all the same. Everyone blended in. Almost...

Bob Bitchin did not blend, nor did he make any attempt to. His sheer size made him stand out, 169

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but he was also obviously a biker. A rather scary, I think I’ll cross the street to avoid making contact looking biker, with more tattoos than I’d ever seen before. He dressed all in black and wore some very menacing looking jewelry with spikes that would take your eye out. We didn’t know what he did for a living and weren’t sure we wanted to.

Needless to say, he did not look like a boater, let alone a sailor.

We got to know him when our friend, Guy Spencer, bought Bob’s boat Outlaw. Bob had just bought the first Lost Soul and was already planning to go cruising, as were many of us. He became one of the liveaboard community and hung out with the rest of us talking boats, cruising equipment, provisioning, etc. Despite appearances he was friendly, funny, smart, and he really was a sailor. He was one of us.

All of us liked to cruise over to Catalina Island and we frequently ran into Bob over there on Lost Soul. On one occasion a lot of us were anchored in Cat Harbor on the back side of the Isthmus to celebrate the New Year. On New Year’s morning my husband Mike and I were taking an early morning dinghy/coffee cruise. Bob saw us and waved us aboard. After some chit chat Bob decided we needed some music and went below to turn on the stereo. Soon, at quite a high volume, some odd but strangely familiar noises started coming from the on-deck speakers. Moans, groans and heavy breathing had heads popping out of hatches around the anchorage. Then hatches started slamming shut. Instead of turning on the music Bob had turned on a sound recording that 170

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he’d made with two people loudly making love. Half of me wanted to hide and the other half was laughing too hard to move. Blend in? Nope.

For many different reasons, by the end of the ‘80s life in King Harbor was changing a lot. There were restrictions on the number of liveaboards and lots of people moved on to a more “normal” lifestyle. Some of us have hung in there and some new people have joined our ranks. It’s still a great way to live because for those of us here, regardless of what we do (or don’t do) for a living, we’re all boaters. We all blend in.

The biker black has been slowly replaced with Hawaiian shirts, biker boots evolved into sandals.

Appearance-wise, he can sort of pass as a boater these days, and the crazy shenanigans (there have been manyo) are a little less “in your face.” But blend in? No way.

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King Harbor

By Bob Bitchin

A Treb Lincoln novel that follows Treb and his friends from the docks of King Harbor in Redondo Beach, California to a remote island in the Pacific where they end up saving the lives of hundreds of islanders.

Excerpt from King Harbor As I climbed aboard Lost Soul I remembered why I hate boats! No matter how you baby and pamper them, they never seem to get enough of your attention. They just seem to find ways to remind you that they are the important one in the relationship. When I was younger I often wondered why it was they were referred to as she. After a few years of living aboard and crossing a few oceans, I started to understand the similarities. Like a woman, they seem to get jealous if you spend any time with another boat, and if you don’t come home just one night they will make your life miserable.

It was a typical King Harbor morning in King Harbor Southern California. The sun was shining, the seagulls were soaring overhead, and bikini clad 172

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cuties were rolling along on wheels on the road in front of the marina. After spending the previous couple weeks delivering a new Catalina 42 sloop up to the Bay area, I was real glad to be back where the sun shines. Four hundred miles uphill is never a good sail, but this delivery had gone pretty much as planned.

I was delivering a new Catalina 42 from Marina Del Rey up to San Francisco for a broker I did a lot of deliveries for. After leaving Del Rey I sailed up past the Channel Islands in perfect weather. I sailed on a tight reach up to Point Dume, and then made a few tacks up past the Islands. I pulled into the Cojo anchorage and sat there waiting for a good weather report to make it around Point Conception. I timed my arrival at Point Conception for just before dawn, when the northeast tradewinds were the lowest, and once around that notorious landmark I’d just hugged the coast for the rest of the voyage.

It’s a long stretch of beautiful coastline as you make your way up, sailing past Big Sur and Monterey. It’s beautiful, but dangerous, and with absolutely no place to pull in if you hit any trouble.

It’s about as rugged as a coastline can be.

I found myself enjoying the trip, watching as I paralleled Highway One. In my previous life, when I was riding motorcycles, this was my favorite getaway; throw a sleeping bag on the bike and ride up Highway One. It doesn’t get any better, and I relived a few of the trips as I sailed passed Lime Kiln Cove and Big Sur. After dropping off the boat at the dock in San Francisco, I picked up my paycheck from the 173

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broker who’d hired me to deliver the boat and grabbed a taxi to the airport. I couldn’t wait to get back home. Of course, on my return, my baby made it known to me that I had better stop staying out for weeks at a time. Being left by herself, she always seems to get a real attitude. The longer we’ve been together, the more attention she wants when I neglect her.

After this voyage up north, she was particularly displeased with me. “My baby” is my home, a 56-foot stays’l ketch I named Lost Soul.

I’d saved her from the bottom when she was about to be scrapped.

After she’d gone around the world a couple times she’d been abandoned for a few years, and was in pretty sad shape when I found her. Since her shape pretty much matched my bank account, it seemed we were destined for each other.

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A Brotherhood of Outlaws

By Bob Bitchin

A Brotherhood of Outlaws is a novel, and has been called the most relevant look at the outlaw bikers culture in the 70s & 80s era ever written. It was initially published by Bentree House Publishing, and is currently in its 7th printing. It was translated into German and was a best-seller in Germany.

Excerpt from A Brotherhood of Outlaws I glanced up from my speedometer and saw the broadcaster eyeballing down on me. Hell, I hope the pack is centered. I would hate to go to all this horsecrap and lose out on any of the exposure.

My fatbob Harley was running as good as it had ever run and the feel of the vibrating power came right through the handlebars. All I could think about was the snake behind me. I looked into my rearview mirror and once again my heart beat a little harder.

Jesus H. Christ, there is no better feeling in the world than leading 30,000 bikes down the road. Unless it might be leading 40,000 bikes down the road.

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Just before we passed under the bridge I looked back up at the broadcaster. I had seen him before, at the park. He was kind of a little guy, but he seemed to know the score. I like him. Most of the newsmen that were sent to cover this protest were cocky new, because, after all, it was just a bunch of bikers sniveling about their rights being stepped on.

Makelray was different. Like he knew I had plans for this group. I don’t know how, but he knew.

Passing under the bridge made us sound even louder. The thunder roared and it was beautiful. I glanced next to me at Rom and he had this big shit-eating grin on his face. I guess the sound was getting to him too.

Rom and I had been through a lot in the last two years together, and this was going to be the payoff. I reached into my cutoff jacket and felt for my security. It was my 357 Magnum. The heft alone made me feel good.

We turned off the Golden State and onto the Pasadena freeway, toward the civic center.

Hell I hope those cops got the blockades up and the traffic re-routed. If they don’t, I would just as soon take this pack through downtown Los Angeles. I was sick and tired of the bureaucracy bullshit that had been going on for the last few days and right now I really didn’t give a rat’s ass if they were ready or not. We got a point to make and brother are we going to make it.

We turned off the Pasadena and onto the Hollywood freeway. Just one more mile to go. As we dropped into the hollow under some bridges the echoing sounds of the pack came back to me and I was ready for anything. I could ride like this forever.

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Our off ramp loomed ahead and I slowed the pack from 45 to 30 miles and hour. No use dumping some sidewalk commando and listening to the government turkeys harp on unsafe riding or other such horsecock. This day was set aside for bikers and dammit, that’s whose day it is. Period.

As we approached the Civic Center I could see all the police there. A quick glance up showed a couple of helicopters in the silver sky. I could see this was going to be a well-chaperoned event.

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