DORF

D O R F

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Other Books by Bob Bitchin Non-Fiction Biker Letters from the Lost Soul The Sailing Life Starboard Attitude Biker to Sailor DORF Fiction (The Treb Lincoln Series) Brotherhood of Outlaws Emerald Bay King Harbor

All books available at BobBitchin.com & Amazon

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Bob Bitchin Caution: This book is NOT recommended for those who may be offended by sex, drugs and Rock & Roll. And if you are, you have my sincerest condolences!

FTW

Publishing, Inc. www.seafaring.com

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DORF First published 2018 by FTW Publishing, Inc. Box 100 Berry Creek, CA 95916 www.seafaring.com Copyright 2018 by FTW Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book and / or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This book is a work of fiction (or is it?)

See the “Legal Crap” notice at start of story!

Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. (LOL) Printed and manufactured in the good ‘ol United States of America.

First edition. April, 2018 Artwork and cover design by Rich “Magic” Marker.

Print ISBN: 978-0-9662182-9-9 Digital ISBN: 978-0-9741991-3-9 If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the publisher or author has received any payment for the “unstripped book.” So don’t be so cheap, buy a copy retail!

$14.99

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This book is dedicated to my friend Alan Saunders who has gone to see what happens after you live a life like we were lucky enough to live! Long rides on cool bikes with hot ladies & good brothers! R.I.P., LTR-RTL & FTW

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Critical Praise (?) for DORF (lol) Bob Bitchin brings his unique brand of outrageously irreverent humor to DORF! It’s the quintessential biker road trip in a bus from California to biker Mecca - Sturgis. And no one will come close to comparing this bus to the Partridge Family bus! It’s filled with the 3 B’s – Booze, Bikes, and Boobs!

Bob Adamov,

Award-Winning Mystery Adventure Author In the secretive world of biker men, who simple mortal men are routinely afraid of (and their wives and girlfriends secretly want to be with), life is filled with brotherhood, partying, pranks, riding and the craziest good, bad and plain dumb luck you’ll ever see. The stories are often crazier than fiction, and if there weren’t photos, articles (or court documents) to prove it, nobody would believe it, or worse, remember it! That being said, there is no better storyteller than Bob Bitchin! In a modern world filled with posers, corporate greed and thin-skinned people everywhere, Bob Bitchin recounts unabashedly when men were men and the world was free for enjoyment!!!

Wolf,

Member, Authentic Legacy MC

Bob Bitchin

Legal Crapola & Explanations (For those who care!)

This is either a work of fiction or non-fiction.

This work proves that Schroedinger’s Cat Theory: A cat imagined as being enclosed in a box with a radioactive source and a poison that will be released when the source (unpredictably) emits radiation, the cat being considered (per quantum mechanics) to be simultaneously both dead and alive until the box is opened and the cat observed. In this story the cat is very much alive!

As this didn’t actually happen, it didn’t actually happen about mid-August, 1973.

What I am trying to allude to is it never happened… and when it did, I wasn’t there, because if it were labeled as non-fiction a whole lot of people could be highly embarrassed (or worse!).

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Well, not a lot, because most of them are dead by now, or in jail, but just in case, and to keep from having what little I have left in life taken away from me by lawyers and other blood-suckers I guess I will just label it as FICTION! There, now no one can sue me for anything.

But those of you who were there, you will know. You will also know when I stray from the facts. Ya gotta have a little poetic license, right?

I mean, hell, if Tom Clancy can use the Royal Family and sitting Presidents in his “fiction” I guess I can use a bunch of degenerate bikers in mine, right?

By the way, degenerate is not a derogatory term in this book. In fact, at the time this DIDN’T happen (wink-wink, nod-nod) it was my fervent hope that I had reached the pinnacle of being a truly degenerate and sleazy biker!

So let’s set the scene for the time period. It was the early seventies. Viet Nam was just over, the love-in’s were fading into memories (sigh) and bikers were at the top of their game. It was just before the “Man” started to hassle us as criminals, and it was a time when young girls… well, let’s just say it was a good time to be a sleazy outlaw biker!

Okay, if this had happened (wink-wink, nodnod) it would have been about 50 years ago, and if I were there I would have been in my late twenties.

As we reach senility sometimes things that happen get foggy, and things that didn’t happen seem to warp into some kind of fuzzy reality. So 4

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once again, this never happened, and when it did, it was a long time ago, and in my alleged drug-addled state of mind, it could have all just been a dream.

Or a nightmare.

Read on and judge for yourself.

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Introduction

By Rich “Magic” Marker

I was lucky enough to start working with Bob Bitchin when he was unlucky enough to lose almost everything in a business deal gone south.

Most folks know the story of the royal screwing he received on the sale of his sailing magazine, Lats and Atts. At the time of the debacle, I was drawing a sailing cartoon for the mag. Bob had liked my drawings enough to print the crappy scribbles in his magazine. I felt I owed this mysterious dude, and offered to help however I could. Almost immediately I was caught up in the creation of his new sailing magazine “something bigger and better” that’s about all we were going on. It’s always going to be bigger and better. That’s the chaotic energy that is Bob Bitchin.

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Not long after we finished Issue 20 of Cruising Outpost, Bob asked “Hey you wanna do something fun and stupid?” I thought, “You mean, like, what we’ve been doing for the last 5 years?” Truth is, I can never predict what’s coming down the pike next. Seat-ofthe-pants flying is Bob’s preferred mode of transit. It starts with a smirk, raised eyebrows and some out-loud thinking, wheels begin to turn, and soon you’re making shit up as you go while trying to keep from flying off the merry-go-round. Bob told me about the idea for this book based on some foggy memories of a bus trip to some place, or fish, called Sturgis and I thought “here we go…” This “based on a true story” epic odyssey is nothing but pure Bob Bitchin. I didn’t realize it until now really - after finishing the final drawing.

DORF, the story of a broken down bus and two yet-tobe-broken down bikers, is an exemplification of how Bob lives his life. Just pack your shit and go - grab hold of the controls of the 747 and figure out how to land before you get there.

Bob and I are sorta kindred spirits. Spirits separated by a few decades of time, and positioned at opposite ends of the drugs/sex/rock and roll spectrum. I grew up on a farm in the bland Midwest. There were no drugs, there was no sex (other than scrambled late night Cinemax), and there was only two kinds of music – country AND western. I like to think that in the proper setting, with the proper training, I could have been a Degenerate Jim. Maybe.

When I look at Bob Bitchin I don’t see the larger-than-life-boating-celebrity-tattooed-ex-biker that a lot of others do. I see a guy that more than anything, likes to laugh and make people laugh. He loves com8

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ics, humor, and above all he loves to create. After my first time lending a hand with boat show setup, I realized that Bob and I have the same Ritalin-resistant inner child that only wants to play, and refuses to listen to the grownups. We get excited about cartoons, funny t-shirts and talking about our most embarrassing/hilarious moments. Dramatic movies make us well up like sissies and people falling down make us laugh. Life in general is just a big goof right up till the inevitable end.

When it comes down to it, ultimately all we really want to do is make something fun and stupid. Keep on creatin’ Bob, I’m with you.

And if you ever want to take an ancient broken down bus to some place, or fish, I’m with you too.

Maybe.

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Prologue In the back corner of a used bus lot, in one of the seedier areas of Long Beach, there sat an old 32 passenger school bus. Bedraggled and forgotten, she’d been sitting there for a few years, surrounded by bigger, newer and brighter buses that came and went every week or so. Her once bright yellow paint now was a mixture of chalky yellow and rust. In her day she had seen a lot of service. When she was young, back in the late 50’s, her first job was at the Northridge Military Academy. Sharp dressed young boys would be waiting in line to board her, and she would shuttle them to school, where they would stand in formation at the start of the day. If a bus could be said to have pride then she was a proud bus.

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Her paint was kept well waxed, and her chrome shinned like a brand-new silver dollar!

But now it was the mid-70’s. Over the years she had seen service at a variety of private schools all over the Southern California area. As she aged, and her shocks started to sag and her engine would cough, they started mistreating her more and more. Her last job in education was when she was used by a church to bring the elderly in from around the parish. A noble task, and she enjoyed it and worked hard to stay in running shape. However, the day finally came when she could no longer get started on the cool Southern California mornings. Her pistons would move slowly in the cylinders, but there was just no spark left in her.

For two years, she sat on the back of the used bus lot on Anaheim Street in the sleaziest part of Long Beach. Every once and awhile someone would board her, look her over, perhaps kick a tire or two. In the end they would end up taking one of the buses that were in better shape.

Month after month turned to year after year.

The time dragged by. There was little doubt she wasn’t far from the wrecking yard.

And then came the day when her life was changed forever. Not necessarily for the better, but it was, indeed, changed.

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Chapter 1 Two men sat astride a couple of oil dripping, smoke belching Harley’s waiting for the signal to change. Treb and Degenerate Jim were riding their chopped Harley’s on a typical sunny Southern California afternoon, just kinda living life and trying to decide where they would have their next beer. They’d stopped at a light, and were busy trying to figure out which of the hookers they were looking at were actually women, and which were men dressed up as women. In that area of Long Beach you couldn’t always tell.

As the light changed they pulled away from the light, not quite sure of one of the hookers, and Treb waved to Degenerate to pull over.

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Since this very well could mean they were about to explore the sexual preferences of one of the hookers, Degenerate pulled over looking forward to a little sex to round out the day. After all, they needed a little diversion. As they slowed down Treb hollard to him, “Hey man, did you see that bus??”

This gave Degenerate a kind of blank look.

It might have been the six beers he’d downed for lunch, or maybe the two joints of sensimilla he’d smoked. Bus? What kind of sexual position is a bus?

Before he could voice his confusion, Treb had turned his Harley around, barely cutting off a couple of on-coming cars, and leaving two horrified drivers wide-eyed and with white knuckles.

He headed back in the direction they come from.

Still, figuring there might be some sex in his future, Jim turned around and followed. He followed him down the street. He followed him past the sexually confused hooker. He followed him as he took a left turn across the highway, and he followed him into a used bus lot.

A used bus lot? What kind of sex can you have in a used bus lot? Degenerate sometimes had trouble changing the track his mind had taken.

Treb had parked his bike, and was walking between the buses. He was obviously excited.

“Hey, Jim, check this out.”

Degenerate had to think for a minute. Jim. Jim? Oh, yeah, Jim! That was his name. It was just no one really ever called him that. He was 13

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usually just called Degenerate. Or The Degenerate. He wasn’t used to Jim. Besides, he was still a little stoned from the joints they’d smoked.

“Check out what,” he asked. ‘It’s a bus. I hate buses. They used to take me to school. I hated school!”

Treb knew this wasn’t exactly true. As a matter of fact, Jim had done really well in school.

He’d graduated with honors from High School, and got a degree in English Literature from Harvard. Of course, since then he’d kinda burned out a few brain-cells on a life of sex, drugs & Rock & Roll.

“No man, check it out. We could get one of these babies, custom it out, and drive it to Sturgis next month for the Classic Rally. How cool!

We could pack some good herb, put the bikes in the back, fill it with cold beer and hot women, and party all the way there and back!”

Now it was starting to sound like it could be fun. Beer? Women? Party? Yes! He could participate in this!

‘Yeah, cool! How about that big old Greyhound over there?” He could picture them, the bus all painted candy-apple red, with flames, and a turbo diesel engine. Inside a couple of big tuck & roll beds. Man, how cool!

A rather sleazy looking individual slithered up beside them.

“Hi boys! Manny’s the name, buses are my game. Wouldn’t you look good driving that big old diesel here? It was hardly used at all. Just a trainer for some small bus company. Trust me!”

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They’d smoked just enough prior to taking off on their bikes to put them into a little world all their own. In that alternate world Treb was laying on a custom bed being fondled by a half-dozen naked nympho’s, and Degenerate was sitting in a chromium bathtub filled with beer. Somehow the cold wasn’t bothering him, and he had a straw stuck down in it and he was trying to empty it, occasionally farting and popping the bubbles with his teeth!

Soon Treb started to come back down to reality, and turned to look at this guy. This guy was a caricature out of the old movie “Reefer Madness.” He was a little over five feet tall, had greasy black hair with a miss-matched hair-piece that didn’t quite work, a five-day growth, and wore an oddly put together suite with dirty gray slacks and a dirtier blue seersucker Jacket over a very loud Hawaiian shirt.

“Aaagh!” Blurted Treb, seeing the man for the first time and thinking that he had just confronted his worst nightmare and this was to be his future.

Degenerate turned to look at what was scaring his partner, and he, also, blurted out a similar sound.

The three people stood staring at each other, trying to figure out what to do next.

Degenerate was the first to come back to reality. He’d smoked less than Treb, and drank less than Manny.

“How much?” He asked, pointing at the huge road-eating fuel guzzler there in front of 15

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them.

“Ah my friend” Manny started, slipping back into his salesman mode and out of his scared to death little guy mode, “You have excellent taste. This beauty is the finest carriage we have. Almost 50 feet of pure sex!”

At the word “Sex” Degenerate perked up.

In his mind they had been parading around Sturgis in his shiny new bus.

“How many will it sleep?” He blurted.

“Ah, there’s one of the great advantages of this Scenic Cruiser. You can build a great living room in the upper area, and put in beds below.

And all for just fifty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars!”

Treb slowly turned to look at him in bewilderment. “Fifty-nine hundred!? Tell ya what, I’ll give ya six thousand if you throw in a set of new tires… how’d that work for ya?”

Slimy Manny turned to look at him. “Er, no, it is fifty-nine Thousand, not hundred.”

Treb looked at him dubiously. “Seriously?

You got to be kidding. It’s used. We don’t want a new one, we want this old used one.”

“Hey, a new Scenic Cruiser sells for over $250,000 new. This is a deal!” Manny started.

“You want something cheap, step to the back of the lot. We got cheap.”

They walked between dozens of buses, all of which had seen better days, and the further back they got, the closer the buses were parked together. Manny kept going, and as they digressed into the lot, the age and condition of the 16

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buses digressed as well.

“So what kind of budget did you have in mind?” Manny asked as he dodged an old Bus that had two flat tires and a broken headlight.

Treb was looking at some of the prices that were written in chalk on the windshields, and just pointed further to the back of the lot.

“Actually we don’t have a budget,” he replied. What’s way back here?”

As they came around an old 60’s rusted hulk which was once painted O.D. green but had long since gone to rust, they saw the back fence.

It was the end of the lot.

Degenerate slowly saw his dream of cranking some cute little low-mileage pit woofer on diamond pleated seat-covers dissolve as he saw the 17

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old school bus sitting at the back of the lot.

And this is where DORF was first discovered.

The name on the hood at one time spelled Ford. But sometime in the years she had been sitting on the lot, some joker had removed the first and last letters on the hood and reversed them. When Treb, Degenerate and Manny walked around the corner, what they beheld was DORF. A 1959 32 passenger bus that had seen better days and had seen over 3 million miles of road in her past.

Degenerate was sure this would end the foolishness. He’d wandered off to take a piss behind one of the buses, and when he’d gotten back Treb had just bought DORF for the grand sum of $900. Even at that price Degenerate figured Treb was more than a few fries short of a happy meal in the brains department.

It had been a major undertaking getting DORF back to Treb’s crash-pad in Hermosa Beach. Once Manny had put a new battery in it, and used a can and a half of starter fluid, she cranked over. Ran for about the first mile or so.

Then she started belching smoke and coughing, and about half-mile from the freeway entrance she coughed her last cough.

Treb had ridden back to the crash pad, got his “cage” which was a 1949 Packard Hearse he’d picked up in the middle of the Mojave Desert. He had an old ‘55 Merc, which died of heart stroke, and ended up trading it for the hearse.

Treb was not the best horse trader.

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It was a humorous sight, with this old hearse pushing a totally thrashed bus down Pacific Coast Hwy, with a bunch of bikers acting as “Road Guards� and stopping cars in intersections to let her pass.

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Chapter 2 Sturgis was fast approaching, and for the past few days all things were going fast and furious at the Biker News offices. The “Staff Infection” (which is how the staff was shown in the masthead of the newly formed tabloid) consisted of Treb, as “The Person Responsible for All This,” Degenerate Jim as Head Word-smith, and Lagnaf, the office St Bernard. Lagnaf was named for the room in which he slept, at the back of the apartment which was used as a crash pad and place of employment. That’d be the LAGNAF Room, anagram for Let’s All Get Naked and Fuck.

The room was stacked about 3 deep and wallto-wall with old mattresses that had been found discarded in alleyways in the beach city.

The LAGNAF room was devised so they 20

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could watch Saturday Night Live when it was simulcast on KRLA, the hippest radio station in Los Angeles. On Saturday night’s the room was usually packed with half-naked beach-goers. The cloud of blue-grey smoke that drifted out of the room would have gotten a nun high!

There were no real rules in the Lagnaf room, except for one. No one was allowed in wearing much clothes! While Degenerate was busy getting the last few pages of the next issue of the biker tabloid ready for the press, Treb was busy in the alley behind the apartment. This is where they had managed to garner four of the eight garages that the 12-unit building shared. Two of the garages were set up as a gym and motorcycle repair shop, and the other two were set aside to store all the crap that a newspaper had to keep. Things like back issues, old print film from past issues, and a basic tool-shop. The walls were plastered with pictures of naked women on choppers, which was the main bill-of-fare for the Biker News.

The bus had gone thru a “Biker-style” engine overhaul in the machine/motorcycle shop, and a couple volunteers were working with Treb painting the bus with a bright new coat of flatblack paint. Actually, it was supposed to be primer, but as the time got tight, and the budget even tighter, it was decided that flat-black was a good color for DORF. All of the bench seats were being pulled out and were being replaced with plywood benches that would double as beds for sleeping.

The back of the bus was left open for the pile of 21

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newspapers they’d be taking with them to Sturgis.

To dress-up DORF for the coming adventure a few sayings were painted on her exterior letting folks know who was driving this fine machine.

“Biker’s have more fun than people” was emblazoned on one side, while “Virgins converted” was added to the back bumper. On the driver’s side the numbers that would indicate just who was inside went up in bright white. “”13”, “69”, “666” and “1%” were staggered across the whole length and breadth of the bus. Last but not least, the front bumper was inscribed with “Don’t laugh, your daughters could be inside.”

Oh, yeah, and a large “FTW” with wings that was the company logo (and still is!)

A piece of the interior side wall had been removed, and it was a perfect place to put a few hand-guns. After all, if you’re about to drive across the US of A, and especially East Los Angeles, you want to be armed.

And so it was, first one gun, then two guns, and then Treb decided the whole damned arsenal should go along “just in case.” Ya never know when you might face a bunch of crazed Indians up there in the black hills, right?

A Rugar .44 Super-Blackhawk with a 10.5” barrel was joined by a AMT Hardballer .45 with Colt barrel and telescope-site. Then, just in case, a Winchester .38 snub nosed revolver and a C.O.P. four barrel .357 derringer, with rotating firing pin filled out the panel. That with a few hundred rounds made them feel a little better about 22

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safety for the trip.

They had found a couple huge stereo speakers behind a trash can, and wired them into the stereo. They had even found an old 8-track tape player, and scrounged a pile of tunes from friends and garage sales. Add to that a stack of the newest issues of Biker News to hand out at the run, and they were almost set.

The last step was to make sure they didn’t run out of the necessities.

“Hey Treb,” Degenerate asked Treb as he entered the garage, “Are you sure you have enough supplies for this? You know it’s gonna be two weeks, right?”

Treb pointed to an ice chest tied down behind the front seat, tucked neatly under the plywood bench.

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“I think we can make it. I have 6 cases of beer tucked in next to the ice chest.” He hesitated, for a minute, looking around, and then continued.

“Under the floorboard I have 5 pounds of sensimilla Patrick brought down from Napa.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then went on.

“I got a half pound of hash from the Swami upstairs and 100 hits of Orange Sunshine acid and an ounce of crystal meth from Freaky Frank.

Oh, yeah, I could only get 30 Quaaludes, so we may run short there, but I’ll bet we can trade some of the acid for ‘Ludes if we do.”

“Oh, yeah” he added as an after-thought, “I have to go to get a couple of sandwiches from Mickey’s Deli for the road too.”

Degenerate smiled. Mickey’s sandwiches were God-food when ya got the munchies, and a lot of people in Hermosa Beach got the munchies.

Mickey’s deli sat a block down the street, and they stayed open until late every evening to catch the stragglers. Being just a half-block off the beautiful sands of Hermosa Beach, it was like a magnet to the kind of folks that gathered in small beach towns in Southern California.

When Treb had gone to pick up the sandwiches he made a quick stop at ‘Hermosa High.”

Hermosa High was a Head Shop opened in the late sixties that specialized in black-light posters, rolling papers and bongs. Walking in you were hit with incense and an overwhelming odor of Pa24

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tchouli, which was the fragrance of that decade.

Daniel, an old friend, was running the place.

Treb picked out a couple of new small pipes that could be stashed easily in the bus, and three “stash cans.” A Stash can was a can made to look and feel like an oil can or even a soft-drink can. BUT, you could twist off the bottom, and stash stuff inside. If you get stopped by the man, 9 times out of 10 they would not even realize they were not real oil cans or soft drink cans!

When he got to Mickey’s Rick was working.

Rick had always wanted to work with Treb at the motorcycle magazine, so he always gave him extra on his sandwich orders. Treb wondered why he thought he would hire him, knowing he steals from his current boss to brown-nose someone he wants to work for. That didn’t make a lot of sense to Treb.

But he ordered a dozen Mickey’s Specials, which were submarine sandwiches made with bologna and American Cheese. They were the cheapest sandwiches they had, except for a “sauce Sandwich” which was just a roll filled with pizza sauce. He figured they’d get too soggy by the time it came for them to be eaten.

It was time to hit the road. After a quick topoff at Efram’s gas station to fill the tanks and check the tires. Treb glanced under the bus to make sure there was oil still dripping out of the engine. The same way he checked the oil on his Harley. If it was leaking, it had oil! They were ready to hit the road. They turned right onto Pacific Coast Highway, and they were on their way.

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The sun had set, they were wearing dark glasses, and life was good!

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Chapter 3 As they drove down PCH Jim pulled out a couple cans of cold Coors so they wouldn’t get thirsty. Back in the day you could only get Coors in a small corner of the US, and Hermosa was one of the luck towns that had it. Jim slapped his feet up on the dashboard, rolled a big fat doobie, and soon they were mellow and laid back as they headed towards Barstow. The huge speakers in the back of the bus were belching out the sounds of The Doors as they sank into their own mental worlds.

It was a five hour drive to Barstow and it was close to 10 PM when they got there.

“Hey Jim,” Treb asked looking over to see Jim scratching has balls with a little too much enjoyment he thought. “You wanna stop and get 27

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something at McDougal’s Gland of the Swollen Starches (which is how they referred to McDonalds!) before we head out onto the desert?”

It seems they had munched down the Mickey’s sandwiches as soon as they left Hermosa, and there was a McDonalds just ahead.

“Desert?’ Jim asked. What desert?”

“Don’t you remember, we said we were gonna stop and see Grand Canyon on the way.

You know, do a little sightseeing. Once we leave Barstow it’s all desert for a long ways. Maybe we should grab a bag of burgers and stuff?”

The munchies had pretty much taken over Jim’s whole being at that point, and soon they were inside McDonalds scaring small children with their bloodshot eyes and bedraggled looks.

Both Treb & Degenerate wore the “uniform of a biker” from the 60’s. Old grease-stained Levis, black T-shirts with the sleeves cut off and words that left no doubt about their lifestyle choices.

Treb’s read “Bikers Have More fun Than People” while Degenerate sported his “Fuck the World” t-shirt.

The fact that they had been too busy to change or shower for a few days prior to departing didn’t help them “blend in.”

They ignored the stares of the children and their mothers who were staring at them as if they had just landed on a moon transport.

With a bag full of a dozen cheeseburgers and an equal number of bags of fries, they were once again on the road.

Once they left Barstow Treb started to get 28

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a little drowsy. He reached into his pocket for a small vial he kept. He called it his “Bitchin” powder.”

It was truly magical indeed. It was a blend of 30% pure Crystal Meth, 30% Cocaine, and 30% PCP with about 10% powdered THC which he made from shaking pot plants and liquefying the residue, drying it out, and keeping it in a dry, warm area.

The vial held about an eighth ounce and was fitted with a cute little bullet head on it. All he did was flick a little lever on the side, tap the vial, and put his to his nose. He snorted a little into each nostril, while Jim looked over at him, questioningly.

“Any of that for me.” Jim asked.

“Well, uh, ya see,” Treb hesitated, “I didn’t bring enough for both of us.” He thought for a minute, “but there’s a shit-load of Coke & Meth.

What’s your pleasure!?”

Jim dug into the “medicine bag”, and did a little of each to “catch up” and then opened the bag of Orange Sunshine.

He handed a spiked sugar cube to Treb, and washed one down himself with a cold Coors.

Ten minutes later, with the huge stereo speakers in back blasting out “Light My Fire,” there was no chance they would be falling asleep.

Five and a half hours later, just as the sky was starting to show a little light far to the east, they roared past the gates to Grand Canyon.

They had decided that the best thing in the world would be to watch the sun rise over the Canyon.

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In order to get the full enjoyment out of it, they decided to top things off with another hit of Orange Sunshine.

As they approached the first parking lot, they swung onto the dirt lot and headed for the wall. On the stereo “We Will Rock You” by Queen was blaring at full volume. There was just one lone vehicle in the parking lot, and old 59’ Chevy that had seen many better days, with a couple of hippies sitting on the hood leaning back against the windshield enjoying the quiet and peaceful start to a new day while smoking a doobie.

Treb was heading right for the wall at full speed, and at the last minute he swung the wheel hard to the left, and the bus went into a six-wheel drift. It was a six wheel drift because it had dual wheels on the back (duh!).

The bus careened until three of the wheels were leaving the ground, and then slammed into the thick rock wall separating the parking lot from the 4,000 foot drop to the bottom of the canyon in a cloud of dust and a cacophony of “We will Rock You” emitting from the open windows.

The front bumper of the bus ended about 5 feet from the front bumper of the Chevy. Treb and Jim opened the bus doors, climbed up onto the stone-wall (after all, they were kind of pinned against the wall!) and headed to where the very wide-eyed hippies were sitting, in sheer terror.

Treb threw his camera at them.

“Hey, Dude, would ya take a picture of me and my buddy here with the Canyon?”

It took in few seconds for the poor guy to 30

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form any words.

“Uh, yeah, sure” he said, hoping these crazed and demented bikers weren’t gonna kill him and do his girlfriend.

Treb & Degenerate Jim threw their arms over each other’s shoulders and posed in their best “Hey look, we’re tourists” imitation.

Grabbing the camera out of the stunned hippies hands, they jumped back up on the wall, got back into the bus, and after scraping a few layers of paint of the right side of the bus, they put Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock & Roll” on, once again at full volume, and left the parking lot in a huge cloud of dust.

The hippies just sat there for a couple min-

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utes, then Reginald turned to Flower. “What the hell was that all about?� was all he could say.

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Chapter 4 The next plan was a stop at Four Corners National Monument. If they’d known what it would take to get there they probably would never have given it a shot. But it was early in the am, they had enough crap cursing thru their veins that sleep would have been out of the question, and so they drove.

And they drove.

And they drove some more.

All they saw were prairie dogs and Indians.

Lots of Indians.

As the acid kicked in, the site of Indian hordes (or so it seemed to them at the time) kept them from stopping at the two small trading posts that were along the straight as and arrow road.

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Of course the gas gauge told them they had to stop, and so it was they came to be in beautiful downtown Red Mesa, Arizona.

At first neither of them would get out of the bus to pump the gas. The town, all 40 people, seemed to be sitting around the one gas station.

The thought of an Indian uprising was uppermost in their minds.

Then they remembered that they were well armed. With all these hostiles around it seemed a good idea to be packing as they left the bus.

And so it was we see our hero’s jamming firearms into every orifice they can find, to stave off the Indian uprising.

It wasn’t until after Jim had started to pump the gas and Treb had gone into the little trading post that they realized they had forgotten to load said armament with ammo, but what the hell. On TV no one ever had to shoot. Just point, right?

Inside the Trading Post were all kinds of Indian lore for sale. Treb looked over all the little Kachina dolls, Turquoise jewelry and was about ready to buy a great turquoise ring, until he saw the “made in Japan” sticker on the back.

He heard some music coming from the back room, and his curiosity got the best of him.

He wandered back into a darkened area, with tables, chairs and a small stage. Two old Indians sat in a back-corner table, and a couple of truckers were sitting at a table near the stage. When a new song started, a woman came out on stage.

Kewl! Thought Treb. A Titty Flop bar right here in the middle of nowhere.

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He headed outside and got there just as Jim was putting the gas cap on.

“Dude’” said Jim. “Let’s get the fuck outta here. I think these assholes are about to attack.”

“Calm down man. You aint gonna believe this, but they got a Titty-Flop show going inside.

Let’s park the bus and check it out.”

And so it was, Treb & Degenerate Jim met Preggy Peggy and Sleazy Suzy. The two top performers (well, actually the ONLY performers) at the Red Mesa Trading Post.

The first on stage was Preggy Peggy. With a cold beer in hand, the boys sat back as the music started, and were more than a little surprised when an 8-month pregnant Indian comes out on stage undulating to the music, wearing nothing but a g-string and pasties.

With a couple of hits of Orange Sunshine acid coursing thru their veins, along with unknown quantiles of Bitchin Powder, cocaine and meth, what they saw seemed to be Mother-Earth herself. Her body seemed to be ripe with new life, and they sat stunned as she squatted in front of them. Degenerate reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills, stuffing them into her g-string. Treb merely looked on with his mouth hanging open.

When the song ended both of them sat there with tears in their eye’s, thinking of what a wonder life it was, when Sleazy Suzy walked out onto the stage.

Whatever feelings of warmth and life they were feeling went right out the door.

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Standing there in front of them, with Gary Puckett and The Union Gap screaming out “Young girl get outta my mind, my love for you is way outta line...� was a seventy year old person (they were unsure of it was male or female) undulating. It soon became evident that it was, indeed, a woman, as she dropped her flea-bitten robe, and stood there with G-String in place, with gray/black bush sticking out above, below and all around it, and a pair of pasties, not more than an inch or two above there, stuck to two of the lowest hanging breasts one could imagine.

Once again the acid took over their minds, and in less then a minute they ran screaming out the door, jumped into DORF and were careening

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out onto the highway.

It took about 20 minutes and a half-dozen Quaaludes before they could get the image of the she-daemon out of their minds eye.

Each was deep in thought wondering what they had really experienced when they hit the turnoff for the Four Corners Monument. This is where Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado collide. The one place where four states intersect.

They pulled DORF into a parking spot, and peered out the window’s to make sure they had not been followed by the daemon from Red Mesa. As the monument was surrounded by hundreds (or so it seemed) of Indians, it took a little time.

Finally they decided the coast was clear, and this time with their firearms well loaded they wandered over to the little brass plaque that showed where four corners was.

They took turns trying to balance on the exact spot where they could say they stood in four states at once. The difficulty factor for this feat was a little more for them than it was for the other tourists who stood at a distance from these two crazed bikers, and parents hustled their children as far away as possible. It seems a combination of various chemicals had altered their mental state, to where the mere act of standing on two feet was difficult. Ad to that the fact that they had not slept in a couple days didn’t make it any easier.

Eventually they climbed back into the bus, and pulled out of the parking area.

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As we all know, what goes up, must come down. Taking a few Quaaludes after drinking a six-pack or two started the downward swirl, and soon both men were staring blurry-eyed ahead.

The bus would alternatively hit the “Bott’s Dots” in the center of the road, or the gravel off to the side.

Degenerate Jim’s white knuckles on the dashboard made Treb think maybe it would be a good idea to pull over when they could and test their eyelids for holes (sleep!).

As they entered Cortez, Colorado they saw a small parking area by a church, and pulled in just as the sun was setting.

Laying on the floor of the bus, with a pile of newspapers for pillows, they were soon sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

Okay, well, maybe not the innocent, but of the well medicated. A couple additional ‘Ludes seemed to help them go down.

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Chapter 5 Sunday morning in Cortez, Colorado is usually a very pleasant place and time. Everyone dresses, and gathers at the church to pass gossip, talk about the weather, the crops, and of course, to make their peace with God. This Sunday, however, differed a bit.

As the first cars started to pull into the parking lot just after sun-up (why do country folk have to get up so early anyways?) The gathering throngs couldn’t help but notice a large black bus parked right up against the church front steps, with the slogan “Virgins Converted� on the bumper!.

It seems Treb, in his altered state, had mistaken the steps for a parking place, and put his front wheels right up against the step, making it 39

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all but impossible for anyone to get passed the bus.

The parishioners, being God-fearing folk, stayed back from this “Devil’s Vehicle” knowing full well it had to be the work of the devil himself.

After all, it had 666 emblazoned on it’s side!

Father James was soon rousted from his pulpit, where he’d been rehearsing his sermon for the day, and when he opened the door he splashed holy water all over the front of the bus to protect himself and those who were there from entering Damnation.

All of the hubbub didn’t wake the two sleeping inside. After all, they’d just been a sleep a few hours and had a lot of chemical help to stay that way.

But Father James was not one to be trifled with. He slammed his open hand on the hood of DORF yelling “Be gone, oh ye damned vehicle of Satan!”

Nothing.

Once again, he slammed his hand upon the hood of this vehicle of the damned, shouting once more “Be gone. This is God’s House!”

This time Treb heard the nose. He just wanted to sleep. But something was making noise.

Maybe it was a wild animal? It could happen, he thought.

So he pulled out his Ruger .44 Super-Blackhawk, with it’s 10.5” barrel.

In the middle of the night he had taken off his cut-off and T-shirt to be more comfortable. In fact, he was just wearing his tighty whities, only 40

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they were anything but tight, and had not been white in years.

Now, perhaps at this point we should describe Treb. This will help you get a better vision of what was about to happen.

Treb is bigger than the average bear. He stands about 6’4”, weighs in at a little under 300 pounds, and had been pumping iron for years.

He was also a fan of tattoo’s. He had full sleeves on both arms, with a variation of dragon’s, tigers, skulls and Harley-Davidson wings, and on his chest was a very large piece showing Poseidon slaying a huge shark.

At the time of his awakening he had slept about three hours, and his eye’s were as red as a stop-light. He hadn’t had a haircut in months, and his hair was as wild as it could be. He sported a full beard and mustache, and at that very

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moment looked a lot like everyman s idea of what the Devil would look like.

Now, Degenerate Jim, on the other-hand, was a little smaller, but none-the-less frightening. Standing about 5’ 10”, he was slender and had a beard ZZ Top would envy. His hair hung down past his shoulders, and he to was covered with various works of tattoo art. To top it off, he always wore sunglasses. Yes, always,even when he slept.

He, as well, had doffed his clothing during the evening, and was less than happy to be rustled awake by a 300 pound Treb screaming that they were being attacked by wild Indians.

And so it was, the door to the bus opened, and to this very day, the townsfolk of Cortez Colorado talk of the day they were visited by the Devil and Beelzebub, his right hand daemon.

Both came forth from the vehicle from hell with glaring red eye’s and guns in both hands.

The parking lot emptied in a matter of mere seconds, and the preacher was last seen heading across a neighboring corn-field, making a zig-zag path, as he had learned to do in Viet Nam a few years earlier.

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Chapter 6 As the black bus headed north out of Cortez it started belching a little smoke. By the time they were passing the turnoff for Telluride the smoke had gotten pretty thick. Treb checked the rear-view mirror and kicked Degenerate in the leg to wake him up. “Hey Jim, take a look thru the back window and see if that fog is coming from under the bus or is it sneaking up on us.�

Treb had done a couple toots of his Magic Powder to stay awake, and the thin line between reality and the daemon world he knew was just over the bend was getting a little shaded.

Jim rolled out of the seat and tried to walk back to the rear of the bus. This was not as easy as one might think, as they were on a winding 43

DORF

mountain road and the 2,000 copies of Biker news, which had started the trip in a nice neat stack, was now covering the whole floor of the bus. It was a true test of his facilities just to get to where he could see the back window.

As he passed the ice-chest he reached down for a cold beer (Jim could not be awake more than a few minutes without a beer and a joint).

“Looks like it’s coming from under the bus,” he said, and then sat down on the ice chest and started to roll a fatty.

They were just passing the turnoff for Spur 145 to Telluride, and as luck would have it, there was a station. They hadn’t seen one since leaving Cortez.

Treb swung the wheel into the gas station that had appeared out of nowhere, and Jim rolled off the ice chest, but never dropped a seed or spilled a drop of the beer he was drinking.

As Jim filled the tank, Treb walked into the small office. The attendant was busy eating and didn’t look up until he heard the bell of the door opening.

“Aaaagh!” He exclaimed when he looked up, dropping his Egg McMuffin and reaching under the desk for the double barreled twelve-gage that was there for just such emergencies.

Treb didn’t notice his discomfort and asked, “Hey, dude, we got something wrong with our bus. Ya got a mechanic here?”

By the time he finished his sentence he noticed there were two very large barrels of a sawed off shotgun pointing at him.

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His first thought was to pull the Ruger that was in the break-away holster under his cutoff, but then he realized that might not be the best move, as the shotgun was already pointing at him and the very shaky dude had his very shaky finger on the trigger. So he just held his hands up and smiled.

“Uh, ya got me” he said, in the smoothest voice he could muster. “But all I needed was a mechanic.”

The attendant calmed, and put the shotgun back under the desk. With a sheepish grin he mumbled an apology, and soon they had the bus pulled alongside the old building, and three butts were sticking out from under the hood.

As it turned out, he knew even less about engines than Treb & Jim did. After about thirty minutes of “Hey, maybe it’s this,” and “Maybe it’s that.” They decided the best thing to do was to add a bunch of STP, because it said right on the can it stopped engines from smoking.

Truth be told, the reason it was smoking was that the oil hadn’t been changed in about 15 years, and it had so broken down that it was almost like water. Very dirty, black water.

When DORF had her oil filled with the thick and gooey STP, she started to purr like a kitten.

Once again they were on the road. For the next few hours they passed thru some of the most beautiful countryside in the US. Of course they didn’t notice it. The stereo was blasting tunes, and to “stay alert” they were testing all kinds of concoctions and mixes of 45

DORF

weed, speed and acid.

It was about 4;30 in the afternoon when Jim let out a loud “Aaaagh!” As he opened the ice chest.

“Dude,” he screamed (he often called people Dude because he would forget their names. Even Treb, who he’d been with for 8 years!) “There’s only one beer left!”

For Degenerate Jim, being in a vehicle with just one beer left was the pinnacle of emergency status. It was totally unacceptable.

Up ahead Treb saw there was a sign. It said “Leadville, 18 miles.”

“No problem,” he said, trying to calm the paranoid Jim, who was sitting on a pile of Biker News, hugging his last beer.

“There’s a town up ahead. I am sure we can get some brewskies there.” He hesitated, and then went on, “And how kewl is this? We are in Colorado, home of Coors! It should be cheaper here!”

Jim just sat in abstract terror that there was a possibility the town they were coming to was dry, and there would be no beer.

He had thoughts like that a lot, specially when he was smoking a lot of pot, which, in this case, he had been.

As they rolled thru town Jim screamed “Stop!” At the top of his lungs. He had to. Because the Rolling Stones were hollering “We can’t get no satisfaction” at full volume.

Treb slammed on the brakes, cause the cars behind him to swerve away from hitting them.

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“What the fuck?!” Treb hollard back at Jim. You scared the shit outta me.. What’s the matter?”

But Jim had already uprighted himself, opened the side door, and was out in the street, running across the street.

Treb tried to gather his wits, and figured it might be a good idea to get the bus out of the middle of the street before the local Sheriff decided to check them out. He turned onto a sidestreet and found a place to park.

Jim had run into The Silver Dollar Saloon.

The Silver Dollar Saloon looked like it was out of the Old West, and truth be told, it was. It had been built in 1883, and was still standing and still serving alcohol to all who wanted it.

Degenerate Jim wanted it. In fact, he needed it! In his paranoid state he thought they might never see a beer again, so he chugged his last one from the bus as he ran into the saloon.

There were about 20 bikes parked in the street in front of the saloon, and Treb checked them out as he walked from the bus. There were few Harley’s and a couple smaller Honda’s.

He walked thru the swinging doors and squinted into the dark interior. When his eye’s adjusted he saw Jim standing at the bar with a boilermaker. He picked up the shot glass filled with whiskey, dropped it into the tall mug of beer, and chugged it down.

Treb knew he was in trouble now. He knew a couple boilermakers would have Jim in trouble in just a few minutes.

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Standing next to Jim was an attractive girl, mid twenties, dark hair. She was talking to Jim. Jim didn’t really notice, as he ordered another boilermaker, and seeing Treb walk in, ordered one for him as well.

“Hey Treb, this place rocks” he slurred.

“The service is first class. No waiting!” He said this as he dropped the shot-glass that had just been filled into the beer mug in front of him, and downed it.

Treb walked over and did the same. The girl who had been talking to Jim was now leaning against him, and had her hand around his arm, more for support than anything else. She was obviously wasted.

“You sure have nice looking arms,” she was slurring, “where are you guys heading.”

Jim noticed her at last, and looking down saw a nice pair of breasts, wrapped in a halter top, with a well tanned midriff and low cut jeans.

He turned to Treb with the look of a small child on his face.

“Can we keep her?” He asked.

Ten minutes later we were back in the bus, with our new friend Karen, who had just broken up with her husband (or, as we were about to learn, planned to!) and wanted us to drive over to her place to pick up some clothes, and she was going to Sturgis with us!

When we pulled up to the house she guided us to where there was a guy mowing the lawn in the front yard. He heard the bus pull up and watched as Karen ran into the house. He then 48

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turned to see two of the weirdest people he’d seen in awhile standing by the bus. One was huge, the other just plain scary.

Five minutes passed very slowly. They all just stood and starred at each other.

But the minutes did pass, and Karen came flying out of the house with a bag over her shoulder, shouting “Fuck you!” at the poor guy standing in the yard.

He was soon lost in the dust behind the bus as it headed back to the paved road.

Little did he know this had been the luckiest day in his life. She would never return!

NO! Not because of that... Just because she was... Oh, never mind. Suffice it to say he was 49

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bad luck, and she never came back, but to the best of our knowledge, she is still alive, although probably still a slut!!

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Chapter 7 After stopping at a liquor store and re-stocking the bus with beer they continued on the way to Sturgis. They still had a couple days to get there, and decided to take the “Ridge of the Rockies.” So they checked out the Thompson’s Guide, and were soon on their way to Rocky Mountain State Park.

As they zigzagged through the mountains, Treb drove, and Degenerate Jim and Karen got, well, let’s just say, down to business.

Treb was watching in the large rear-view mirror as Karen pushed Jim down onto a pile of Biker News and stood above him looking down on him. She pulled her halter top off and let a pair of really nice titties fly free.

Treb thanked the Gods that be for making it 51

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a law that school buses had to have large mirrors to allow the driver to keep his eye’s on the kids. Because it allowed him to keep his eye’s on these kids, and Degenerate Jim earned his name over the next hour or so. He was truly a Degenerate!

Once her Levi’s were off it was hard for Treb to keep his eye’s on the road. They would go from a 69, to her ridding him, to her blowing him, and then back to a 69.

As they passed thru Granby Colorado he was afraid they would be stopped by the police, as the noise of these two going at it, and the way the bus rocked, he thought everyone outside must know what was going on.

And it went on. And on. And on.

After three hours Treb could hardly keep driving. All he wanted to do was park and pile on, but he and Jim always had a signal. If they wanted to “partner” one would wave the other in. In this instance, the only waving Jim did was telling him to keep driving.

It was dark, and Treb was getting tired of driving. Karen had finally been satiated, and was pulling her pants up.

“Hey Treb,” Jim shouted over the stereo, “pull over, I gotta pee.”

He saw a turnoff up ahead and pulled into it.

They were somewhere along the top of the Rockies, on a road that had no traffic on it. It was pitch black outside, on a moonless night.

As soon as the door opened Jim was out the door, and so was Treb.

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“Hey man, aren’t you gonna share?’ He asked Jim. “Hell, I was finished hours ago, but she’s like a wild cat. When we get back in I’ll drive, and you take over.”

And that was the plan.

As we all know, God laughs at man’s plans.

And so it was, an hour later, Karen sleeping and snoring like a freight train, Treb’s frustration went unrelieved.

The bus hit a bump, and Karen awoke.

“Hey, can ya pull over. I gotta pee.”

Jim pulled over to the side of the road. They were about five miles from a small town, in the middle of nowhere.

Karen got out of the bus and walked into the bushes.

All of a sudden Jim put the bus in gear and started to pull out.

“Hey man, exclaimed Treb, “what are you doing? She’s not back in the bus yet.”

“I know,” grinned Jim, “Toss her bag out the window. She won’t share, she can walk. I sure don’t want her hanging out with me in Sturgis.

It’d be like taking a bologna sandwich to a Ruth Chris’” I dropped her bag out the window, and we both tried to figure out what she’d tell her old man once she got back to Leadville, if she ever did!

A few hours later we pulled onto a small dirt road, and pulled over to get some sleep.

Jim reeked of pussy. Treb had a hard time 53

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keeping from sprouting wood as he re-ran the event in his head. He had a restless night.

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Chapter 8 The rest of the drive to Sturgis was uneventful. Pretty soon, after they had passed Cheyenne, Wyoming, they started to see a few bikes.

Back in the 70’s Sturgis wasn’t the tourist trap it has turned into in later years. The year before there had been about 1,800 bikes that showed up. The year before that less than 1,000.

This year they were expecting 2,500 or so.

They drove slowly thru town as they looked for the turnoff for City Park. This is where the bikers all camped.

Once they found a good spot they grabbed a couple stack’s of Biker News, and headed to town, and Main Street.

There were already a few hundred bikes, and they had taken over about 1/4 of the park55

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ing spots in town. Treb & Jim found a place to pull the bus behind the armory. Once inside they checked the bulletin board for any messages, and then wandered out onto the grass, and kicked back.

The fun of Sturgis was right there. As the street filled they started to see more and more patches from all over the country. It looked like this was going to be a good year after all.

After awhile they got up and wandered into the Sturgis Lounge. It was right across the street from the Armory, and a favorite for the bikers.

When they entered they saw a small crowd gathered at the far end of the bar, so they wandered down to check it out.

There, laying on the top of the bar, was Karen. Her pants were pulled down to her knees, and her knees were, well, let’s just say “almost” touching her ears.

Between her legs an old friend, John, from the Raven’s MC, who was very intent on trying to lick her belly button from the inside! It looked as if he was going to succeed!

Treb wandered over to a table and sat down.

He was more than a little hurt that this bimbo would do stranger’s on a bar-top, but wouldn’t put out for him.

As he remembered from when he was a kid, there was a difference between a slut and a bitch. A slut put out to everyone, a bitch put out to everyone EXCEPT you!

Jim was just happy to sit and watch, knowing that way he wouldn’t be stuck with her at 56

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the rally. Jim was a little weird. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to hang with women, but he did prefer a cold beer and a joint. They were easier to control.

John pulled back from between Karen’s legs for a minute to catch his breath, and let the guy next to him take a turn. After washing off his mustache and beard with a shot and a beer, he noticed Treb & Jim, and wandered over.

“When did you guys hit town,” he asked, “The Club got in yesterday and set up over at City Park.

Yeah, we are at City Park too,” answered Treb, pointing at Karen. “When did she come in.”

“Hell, I don’t know. I came in a few minutes ago and she was just sitting up on the bar with her butt in the air, letting guys take turns.

Thought I’d get a taste. You guys know her?”

“We met,” said Jim. He was always a man of few words.

Now Treb was always thinking, and at this time he was thinkin’ that it would be a good photo to get a picture of a bimbo, sitting on the fire hydrant out front, in her nakeds. Being a news-paper guy, this was how his thought ran.

He voiced his idea to the table, and soon they were out in the front of the Sturgis Lounge with Karen sitting on the fire-hydrant with her pants down around her ankles and her tank top pulled up to show her true treasures.

Just about the time Treb got his Nikon focused, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

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He brushed it off, and snapped a photo.

As it turned out this was not the wisest of moves. It seems that Sheriff Buford had been driving by, and couldn’t help but notice that small crowd gathering in front of the Lounge. He also would have had to be blind or totally gay not to notice the naked lady sitting atop the fire hydrant.

Sheriff Buford was far from gay, and so it was he decided that this was not a good idea for the community, and felt he should inject this opinion to those who had gathered.

He decided the best way to inject this opinion would be to tap the photographer on the shoulder, to let him know that this sort of activity was frowned upon by the good citizens of Sturgis.

Now Sheriff Buford was no small man. He stood about 6’2” and weighed in at a hefty 250 pounds. And so it was he was quite taken aback when this photographer stood up and turned around, to see who had been so rude as to try to interrupt him when he was working, and Sheriff Buford found himself looking up into the very red eye’s of Treb.

Ah, now this was a moment that could have changed history for both Treb and Buford. Treb’s first inclination was to bitch-slap this person for interrupting his fun, whoever he was, and was only slowed by the realization that there was a glinting star pinned to his chest.

Still, there was enough Magic Powder, weed and acid mixed in his system to allow his mind to consider bitch slapping this person, even if he 58

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did have a badge.

But history was changed when John, who’d had less weed, and no Magic Powder, inject-ed a moments clarity into this scene.

John reached out and grabbed Treb’s arm before he could get it pulled up, and whispered into his ear. “Treb. Be cool. This is the man here.”

The words “the man” got thru the fog in his slightly altered state, and he just kinda stood there and grinned.

Sheriff Buford also made an historic decision that day. He decided to defuse the situation instead of pushing it to it’s other possible conclusion.

He smiled back at this hulking behemoth standing in front of him.

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“If you’ve got a minute,” said the Sheriff, “I’d like to talk to you. How about coming with me for a little drive.”

Treb looked at Jim, Jim looked at John, and they all looked at Karen, who had become bored with things, and wandered back into the Lounge pulling up her pants. She never did realize that it was Jim and Treb.

The Sheriff told the group that Treb would be “right back” and they got into his squad car, and drove off.

When they reached The Sheriff’s Office Buford led Treb into his office. Treb looked around.

It was pretty typical of the day, There were photos of the Sheriff with different people who looked like citizens, and one of him standing with the governor. This Treb knew because it said “Sheriff Buford Wheems and Governor Richard Knelp.”

Treb also saw a photo of a younger Sheriff Buford, with a group of Rangers, taken in Viet Nam. It was this photo that set the tone of their talk.

“Sheriff, I am sorry if I caused a problem,” Treb started. “I have a small biker newspaper in Southern California and I thought that would make a great photo for the paper.”

This defused what the Sheriff was going to say. Maybe this guy could be reasoned with.

“Okay, but you have to understand, your instigating a photo like that is unlawful, and just plain indecent. As a reporter you will get some leeway, but if I catch you instigating other acts 60

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of lewd behavior, it will not go so easily. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes sir, we do. By the way,” he asked pointing at the photo. “What outfit were you with?”

“1st Infantry, I was with LRRp’s. You? “Air Force, Da Nang.”

“You need a ride back to the Lounge” Sheriff Buford asked.

“No sir, I believe the walk will do me good.

Thanks you for your courtesy.”

With that they shook hands, and Treb walked out of the Sheriff’s office, and the two blocks back to Main Street.

As he walked he realized with just the Bitchin Powder he had in his pocket, in South Dakota he had just slipped out of a life sentence. He breathed a very long sigh of relief.

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Chapter 9 All afternoon and thru the evening bikes kept pouring into town. About 8PM their group decided to head back over to the park. That was where the activities would be for the evening.

As they pulled into the park they saw a group that were setting up drag races on highway 79/34, just outside the park.

Bonfires were burning all over the park and bikers from different clubs mingled at these fires.

There were not a lot of Nomads or outriders who would come to Sturgis in the ‘70’s. Mostly clubs, So patches were seen from all over the country.

New York, Florida and even Hawaii.

Walking from fire to fire, Treb and Jim would offer some of their weed or ‘Ludes or acid, and in turn the “host” of the fire would offer up whatever 62

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they had to offer. As the evening wore on, it got very hazy out.

Around 2AM Treb headed back to the bus to get some sleep. He knew it was going to be a long weekend, and he also knew Degenerate Jim would not put his head down until he fell down.

It was his way of life. “Party till ya puke” was his motto, and he lived by it!

It was near dawn when Jim stumbled onto the bus and fell on a pile of newspapers, using some as a pillow, and went out like a light.

City Park did not spring to life early. In fact it was around 9AM before the Elks Lodge brought in a food wagon and served up Hot Cakes and sausage for $2.50, with all proceeds going to their charities. Coffee was 50 cents, and they kept it flowing. It was like a life’s’ blood for the bikers, who staggered up to the counter bleary eyed. They kept serving until noon, which was just in time for Treb & Jim to grab some food and coffee before they closed up.

More bikes were pulling in, and a biker from Sioux Falls, South Dakota pulled in next to the bus, with a cute little package on the back. Her name was Diane. She was blonde, with big blue eyes and a pair of knockers that filled her bra to overflowing.

While they set up their tent Steve, the guy she came with, kept bitching at her and giving her a hard time. Treb watched, and thought he saw an opportunity here. Besides, he was still horny as a mountain goat since he got turned down by Karen.

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He listened to the two bicker for awhile, and then motioned for Steve to come over and talk.

“What’s up with you two?” Treb asked. “You guys bitch at each other more than if you were married. “ Steve replied with a frown. “I’ve known this bitch since we were in grade school. Never should have brought her here. I wanted to come stag, but she talked me into it, now I can’t get rid of her.”

“You want to get rid of her?” Treb asked.

He gave her a quick once over and pretty much liked what he saw. About 5’8”, weighing in at around 135 and with the biggest blue eye’s he’d seen in awhile.

Of course the fact that he was as horny as a Billy Goat and still had a giant woody in his pants helped him make the snap decision. “ I’d be glad to take her off your hands.”

Said Treb. “In fact, I will trade you a subscription to “Biker News” for her. Whadayathunk?”

Treb couldn’t believe it, but the guy was actually thinking it over. Treb grabbed a copy of the rag and pushed it into his hands.

“Here, take a look. It’s a great publication.”

Steve looked over at Diane and she was making a face at him like “Fuck you too.”

Steve stuck out his hand.

“You’ve got a deal. Can’t wait to get away from her.”

As Treb was hearing this he was thinking how weird it is. No matter how a hot a woman is, there is some guy wishing she’d get the fuck 64

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away from him.

Steve walked back over to his bike and started to pack it. He didn’t say a word to her.

She looked over at Treb, and he smiled. She smiled back, and started to walk over to him.

Ten minutes later Treb had her spread-eagle on the floor of the bus with his tongue buried so deep in her he was licking her bellybutton, from the inside!! The way she was squirming he must have been doing a fairly decent job.

Jim sat in the passenger seat, watching for a few minutes and smoking a joint, and then mumbled something about a “two headed beast”, and headed into town.

In the meantime Diane proved that she knew everything that a man could want in the way of giving a blow job, and the afternoon drifted away 65

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as they became acquainted. Over, and over and over.

It was well after dark when they emerged from the bus and walked over to the Steak House next to the Armory to revitalize and revive from a couple hours in a very hot bus, bumping uglies as if their lives depended on it..

Crazy Ace and the Skullmunchers had just arrived from Texas, and he’d set up his tattoo chair under a 10X10 shelter, and hung out his sign. “Tattoo’s By Crazy Ace.” Ace & Treb had known each other a couple years, and they’d partied together in Dallas, where Ace lived. Ace rode with the “Skullmunchers.” They were a club out of Texas that seemed to attract only the very large and scary types.

Most were over 6’6”. They got a lot of respect from the other clubs.

Over the previous couple years Sturgis had turned into a place bikers could go and get good Tattoo’s by some of the best tattooists in the world, all in one place.

Treb wandered over to say hi to Ace, and Jim started looking thru his Flash to see if there was any new skin-art he needed. He selected a skull with the words “Born Dead” on it.

Diane and Treb wandered off to get a drink, and when Degenerate finished getting his new art he came & found them.

They felt it was time to catch up on some much needed rest, and headed back to the campgrounds. Besides, it had been over an hour, and Treb’s mom used to tell him to wait an hour 66

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after eating to do something. He assumed it was have sex, and since it had been over an hour since he’d “eaten” he was looking forward to getting back to the bus for another mutual satisfaction-fest.

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Chapter 10 Once again the morning came a little faster than they’d wanted, as the sounds of hundreds of Harley’s entering the park could wake the dead. But finally the sun did come up, and the food truck was about to leave when Treb, Degenerate and Diane woke.

Treb asked Diane to race over to the foodtruck and order some stuff for them. Degenerate and Treb walked over after draining their lizards against the side of a tree, and sat down to wolfed down a plate of hotcakes washed down with a half-gallon of dark mud they called coffee, and decided this would be good day to go and visit Mount Rushmore.

They made the rounds of City Park to see who might have come in. At the far end of the 68

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park The Avengers from Gary, Indiana had ridden in. With them were a couple old friends, Roy Boy & Adam. Roy Boy was one of the best known tattoo artists in the country. He always stood out in a crowd. That’s because he was 6’6”, had pumped iron most of his adult life and could bench-press 500 pounds. Oh, yeah, and he was tattooed from his neck to his toes. On his chest was a giant bat tattooed. So we just referred to him as “the Bat.” Doc, better known as “The Mad Doctor” was also there. He was the President of the Avengers, and was extremely respected by most 1%ers. A 1%er was a member of one of the clubs that was around in the late forties & early fifties when the pusillanimous Poop-butts known as the AMA (American Motorcyclist Association), made a statement on TV that 99% of bikers were good family people, and only 1% were outlaws.

All of the outlaw bike clubs of that era took great pride in wearing their “1%er” patch. There were over 100 clubs that originally wore the 1% patch. Some of the better known were the Hells Angels, Banditios, Outlaws, Choosy Beggars, Satan Slaves, Pagans, Chosen Few, Galloping Goose, Grim Reapers, Hangmen, Heathens, Hells henchmen. Iron Horsemen, Mongols, Straight Satan’s and many, many more!

They stood around awhile passing a couple joints, and decided this would be a good day to go visit Mount Rushmore, and why not all pile into the bus for the trip? It was about an hours drive away, and if they took the bus they’d have 69

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all of their recreational ingestables with them!

What could go wrong?

Don’t ask!

And so it was a few minutes later they had a group of 13 jammed into the bus, heading to Mt. Rushmore.

During the drive Degenerate Jim took out his Dictaphone (for those of you not old enough to know what a Dictaphone was, it’s kinda like your cell phone recorder, but you couldn’t use it as a telephone. It just recorded shit for playback later.) And interviewed the Giant Bat and others on the trip up.

The crew was not the most well-received to stop at Rushmore. In fact, as they disembarked from the bus and headed up to see the stone faces people kinda scattered. Don’t know why?

Just a baker’s dozen outlaw bikers and their old-ladies.

It might have been the noise the crew was putting out. You see, as they drove up to see the stone presidents we decided it was time be stoned as well. The trip started out leaving City Park in Sturgis with a couple joints being passed, followed by a little speed to keep folks awake, and then a hit of Orange sunshine to keep it mellow.

Yes, by the time they arrived at Mt. Rushmore they were all “very enthusiastic” to see these huge heads up on the rock wall.

Degenerate had his camera out so they all formed up in front of the old dead presidential dudes and posed for photos! Treb was hoping 70

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he’d get a cover out of it. And he might have at that, if Degenerate had remembered to put film in the camera. (For those of you not old enough to remember, a camera is what we used to take photos with before we had cell phones!!)

Ahhh, but the fun was just about to begin.

The all piled back into DORF and started back to Sturgis. But first they needed a little excitement.

Treb usually found that excitement kinda naturally as things went wrong. So what could go wrong with a bus-load of screaming outlaw bikers?

Treb turned the bus out of the parking lot and started to head back towards the land of bikes & booze; Sturgis.

And they were doing pretty well for the first few minutes, until the brakes went out.

No shit! Really.. The brakes all of a sudden stopped responding to Treb’s not-so delicate touch. In fact, even when he stomped on them they wouldn’t seem to engage. At first he thought he might be a little high, and was doing something wrong (hey, it happens!) but this was not the case at that particular time. His alleged mind was working fine. It was the stupid bus that wasn’t going along with the program.

And so it was they were soon barreling down the hillside at over 75 mph, taking curves on three wheels at times, (which means the other three were in the air!!) And passing bus-loads of geriatrics on curves.

We must digress here. As mentioned Treb may have been a few brain-cells short at the time it happened. Many who were on the bus that day 71

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can still recall the faces of a bunch of geriatrics waving franticly from a tour bus they passed on a particularly tight curve. All Treb could recall is this picture frozen in his mind of wide eye’s, gray hair, and very loud caterwauling from the back of the bus!

And before you ask, yes he tried everything he could think of, like turning off the ignition, pulling on the hand-brake and putting it into low.

The hand-brake was inoperative, as they were going downhill turning off the ignition did nothing, and dropping it into low was the only thing that had any effect at all. And what it did was to create a noise that they hope they never hear again.

Kinda like the sound of a bus transmission going 72

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into supercharged overdrive. It was truly loud and annoying!

But it did seem to get the attention of the other 12 people who were riding in the bus with him at the time. All of whom decided they could help the most by screaming suggestions at the top of their voices, and all at one time.

Somehow they managed to get to the bottom of the hill, and pulled into a gas station, where Treb managed to stop by rapidly turning the wheel from side-to-side, and then steering onto a slight uphill near the rear of the station, with a vary large retaining wall. By the time they hit the wall they were almost stopped, but even at 3-5 mies an hour, hitting a solid cinder-block retaining wall was kinda fun!

It took a few minutes laying under the bus to find the problem. It seems the bus used a cable system to apply the brakes. All would have been well, if the clevis pin that held the brake cables together hadn’t disappeared. But alas, that’s exactly what happened. The brake cables were all just dangling.

The good news? All it took to fix it was a new clevis pin, and they had one in their junk drawer at the gas station.

Viola! It was fixed. The drive back to the City Park in Sturgis was uneventful after that.

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Chapter 11 They all felt more comfortable back at the park, where there were more people “like them” and less “like THEM.” They headed into town, and saw that they had underestimated how many bikers would show up. In previous years they were used to a couple hundred. It was traditionally a dirt bike event, featuring the National Championship Hill Climb, up the hill they called “widow-maker.”

In the late 30’s a road-riding club, the Jackpine Gypsies, which was an American Motorcycle Association Charter Club started coming for an event sponsored by The Indian Motorcycle company. Over the years it kind of dwindled, until the early 70’s.

You see, that’s when three idiots named 74

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Keith “Bandit” Ball, Bob Clark and Bob Bitchin (Hey mom! He means me!) decided to ride there and do a story on it. You see, at the time, Bob Clark was the editor of Street Chopper, which was the very first custom motorcycle magazine, Bandit, who was the editor of Easyriders, and Bitchin, who was the editor of Biker News all decided it would be a good idea to go for a long ride. All were out of Southern California, so they would ride up together.

Well, as it would turn out, the first year they went a couple other clubs had decided to ride up as well. An impromptu “wet t-shirt” contest popped up one night, and when all three national publications hit the newsstands, well, let’s just say a lot of bikers wanted to see what they missed out on.

This year the dam must have broken, because the street was packed for almost two blocks, with bikes parking in all the parking spots for the whole two blocks. Keep in mind, this was in the early 70’s. It wasn’t until the late 70’s and early 80’s that the numbers got up into the hundreds of thousands.

But there were about 3,500 bikes that showed up. And everyone seemed to be camping in City Park. It was truly bitchin!

They hung around Main Street for awhile, hitting the bars, and enjoying the camaraderie of people they hadn’t seen since the previous year, and meeting new bikers from all over.

Just after dark they went back to the city park, and it turned out to be just in time to find 75

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an impromptu drag race going on just outside the park. As it was getting hard to see who was winning as the daylight went away, the bikers had a great idea how to keep having the races. Why not go down to the finish line with a can of gasoline. That way we could pour a line of gas to show the finish line!

That sounded great to all of everybody. What could go wrong? Soon there was a nice fire going across Highway 34, and the drag races were going hot & heavy.

Until the police arrived.

You see, the man felt that the bikers could have been overstepping their welcome by starting fires in the streets. To that end they invited the fire-department to come and join the party.

Soon there were all kinds of uniforms all over the place.

But wait, it gets a little more confusing in a few minutes.

You see, one of the bikers had a lot of money riding on the next race, so when the fire department started to put out the fire at the finishing line, he saw his bet going down the tubes. Not wanting to lose money, and the fact being he was almost too drunk to be standing, he threw his beer at one of the firemen.

Now no one condoned what he did, but it started to get fun at about that point.

You see, when there are a bunch of uniforms standing around eating donuts, and someone does something to upset the status quo (like throwing beer bottles at guys just trying to do 76

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their jobs!) they get upset. When uniformed guys start getting upset, if there happen to be any sleazy ol’ bikers in sight, it gets exciting.

It did get exciting.

Unbeknownst to the sleazy bikers the town of Sturgis had been designated as a good place for law enforcement to “practice crowd control” while at the same time giving the Federal Gang Task Force a place to hang with a lot of Bikers.

Long story short, located behind the storefronts on main street, in the back alley and adjoining parking areas, the Fed’s had set up a “Gang Task Force” made up of FBI, ATF, DEA and a whole of other initials. They were trying to see how the Feds could work with local law informant.

To further this exercise, they had decided to 77

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have a source of open communication between all of the police departments in a 30 mile radius, who could be called upon, in an emergency (like this one!).

Any guess on what might happen when a biker throws a beer bottle at a fireman?

Yeah, they didn’t know either. But they did soon learn. Like in about 15 minutes.

You see, all of a sudden the few hundred bikers were ushered back into the park, and the park was surrounded by hundreds (yes, really!

Hundreds) of cop cars. Not just cop cars from Sturgis. Oh no! This was a chance for the Feds to utilize all of the newest cop stuff, and to test their troop gathering.

So as the bikers gathered around their campfires watching with great interest, they were surrounded by more cops than any of us thought existed, specially in quiet little Sturgis, South Dakota.

But these weren’t just Sturgis cops. Nope, this was a collection of the nations finest! Cop cars from Rapid City, Spearfish, Deadwood, Lead and even as far away as Piedmont. Hundred of cop cars, bumper to bumper, cruising slowly around the circle driveway inside City Park. It was like a parade or car show with cop cars from all over helping “control” the troops.

But wait! There’s more! You see, in anticipation of possible fun & games, they had also called out the National Guard.

No shit! The fucking National Guard!

So let’s add a few hundred of our nations fin78

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est, aged about 18-20, carrying automatic rifles, while the bikers were not allowed to “bear arms” or “arm bears.”

Highly unfair, they believed!

At one point there were a group of bikers hanging around the bonfire of the Avengers.

There were two “good ol’ boys” from Iowa that were looking for ways to have some fun with this.

They were called the Pig Farmers, because, well, because that what they were. Neither of them weighed under 300 pounds, and they wore overalls.

One of them suggested that he felt like streaking for the cops. Diane laughed so hard they thought she was going to cough up a lung, and she was just about high enough to go for anything.

The next thing we knew one of the Pig Brothers was naked, with a very naked Diane sitting on his gas tank, and they were off! They started going thru the middle of the park, and then hung a hard left and cut right between to cop cars, who, when their headlight shone on a pair of magnificent breasts, and a huge naked pig farmer grinning like a Cheshire Cat they went nuts! All of a sudden there were sirens going off, and people yelling “catch them” as they rode across the lawn, thru two other campsites, and then crashed thru the wooden stake fence, out onto Highway 32, and you could hear his engine wind as he screamed at full throttle out of town, with a dozen police cars in pursuit.

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later Pig Boy and Diane came slamming back thru the hole in the fence they had made on their way out, came sliding into the fire area on a twowheel drift, and before the bike stopped moving they were off and into one of the tents.

The bikers threw a blanket over the bike where it lay, and tried to put on their very best “Who sir? Me Sir? Oh no Sir!” Look on their faces.

It didn’t take a minute for them to put on their clothes, and were standing by the fire when the cops arrived, looking for “two naked people who had streaked the park.”

We, of course, knew not of what they spoke!

The police patrolled the area until almost 80

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3AM, and then they started to disappear as fast as they originally appeared in the first place.

Degenerate had befriended the president of the club that had the fire next to us (their name is being withheld to protect the guilty!) and they spent the rest of the evening courting death.

Well, not really, but kinda. Ya see what they would do is to walk into another clubs campfire area, with guns in their hands, saying “Okay, give us your drugs!”

They knew they were kidding, but some folks took a few minutes to see the humor in it!

Eventually the people would hand over a joint, or Quaalude, or crank, and they would party. Not to take advantage, Degenerate friend would throw some Speed, Coke or acid into the mix for their new “friends” to partake.

Around dawn Treb heard Jim climbing into the bus. Diane & he were sleeping on a pile of Biker News. Degenerate dropped onto the pile next to them, and immediately passed out.

Now, when I say passed out, I mean OUT! In fact he stopped breathing. They listened to see if he would start again, and no such luck. So Treb kicked him a little with my foot.

“Hey Jim, ya gotta breath!”

His reply was something like “Blagismerk, shclumbfelderisen.” But he did start breathing.

This happened a couple more times, but soon he was breathing regular, in an alcohol, drug induced stupor.

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Chapter 12 By now all time had ceased to have meaning. There was no morning, or afternoon. The next day was what you might say “too much fun.”

It started around 1 or 2 PM, when they woke from their stupor. They shook Degenerate to make sure he had not stopped breathing completely during the night. When his eye’s popped open, and he rolled/ran out the back door to what can only be describe as a gold-medal Projectile Spewing Effort, it was hard for us to stop laughing.

It’s amazing how your friends discomfort can bring such joy!

Ah, it’s the little things in life that count! They went into town to the Steak House next door to 82

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the Armory and wolfed down buckets of coffee and piles of pancakes, sausage, bacon, ham, potato’s and toast! After awhile they started to feel almost human!

Once again they took up a position on the lawn in front of the armory and did what bikers do best at events like this. Lay around, smoking a joint, and talking about recent runs they had participated in, or the last good piece of ass, or how the Mikuni Carburetors were doing such a great job (or, more likely, how messed up they worked!).

With no idea of what time it was they headed back to city Park, to see if hopefully there was some fun and games going on there.

And there were! As they pulled the bus in and parked they saw a crowd gathered near the center of the park, so they wandered over.

In the middle of the crowd was a brand new bright yellow Corvette! Behind it was a trailer, with a beautiful bright yellow Harley on it. The plates were from Illinois.

On the hood of the corvette was a low-mileage pit-woofie (that means hottie in long-speak!).

She was naked as the day she was born, and there were 5-6 bikers lined up to help her reach an orgasm. Or at least that’s what it all seemed to be about, as one after another would take turns “pleasuring” her.

There are a lot of times when guys are proud to be a biker, but this was not one of them. Probably because I am looking back thru about 40 years. Back then this was pretty much a regular 83

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happening. Now, sitting here writing about it with 6 Grandchildren and 3 great-grandchildren, well, okay, my head is bowed in shame. BUT, I can clearly remember, it was not the way I felt “in the day.”

You see, the girl didn’t look like she was older than 17-18. Even Degenerate had second thoughts about participating with this turnout.

I said he had second thoughts, but that didn’t mean he was nuts, he did take a turn!

As Treb had Diane he didn’t need to participate, which is probably the reason he is still alive and have never had an STD to this day (although God knows he tried!).

Funny thing about this is, a few months later Treb was in his office and got a letter from a lawyer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He wanted to sue Him. You see, he used one photo of this girl, taken later that afternoon, as she wandered naked thru the park dragging just a jacket. He had no idea what happened to the rest of her clothes.

But it seems he’d been “almost right” on the age. It turns out she was 17.

He had to admit he was a little worried, but he wrote back to the lawyer (this was long before Internet and email) and included the black & white proof sheet of the 36 photos he had taken of her while she was “Entertaining the troops.”

He then suggested that the one photo of her he did run was from the back, and you could not tell who she was, but you sure could tell from the proof sheet.

They never bothered him again.

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But we digress.

As it turned dark it was time for Degenerate and his friend to go hit the bonfires again and see what kind of trick-or-treat they could get this time.

The scene in City Park was like something out of a movie set. This little park, about 10 acres in all, had a circular drive around the center of it. So in the center and on both sides of the dirt road were fires. Over a dozen, and each of them fairly large.

Around each fire were wooden picnic benches, with the various clubs “hosting” each fire.

This time they knew Degenerate would be “sharing his goodies” so there was no need for guns,

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which was a good thing, as most people were so fucked up they would have been shot for sure on this night.

At many of the fires there would be a radio blaring music, and the ol’ ladies were taking advantage of the time to dance. The later in the evening it got, the less they were wearing! This made for a very entertaining walk thru the park!

It must have been three or four in the morning when Diane & Treb headed for the bus to see what kind of new adventures they could find.

It’s kinda funny, but when they first met Treb thought she was too hot to be true. But now, after three days of more sex than one should participate in, he wasn’t so enamored. In fact he was trying to figure out how he could get rid of her before they headed back to Redondo Beach.

Once again, right around dawn, it was time for them to play “Let’s see if we can keep Degenerate Breathing thru the night.”

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Chapter 13 Sunday morning arrived way too soon, and there is no doubt but that the City Park had seen better days. By the time they were fully awake probably half the bikers who were there had already left for the long ride home.

Bikers had ridden in from California, Florida, Texas, Maine and places in between. As you might imagine, the ride “away” from Sturgis was a lot harder on the bikers than the ride there.

Something to do with the mass ingestion of various chemicals, as well as large doses of alcohol, and God knows what else!

Diane ran into the guy she’d ridden to Sturgis with, and it seems they were really more than just friends. She was engaged to a friend of his, and he sobered up long enough to realize if he came 87

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back without Diane, and had to tell his buddy that he’d traded his fiancée for a $5 subscription to a big old tattooed biker, well, he might catch some heat. So he came looking for her.

That worked out a lot better than Treb expected. But John was a man about it, and he probably had no idea that Treb would have PAID him to take her!

Treb figured it was probably time to start heading back to the offices for the next issue of Biker News to be created. Jim was still passed out, but seemed to be breathing on his own pretty well. Treb bid a fond farewell to Roy Boy, Adam, Crazy Ace and the rest of the people he’d been partying with for the last few days, and headed out of town.

Treb decided to take the scenic route thru Deadwood, and on to Cheyenne. Outside of Sturgis he took Hwy 14, which is a really great road if on a bike, but not so much when in a big ol’ bus.

Just outside of Deadwood he saw Jim awaken and sit up. As he watched in the huge rear-view mirror Jim stood up. Then Treb watched as he reached inside his pants, and then pulled out his hand and sniffed it. Treb was now wishing there were no large mirrors!

Okay, this sounds a little weird, but not half as weird as what happened next.

You see, Degenerate had gotten so high the night before he’d shat himself. Treb had attributed the odor when he came in and crashed as almost normal, seeing as how we had not showered in about a week.

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You’d be surprised how, when you don’t want to see something, you can’t take your eye’s away.

Treb tried not to watch as he took off his pants, removed his soiled underwear, and wiped himself with them, opening the starboard window and threw them out.

It was a perfect shot. They flew out and stuck to the windshield of the car that was next to them. Treb couldn’t hold back and started to laugh hysterically. Jim just looked up at him, with a look kinda like “What are you laughing at?”

The rest of the day was spent driving in a sort of stupor. As they drove thru Wyoming and into Utah the day just seemed to drag by. They drove thru Salt Lake City, and Treb was looking forward to a good nights sleep, and then home, to dry out for a couple days before he had to put the next issue of Biker News out.

But the Gods were not going to be as kind to them as that. No, She had some plans for them to make them repent their wayward ways.

Yes, there’s no doubt God’s a She. They knew this starting about 10 pm, as they were about 30 miles out of St. George, Utah.

It was at this junction in their lives that DORF decided she was tired of being abused, so she started coughing black smoke out of the exhaust pipe, and as Treb tried to schmooze her gently to-wards St George, she gave a loud cough, which exploded into a black cloud belching up from under the hood and out the exhaust, laying down a smoke blanket that blocked the rear-view 89

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mirror!

Bitchin! Just what they needed. A half mile from the nearest offramp, and 30 miles from the nearest town, she gave up the ghost! She died in a grinding cacophony of sounds which left nothing to doubt. She was dying of terminal bearing failure. Not an easy fix anywhere, but here in the middle of nowhere?

Treb didn’t see many options for them. Option one, go to sleep and worry about it in the morning, or, option two, walk to the next offramp and see what’s there.

They went for option #2 and soon Degenerate and Treb were hoofing it down the interstate.

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A half mile seems like nothing when you’re driving, but when you are on the 10th day of an 8 day week with too much party and not enough sleep it’s a long walk!

At the offramp they went under the highway and saw an old gas station. It was pretty run down, but it was open. This in itself, at almost 11PM, was a good sign. It got even better. When they walked into the office a lanky Good Ol’ Boy was chewing something disgusting and spitting into a coffee can. He was wearing grubby overalls, and looked to be about 60.

Treb explained to him what the “symptoms” were of the bus, and he just sorta smiled.

“Black smoke and then a “clunk”, heh?

Sounds like you blew the motor!”

And then he just sat there grinning.

“Whadayathink it would cost to fix it,” Treb asked timidly. “’Bout $3500 should do it” he said, without skipping a beat.

Treb’s noggin started calculating. Putting an engine in it would cost more than the bus cost in the first place. Not a real bargain, any way you looked at it.

But he still have to figure out how to get back to Redondo Beach, so he could finish the next issue of Biker News. Treb may screw up a lot, but he has have never missed a deadline.

(Still to this day!!)

“My big problem now is how to get home.

I don’t imagine you have a spare engine laying around, right?” Treb asked.

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Once again the man just smiled.

“Nope. I have to order a block from Salt Lake. Probably take a few days. Then a few more days to a week to get it in.” Once again he smiled. Treb was starting to think he was enjoying this.

They ended up towing the bus with his pickup, and pushing it to his garage. By the time the were through it was almost midnight. They was bushed.

“I’ll give you boys a ride into St. George where you can get a room, and figure out what you want to do.”

So they jammed the three of them into the front seat of the pickup after Treb hid the drugs that were still in the bus (thankfully they had “utilized” most of them, so there wasn’t much left.)

But the guns. Treb couldn’t leave the guns in the bus, not knowing what would be coming next, so he put them into a dufflebag, and they took them with.

By the time they got to a motel in St. George Treb had a plan. They would take a Greyhound to Las Vegas, and then fly into LAX, which was only 8 miles from Redondo. They could call someone to come get ‘em.

But the guns? What to do with the guns?

Treb picked up the phone in the hotel room and called Greyhound, to see what time they had a bus going to Las Vegas. They were in luck, there would be one at 11AM, so they could actually get 3-4 hours of sleep.

After arranging for tickets, Treb called McCa92

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rran airport in Las Vegas and explained to them that he would be flying with some guns, and asked how they wanted him to handle that. He was told when he got his tickets he would have to show the agent the guns were not loaded, and leave them with her. She would get them onto the plane, and they would be returned when they arrived at LAX. It sounded simple enough, so they booked tickets for the two of them for the 5PM flight.

It was about a 3 hour bus ride, and Greyhound Went right to the airport. Very kewl!

And this was long before 911.

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Chapter 14 Daylight came long before it should have.

Treb awoke and checked the time. They had plenty of time to grab a quick bite for breakfast and make the bus. They checked out of the hotel and made their way to a Waffle House for some sustenance. After wolfing down a stack of pancakes washed down with a half gallon of black coffee they were starting to feel almost human.

They still had a couple hits of Orange sunshine and some pot, so they figured they should probably “do it� as it could be a problem flying with drugs. The damn drug dogs were getting too good at their jobs!

So after breakfast they took a few minutes to ingest the goodies, then it was on to the bus.

Now for people who are not regular bus rid94

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ers (and the biker “bus” didn’t really qualify as a bus anymore) this would be a new experience for the two of them. When they started boarding they found a couple seats and settled in for a quiet ride to Las Vegas.

But a quiet ride was not in to offing for them.

No no, there is no peace for the wicked, and they had been very wicked.

The bus filled, and soon they were pulling out of St. George.

In front of them sat a very cute couple that were obviously deeply in love, or at the least, horny as hell, because as the bus drove down the highway you could hear them kissing and making all kinds of goo-goo noises. Eavesdropping comes kinda natural to most folks, and what Treb gleaned from what was going on, they were on their way to Las Vegas to get married.

Degenerate Jim, Unbeknownst to Treb, was also watching the goings on, and decided the girl was more his type then the guy she was with, and soon he was engaging both of them in a conversation, that he’d hoped would end with he leaving with the girl.

For some reason her boyfriend (and she) didn’t care for the idea, and said as much. This put Jim in a very bad mood. Almost as bad a mood as the poor couple, who found some seats further up in the bus, and moved.

But it did help pass the time driving to Vegas.

As soon as they arrived at the airport they got in line at the United check-in counter, and 95

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soon were walking up to the counter.

Jim had wandered off a few feet and stood there watching the goings on.

Now here again, we must digress. We need to explain what it looks like when Degenerate watches things going on.

He stands with his arms crossed, staring intently. Remember, the man never takes off his sunglasses. Some of the people in the line had left after Treb got in line. Something about the odor we guess. But the ones who stayed soon started looking a little worried. You see, when Treb approached the counter he told the lady that he’d called, and had “a few guns” that he needed to get on the plane.

He reached into his small duffel and pulled out the first gun. It was the Ruger Super-Blackhawk with a 10.5” barrel. It looked more like a Buntline Special than a regular pistol. He flipped open the cylinder to show her there were no shells in it, and placed it on the counter, pulling out his AMT Hardballer .45. About this time half the line decided they would use a different agent, and left. Probably preferring a different airline as well.

After Popping the clip out of the .45 and showing here there was no shell in the pipe he pulled out his C.O.P. .357 Derringer, and flipped it open like a shotgun opens (it’s has four barrels, and a revolving firing pin, so looks pretty kewl!) and that sent the rest wandering to find a less hostile agent area.

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the agent took the duffel bag, inspected it, then she asked Treb to put the guns back into the bag, put a tag on it, and he watched them disappear thru a small opening in the wall behind her.

After waiting to board abut an hour they started boarding. As they’d made last minute reservations they’d been unable to get two seats next to each other, and were shown to two center row seats about 3 rows apart.

Now let’s sit back here and try to use our fertile imaginations, shall we?

Try to imagine that you are sitting in a window or aisle seat after losing a bunch of money in Vegas, and then see the Hells Angels version of Mutt & Jeff walking down the aisle, and you know 97

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one of them is going to be taking the seat next to you.

Yeah, “Oh No” is about the best comment you could imagine, and that was NOT the opinion of the man who Treb ended up next to. In fact as soon as he jammed his over-sized body into the seat, and managed to wiggle around enough to where he could get his seat belt fastened, the man hit the ground running, looking for a stewardess almost (or should I say flight attendant to be politically correct?)

It was obvious by the way he was holding his nose and motioning toward Treb, he was not a happy individual with his new seating partner.

The woman on the other side, who looked just frumpy enough to be his wife, just sat hugging the bulkhead and dong anything she could so as not to be touching Treb.

It was also noticed that one of the ladies who was sitting to each side of Degenerate seemed to be trying to indicate her displeasure with her new seating companion as well.

The poor stewardess (let’s stick with that terms as this is a “time piece” from the 70’s, when that was kewl!) was turning her head from one to the other, with glances at Degenerate and Treb in between, and she looked like one of the Road Runner cartoons where you could almost see the “motion lines” around her head.

It took awhile, but she was soon able to move people around enough to where the only vacant seat in the plan was between Degenerate and Treb.

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They figured they better not bitch or they might’ve gotten kicked off the flight. After all, it was United! (lol, also time sensitive comment!)

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Chapter 15 When they landed at LAX Degenerate and Treb waited just inside the companionway for the guns. The airline had told them they would be given to them when we deplaned.

But it seems there was a “glitch” and the guns didn’t make it onto the plane. We were told they had been put on a later flight, and we’d have to wait.

As it turned out, the security folks at McCarran Field were a bit inquisitive about the two sleazy bikers who boarded their plane. They pulled the guns, and ran them to see if they were stolen or un-registered.

As Treb’s “previous employment” had been as body-guard for a well-known motorcycle dare-devil not only were the guns registered to 100

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him, but he still had his CCW (Concealed Carry Permit).

When the next Vegas plane arrived a very confused Co-Pilot exited the companionway with the gun bag. He looked Treb up & down for a few seconds, then handed him the bag, and walked away just shaking his head.

Not sure what that was all about!

But They were almost home. It was hard to believe it had just been 8 days since they’d left.

Billy Jack, a neighbor and sometimes ridding partner had driven to LAX to pick them up, and on the way home he told them we’d missed some great parties!

What he didn’t tell Treb was they’d been held in HIS apartment!

You see, they lived right off the beach, and Treb’s apartment was the only one with a huge picture window looking out over Hermosa Beach.

Hermosa Beach was the place that every hot honey between the ages of 18 and 22 moved to, from whatever small town they were born in. It just made sense. Head to California to be a star!

End up on the beach partying!

Billy found a place to park alongside the building, and they walked to the vestibule. Treb was a little surprised to see his front door wasn’t closed.

Yeah, they’d been partying a little. And it looked like they had left every beer bottle, every pizza box and every wine bottle ever created on his floor. The place was crammed with empties and old pizza boxes!

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Treb looked at Billy, and then at Degenerate.

Billy was grinning. Degenerate just looked wasted. “Maybe next time you should take me with you� said Billy Jack, with a big grin on his face.

And the next time, They did!

But first, Treb slept for 3 days!

XXXX

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If you enjoyed this book, obviously you belong to a very small group of people who lived thru the 60’s & 70’s and still can recall some of the weird stuff that used to happen.

Either that or you are just as sick as Bitchin and his artist, Richard “Magic” Marker, who created the artwork for this book.

If you enjoyed this book: Please tell your friends, and on the next pages you can see other works created by BB over the decades.

If you didn’t enjoy this book: Don’t tell your freinds, but feel free to peruse the following to see if I can convince you to buy more books, so I can become rich and famous. Actually, at this point in my life, I think rich would work best!

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Other titles by this author The following are excerpts from other books by Bob Bitchin. they are available on Amazon.com/bobBitchin, and thru the authors website at www.bobbitchin.com.

Treb Lincoln Adventure Novels: (fiction novels based on historical facts.)

Brotherhood of Outlaws Emerald Bay

King Harbor True Life Adventures: (Short stories, true adventures from riding motorcycles all over the world)

Biker to Sailor Biker

True Lifestye Adventures and The Cruising Lifestyle Letters From The Lost Soul The Sailing Life Starboard Attitude

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Biker to Sailor

By Bob Bitchin Excerpt from From Biker to Sailor I, like many others, wanted to cruise but had to earn a living. I have noticed that life often gets in the way of living. When I started sailing I was editor of Choppers Magazine and Big Bike Magazine. In my spare time I was also publishing a tabloid for the outlaw biker community called FTW Newsmagazine (don’t ask!). That, in itself, was pretty funny because I’d quit High School to join the service when I was 17. I needed an editor to edit what I wrote. I did go back to college when I got out of the service, but by then the damage was done. I learned that I was good at telling stories, but my use of the English language was atrocious. Of course, sitting here now, having just passed my 71st birthday, I also see that it didn’t matter all that much. Over 1,200 magazine articles in a dozen assorted titles, and this being my 8th book, I guess I fooled everyone. Even you!

But back then the good news was I had Degenerate Jim working with me, and he had a degree in English Lit. So I was covered. But I also had my head shop, gym, martial arts supply outlet 105

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and travel agency. You’d think I was in the money, but actually I was just a workaholic and liked to stay busy. Still am.

But now I had my boat. I wanted to go cruising.

It took a few months but I managed to off-load the travel agency to my partner in that endeavor, and sold the gym to a nice elementary school teacher (and had to carry the paper on it), and talked Degenerate Jim into handling the magazines while I would go sailing for three weeks. The plan was that I would fly home to work on them to get them all out by deadline.

Preparing for the voyage was unbelievable, and I still think it is the best part of any voyage. In the planning all things are perfect. I would make weekly trips to San Pedro, to a small shop where the shipping companies purchased their charts and cruising guides of the world. It was called Southwest Instruments, and it has long since gone out of business. But back then it was a cruiser’s dream. It was a small storefront just off the harbor. For those of you not familiar with San Pedro, it has been a commercial harbor since the early 1800s. The store on the street level had a repair facility that repaired ship’s compasses, sextants, RDFs (Radio Direction Finders) and other instruments of the day.

Ah, but down in the basement. That was where dreams were made. The whole basement was filled with hanging paper charts. Different bins held different areas of the world. Wandering thru the basement of Southwest Instruments could turn any grown man who is a cruiser into a little boy again, and I was no exception.

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The lady that ran that area was very friendly and knew more about sailing routes of the world than anyone I have met since. As we were planning to just head south to Cabo she herded us over to the Mexico bin. There we found overall charts to plan the voyage, and then individual charts of all of the anchorages along the way. She told us we should also have charts of anywhere we might have to pull into in an emergency, and then sent us upstairs to find the right cruising guides for the time.

Rule #8. Always have paper charts on board when you are cruising. All the new electronics are well and good, but if and when they stop working, you will still have a mark on a chart letting you know where you are.

I can remember twice on our world cruise when we lost our electronic navigation. Once when our batteries died and our generator wouldn’t start we were without power for a full day, and we were offshore in the Hawaiian Islands. We did managed to charge the batteries with an emergency little Honda generator we had stored on the boat just for that purpose, but to get our 3500-amp batteries up to 11 volts, the minimum they would work at, took a long time! The second time we did a accidental jibe and the sheet line popped the Loran antenna off in mid Atlantic. We managed to get in with our paper charts.

But back to planning our Mexico voyage. Then, as it is today, Charlie’s Charts was the bible for that trip. So we picked up a fresh copy, along with the Coastal Pilots by the U.S. Government, which at that time were less than $10 each. That night I dreamed the voyage over and over. I went over the overall 107

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chart using my new calipers to measure how many miles it was from port to port, and I lived the voyage in advance.

My first trip would be down the Baja to Cabo San Lucas. By then it had been a few years since I’d been there. It was a 700-mile sail, and instead of doing it like we did on Stone Witch, which was due south and then due east until we hit it, I opted to stay just offshore and stop a few times. I had three weeks to do it in, so I had plenty of time.

I had a biker friend named Rat who was a diesel mechanic and he offered to go thru my engine. That was something I really wanted done, and for the next couple weeks he stayed on the boat and got the diesel in tip-top shape. When he finished he told me he was shipping his bike to Hawaii, and if I ever sailed there to look him up. I said I would try.

My crew for this trip was a young lady I had met who liked sailing, Bruce, a bodybuilder that worked out and helped run my gym, and his girlfriend. We had a crew of four!

First stop was in San Diego just before Halloween. Halloween was a big thing for cruisers in San Diego because the insurance companies wouldn’t cover damages if you sailed south before November 1. So October 31st was the big party. It was thrown

by PMS (that’s Pacific Marine supply.) During the early ‘80s they would have a huge bash on Halloween with hot dogs, specials on cruiser’s stuff, and it was a big deal.

On the morning of November 1st we all headed south. The Pacific Trades blow down the coast, as does the Eastern Pacific current, so it is usually 108

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a milk-run. The first time I went down was no exception. Our first run was about 150 miles to Isla San Martine. It was a sleepy village on a small island, but to us it was our first foreign port. It was also my first overnight passage since Stone Witch and the first one where I was the skipper.

Back then we had a ritual on board Lost Soul. At sunset we would have a “sunset joint.” (This was long before ‘zero tolerance.’) We would roll a fatty and enjoy the setting of the sun with the stereo playing rock and roll. After that we’d have some dinner and play a VHS video, with whoever was on watch sitting in the companionway, checking the horizon every five minutes.

Here was where I learned Rule #1 of cruising.

NEVER arrive at a strange anchorage at night. Do whatever you can to arrive in daylight hours.

We didn’t. We’d come in late at night. Back then I couldn’t afford radar, Loran,, GPS,or Satellite navigation which were only for the very rich. We dropped our sails 3 miles out, when we could see the small lights of the village (navigation buoys were not very dependable in Mexico back then) and we slowly motored towards what looked like a good anchorage on our charts. As soon as the depth sounder said 50 feet we dropped our hook and anchored just off the small beach where the fishing pangas were.

In the morning we watched them take off for the day’s fishing, and then we hoisted our hook and headed a little over 10 miles south to a beautiful little bay that was protected by a large “hooked” peninsula called San Quintine. This was a paradise.

We anchored in 17 feet of water that was so clear 109

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you could see the anchor set. It was like glass. There was a small river that we took the dinghy up, and we spent the day hanging out on the boat. The water was still too cool for serious swimming. You see, the Alaskan current is what pushes the Eastern Pacific current, and just as the Gulf Stream brings warm waters north from the Caribbean, the Eastern Pacific current brings cold water south to the Baja.

Having learned rule #1, we hung out the next day so we could depart at sunset for our next anchorage, Islas San Benito. It was about 125 miles and most of it would be offshore, as the shoreline tucked in.

The only danger was the Sacramento Reef reef, about four miles off San Antonio point, roughly35 miles south. We would pass it while it was still dark out, so we swung a little to the west to give it good clearance. It used to eat about 1-2 boats a year.

It all went perfect. We arrived well before sunset at the three small islands that made up Islas San Benito. Before we even had the anchor set we were approached by a couple of fishermen who had a tent on the beach ashore. As it turned out, they were actually lobster fishermen. It didn’t take long before they were headed ashore to their camp with a sixpack of ice cold Coors and two copies of Penthouse, and we were down below giving four lobsters a hot bath!

I won’t bore you with the rest of the trip, but it was everything I had hoped it would be and more.

We covered the next 500 miles in a week, stopping a couple times along the way, and then a three-day, two-night passage into Cabo San Lucas. The changes in just a few short years were hard to believe. A small 110

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marina had been built inside, and there were now a couple hotels on the beach. The road thru town had been paved! It was unbelievable!

Once you rounded Cabo Falso and came into Cabo San Lucas the water warmed considerably. The water that came down from the Sea of Cortez was warm, and it curved around the point and into the beach area. We anchored pretty much where we had anchored on the Witch, and I had a few days to “hang out� before I had to fly home and work.

The plan had worked. When I flew into LAX Jim picked me up and we had everything we needed to do completed in plenty of time. I had found my way to escape!

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Letters From The Lost Soul

By Bob Bitchin Excerpt from From Letters To The Lost Soul It was 1978 and I was sitting on the edge of my bunk on my Cal 28, which I lived aboard, in my slip in Port Royal. I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited! The tall ship Stonewitch was due in sometime during the day, and when it arrived I would be moving aboard the 70’ square rigged tops’l schooner for my first long distance cruise.

I had a dream that had been implanted in my feeble mind from reading “Landfalls in Paradise” by Earl Hinz: landing in tropical locales, anchoring in beautiful harbors and living a true adventure. That was my dream, and it was about to come true.

But the time passed slower than molasses in January! Each second ticked by and seemed like an hour. The three hours that passed took at least a week.

But Stonewitch did arrive. I did move aboard, and we did sail south. The adventure was even more exciting than I had dreamed it. I recall standing watch as the tops’l filled with air in the early morning hours and then going below and pouring a cup of strong 113

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coffee from the old battered coffee pot that sat on the alcohol stove. I think the dream realization hit me first while sitting at the nav station entering my position, course and bearing along with notes on my watch.

I was truly living my dream

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The Sailing Life

By Bob Bitchin Excerpt from From The Sailing Life You’ve just pulled out of Gibralter 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 Gibralter, 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.

••••• The boat is going to right itself. The fifty-foot wave that just broke over you slammed you down a bit, but the boat took it, and is popping back up just like it’s supposed to.

You tighten the main sheet to where it should be, and check the reef lines. Everything is okay. You hollar down to the crew below that it’s over, and then it hits you.

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What if the wave had been bigger?

What if the stay’s hadn’t held?

The mast could have broken!

Or the keel bolts broken off!

What then? The boat would have capsized. And what if the safety harness hadn’t kept you in place when the wave hit, or, God forbid, what if you hadn’t put it on?

Look behind you. There is nothing back there, and you wouldn’t have been missed for an hour or so.

At least until the next person was going to come on watch.

Can you imagine what that would be like?

Treading water and watching the boat sail off without you? It always seems to come after the worst is over.

During the storms, the ordeals, or the tight reef entrances. But when it’s over.

That’s when it hits. Fear! Gut wrenching fear.

••••• 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 autopilot 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 116

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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.

••••• 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 highsign. 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 117

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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 Excerpt from From Starboard Attitude There is something that happens to me as soon as I see a small gap of water between my boat and the dock as I am leaving for a sail; a feeling of freedom that is the same no matter where the day’s destination is.

This first became evident to me when I was taking the boat from the slip to King Harbor Marine Center to pick up my new booms. As soon as the boat was clearing the slip I felt like I was leaving on an adventure. Yeah, I know. Stupid, right? I was just going around the marina, but still I felt my heart start to beat a little faster, and I noticed this stupid grin on my face.

As I motored through the marina I tried to analyze just what the hell it was that made me smile like that. It’s not like I was taking off to cross an ocean, or on an epic voyage. I wasn’t even going out to anchor for the night in front of the harbor, as I often do. I was working. This was just moving the boat from the slip to the marine 119

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yard and back. No adventure. No epic life altering distances. Just a five minute motor.

Then it hit me. Here I am looking back at more than 60 years of life, and I still turn into a little kid the minute I push off from land on a vessel.

I remember as far back as when I was in grade school. During summer vacation my brother and I’d go behind the Sepulveda Dam (where we weren’t allowed to go) and build a raft every year. As we’d launch the raft in the five-foot-wide Los Angeles River I would get this feeling inside like I’d just joined Huckleberry Finn on a voyage down the mighty Mississippi. We’d push off with a couple of sticks, and we’d wind our way through the bushes on our great adventure.

At night I’d have a hard time sleeping, knowing the next morning we’d be “voyaging” again.

Now I know I’m a little weird, but when I can’t take my boat out, which has happened a lot during my refit, getting on any boat I can hitch a ride on brings the same stupid, insipid grin to my face. I stand there on the deck, watching as the skipper pulls out, and as the gap between us and the dock grows, so does that feeling inside.

People spend so much time just trying to get through life that I think sometimes they look at their hobbies that way as well. Yet I know people who have boats more for status symbols than for the enjoyment they bring.

A few months ago Jody & I had the honor of spending some time with our friends Lin & Larry Pardey. I know they’ll hate to hear this, but as I was getting ready to head out for my very first “voyage” 120

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almost 30 years ago, I read every line they wrote and lived vicariously through their adventures. As we sat enjoying a cool libation at our favorite waterfront dive I listened as they talked about their latest cruise.

After all the years and all the sea miles, they still have the same excitement in their eyes as they talk about their voyages that they had 30 years ago.

As I am sure you know, many people plan a voyage, complete it, and then go on to underwater basket weaving or hang gliding without looking back. People like Lin & Larry are the most fortunate.

They have found what they like, and year after year, the excitement not only doesn’t diminish, it actually grows.

As we sat there listening to Larry describe the 100-year-old boat that they had bought and just finished restoring, and the joy they get out of taking her out for a day sail, I couldn’t help but smile. What a joy it has to be, to get your juices flowing doing what you love for so many years, and not getting jaded or losing the “zing!”

Yes, there are times I want to shout “I hate boats” to the world. But fortunately, that feeling goes away as soon as the swelling stops in the thumb I just smashed, or I realize that the broken rudder can be fixed. Not only that, but the feeling that fills me when I have fixed that rudder and sailed my vessel back to a safe harbor more than makes up for the trials and tribulations of skippering a boat.

I guess it’s a lot like life. You have to have a few bumps in the road in order to really appreciate that paved highway.

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The next time you’re in a storm, keep in mind how good it’s going to feel when you see the clearing skies. How many times have you clenched your teeth to get through a particularly rough passage, and then as you enter the safe harbor, you feel like you’ve conquered the world.

We have chosen a pretty whacky lifestyle. We pack up everything we own into a space slightly larger than a jail cell, push it out into the water and put out a couple bedsheets thinking somehow we will not only reach a destination, but we will be smiling when we get there!

And we will!

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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 70’s & 80’s era ever written. It was initially sold as hard cover by Bentree house Publishing, and is currently in it’s 6th printing. It was translated into German and was a best-seller in Germany. Steve McQueen/s Solar Productions was working on bringing it to the silver-screen, but unfortunately he passed from cancer before the project was finished.

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 123

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road.

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 124

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was ready for anything. I could ride like this forever.

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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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.

Matt was the bouncer at Joey’s, and he was acting as master of ceremonies and wardrobe assistant.

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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 threeday drunk after getting fired from his job, 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.

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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 Kun Do. He had worked as an instructor at Bruce Lee’s old school, the Jeet Kun 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.

Treb had opened a gym and Dick had gone back into martial arts with a vengeance. Now, at 38 years of age, he owned a martial arts school in Torrance and was a coach for boxers and wrestlers as well as teaching his real life love, kickboxing. Whenever things would start to get to him, he’d enter the ring as a sparring partner and let off steam.

It had always been a joke between Treb and Dick that Treb could kick his ass. They both knew it wasn’t true and laughed about it.

“Ok,” Dick laughed,” so when did Karen say you’d have to sell the bike?”

Treb laughed and swung at him haphazardly.

When Dick caught his hand they tumbled to the 129

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deck, rolling and laughing like a couple of kids.

“Hey, come on you guys!” Rom laughed and he started to pour Southern Comfort over the two on the floor.

Dick’s hand flashed out of the jumble and pulled Rom’s feet out from under him. In a few seconds there was 750 pounds of biker in a pile with Southern Comfort adding to the sticky mess.

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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 cuties were rolling along on wheels on the road in front of the marina. After spending the previous cou131

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ple 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 broker who’d hired me to deliver the boat and grabbed a taxi to the airport. I couldn’t wait to get back home.

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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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Biker

By Bob Bitchin

This was the first book by BB, written in the late 70’s as he rode around the country and the world writing for various motorcycle magazines. These are all true stories. If you are offended by sex, drugs or Rock & Roll you may want to pass on this one!

Excerpt from Biker That evening I started looking for a hotel early, not wanting to be left out in the weather. After I tried three of them I gave up, and settled for a campground in Monte Carlo.

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

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

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el is all over. I aimed the bike out the gate of the campground at 6:30 in the morning, and by 11 AM I had crossed into Italy, ignoring the odd looks by the Gestapo at the border, headed north, away from the Mediterranean and up into the Italian Alps. I zigzaged across the French border three or four times, and soon was crossing through the St Bernard Pass and into Switzerland.

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

Since it was in the 80’s outside I was riding in just my T-Shirt, and when I hit the tunnel I nearly froze my butt off.

All books by Bob Bitchin are available at BobBitchin.com, CruisingOutpost.com, Seafaring.com and Amazon. Most are also available as downloads.

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Photo by Jessie Zevalkink, 2016

Bob Bitchin

About The Author Motorcycles, boats & adventure created Bob Bitchin in the early 1960’s. He’d been “created” (born?) before, actually in 1944 in Los Angeles under the name Robert Lipkin, but his sense of adventure and a brief encounter with Tommy Chong of the comedy team Cheech & Chong changed his name to Bob Bitchin, and he rode all over the world and wrote hundreds of articles under that name, as well as a number of books.

Famous motorcycle daredevil Evil Knievel needed a traveling companion and body-guard, and when they met in Hollywood in 1973 Bob took on that job until the Snake River Canyon Jump when Knievel retired.

After that Bob created “Cycle Expo” in 1974 at the Los Angeles Convention Center. At that time it was the largest motorcycle show in the world.

He went on to create Biker Magazine and Tattoo Magazine in the 70’s and early 80’s. He also worked as editor of many of the motorcycle magazines of that era 139

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including Big Bike, Choppers and Chopper Guide, and wrote for other publications as diverse as Easyriders, Forbes, Penthouse and New Look.

In those years he rode his motorcycles across the country over 30 times, and around Europe as well. He helped found, and was elected the first President of the Motorcycle Press Association in 1978 and he co-founded A.B.A.T.E., a national organization of motorcyclists.

He and riding partner LACO Bob Lawrence, President of the Los Angeles Chapter of the Hells Angels co-created the very first Toy run in December of 1973, which now takes place in thousands of cities world-wide.

He taught himself to sail on a Cal 28 sloop and found the sailing lifestyle fit him to a “T”. He met Alan Olson, Captain of Stone Witch, which was a 74′ square rigged topsail schooner that sailed out of San Francisco. He signed on for a 3 month sail to Guatemala to see if the sailing life was for him. Stone Witch was the flag-ship for GreenPeace, and had no engine, ran kerosene running lights, and had four 21′ oars for propulsion. His life was changed forever, and soon, while riding all over the world on Harley’s, he lived aboard various sailboats that he would buy, fix up, and sell. For over thirty five years he lived aboard sailboats and cruised most of the Pacific and Central America.

He sold BIKER and TATTOO magazines to Easyriders in 1986 and started sailing full time. For many years he sailed the Pacific Coast of Mexico and Central America on his Formosa 51, the first Lost Soul, and then on another 51′ ketch, named Predator, with numerous trips to the Hawaiian Islands and back. Then, in 1990 After fixing and selling seven boats he bought the 68′ staysail ketch Lost Soul and this would be his home for the next 17 years.

He kidnapped Jody, the bartender at the Portofino Marina Yacht Club, and they took off to explore the South 140

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Pacific. As it turns out, they cruised all over the South Pacific, and then sailed through the Panama Canal to the Atlantic, sailed the Med, the Caribbean and everywhere they ever dreamed of going. They were married on board Lost Soul at the Portofino Marina on their return from their world voyage.

In 1996 he created the magazine Latitudes & Attitudes.

In the 15 years L&A was published it became one of the largest and most authoritative publications on sailing and world cruising.

In 2005, along with Darren O’Brien, he created the television show Latitudes & Attitudes, which, at the time, was the only nationally televised show about the sailing lifestyle. The show aired 5 seasons nationally with 65 episodes and is still in syndication world-wide.

In 2012 he and Jody decided to sell Latitudes & Attitudes & retire, to go cruise the world again.

Unfortunately the buyers turned out to be “a bit less than honest,” and in just six months Bob & wife Jody lost everything, and were forced into bankruptcy.

But actually all was not lost. About 700 of their Lats & Atts Readers sent in $250 each, to become founders of a new publication for Bob. Cruising Outpost, which is now the #1 selling maritime lifestyle publication in the USA. Bob & Jody currently do Cruising Outpost Magazine, as well as Latitudes & Attitudes Radio on Pyrate Radio, and they continue to do their “Share The Sail” adventures where they take readers out to experience the adventure of the cruising lifestyle.

Bob now divides his time between publishing, writing, world cruising, Riding his Harley and doing seminars on sailing and writing novels. He has written 9 books: His newest, DORF (in your hand, silly!) as well as Biker to Sailor (released March of 2016), Letters From The Lost 141

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Soul, The Sailing Life, Brotherhood of Outlaws, BIKER, Emerald Bay, King Harbor and Starboard Attitude.

Bob has two children, six grandchildren and 3 greatgrandchildren and still rides and sails all over the world whenever he gets the chance. He and his wife Jody live in the Sierra Nevada mountains, between the middle and north forks of the Feather River, overlooking Lake Oroville, in Berry Creek, California.

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There never really was a

D O R F Or was there?

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9741991-3-9

What happens when a couple of dumb biker's buy an old bus, load it with every drug imaginable and head for the biker event known as Sturgis, in South Dakota? The answer lies within.

This is either a work of fiction or non-fiction. As this didn’t actually happen, it didn’t actually happen about mid-August, 1973.

What I am trying to allude to is it never happened… and when it did, I wasn’t there, because if it were labeled as non-fiction a whole lot of people could be highly embarrassed (or worse!).

Well, not a lot, because most of them are dead by now, or in jail, but just in case, and to keep from having what little I have left in life taken away from me by lawyers and other blood-suckers I guess I will just label it as FICTION! There, now no one can sue me for anything.

But those of you who were there, you will know. You will also know when I stray from the facts. Ya gotta have a little poetic license, right?

I mean, hell, if Tom Clancy can use the Royal Family and sitting Presidents in his “fiction” I guess I can use a bunch of degenerate bikers in mine, right?

FTW Publishing, Inc. www.seafaring.com

Artwork & Introduction by Rich "Magic" Marker