Puttin’ Across America

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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 Thermo-

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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

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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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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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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

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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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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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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

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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

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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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