Trippin’ Americana

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

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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”

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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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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

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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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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

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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

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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

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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

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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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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

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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,

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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

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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

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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

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