California, Here We Come

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

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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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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

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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

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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

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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

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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,

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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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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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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

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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

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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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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

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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

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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. Oh well, I figured I could make it on in anyway,

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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

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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. Ah, but the gods of bikerdom were not about to let that happen for the return trip. They smiled down on

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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

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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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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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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

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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

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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

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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

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.

Dick had been sitting at the bar nursing a three-day drunk after getting fired from his job,

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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. 167

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

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

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

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

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. 176

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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