Great American Expedition

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. 43

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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

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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

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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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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

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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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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

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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

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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

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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

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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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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

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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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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

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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

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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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