Vintage Motorcycle Racing – Daytona Beach was and is where it’s at!

 1937 was the first year the Daytona 200 Motorcycle Race was run on the packed sand track on Daytona Beach. This race is where it all started…the origin of Bike Week. Racing was the main focus of the event, with the  beach course approximately 4.2 miles of  sand and was located south of Daytona Beach. The race was postponed for 5 years during World War II, but Bike Week still carried on.  

 Over the years, there were amateur and pro races, at times having more than 375 racers kicking up the sand. In 1948, the average speed was 84mph. That same year, an Indian motorcycle was the race champion.   Today, a monument located at 100 N. Atlantic Avenue, Daytona Beach stands in memory of the beach races of yesteryear. Beach Racers still meet during Bike Week for their “Over the Hill Gang” annual breakfast, and there is also an annual service at the Monument honoring the history of the Daytona 200 Motorcycle Beach Race.

 Along with the evolution of Bike Week, The Daytona 200  has since been moved to blacktop  of the Daytona International Speedway. And decades later, Billy Lane resurrected the board track racing tradition and brings alive Sons of Speed racing at New Smyrna Speedway, which is one half mile asphalt track with a 20degree bank.

 Perfect October weather – great track conditions – and the home town crowd made for

An exciting afternoon of old iron, some newer faces, and an overall great event!   This is the 6^th year since Sons of Speed was launched during Bike Week in 2017, rescheduled due to the hurricane that damaged the track in October, 2016. 

 

Trey Clark, Master of Ceremonies did well perched high up in the crows nest (he doesn’t like heights!!!) – with Chris Callen/Cycle Source Magazine as Flagman.

 

The Welcome Crew: Erin Lane and assistant at the front Gate.

 

Sponsor: Journey Biker Church –

 

Tom Banks/Banks Brothers Motorcycles – waving ‘em on Trackside. 

 

How many heads?????

 

EAT FLORIDA SEAFOOD!!!

 

Tools of the trade in the pits!

 

Old Time Trackside!!!

 

He found the Guiseppe”s Pizza!!!! Mangiare – Mangiare!!!

 

Thumbs Up!!!!! Track is Clear!!!

 

Warm up lap!!!! Stock 45 Class.

Hot 45 Warms up!!!

 

#313 – Randy Haward – Legends Class – 30 Single

 

#97 – In Deep Thought. 

 

Getting closer!!!! I got this!!!!

 

Neck in Neck….sooooo close!!!!

 

Flagged at the Finish Line!

 

Made It!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Nick Hunter Crosses the Line!!!!!!!

 

Nick Hunter JR

 

Jay Wright – Stock 45

 

Luke Atkinson edges out Chuck Kitchen – Stock 45

 

Trophies of the day!!! –

 

And they’re off!!!! HOT 45 Class

And the winner was…………..Michael Lange #50!!!!!!!

 

Stock 45 Class – Winner was Byron Bartley #74!!!!!

 

Michael Lange #21X raced to take home Hot 61 First!!!!!

 

Legends Class – 30 Single – #97 – Rich Packer – brought it home!!!!

 …Ya just had to be there….get your seats early and catch the 2024 Bike Week Sons of Speed Race at the New Smyrna Speedway.

 Cya there!

 Links:

 https://billylane.net

 https://officialbikeweek.com

 https://daytona200monument.com

The Governor of New Mexico, a character named Michelle Grisham, made what I consider to be one of the great advances in tyranny since the C-19 Circus of Shit. Now, I have to say right out the gate that she didn’t actually succeed. But she did show the way to upcoming tyrants, and of course also showed the way to present ones anxious to try out new things.

What she did was to declare a fucking inanimate object……“a public health crisis.”

I know what your saying, “What was the inanimate object, a fucking football stadium full of Strontium 90?”

Hahahahaha No! Good one! And I think it’s safe to say a football stadium full of Strontium 90 will fucking NEVER be declared a fucking health crisis. One reason being, unless you’re an imbecilic fucking bureaucrat, everyone already knows to stay the fuck away from the shit! So, yeah, Strontium 90 exists. And it’s really dangerous. But it doesn’t spread. And you don’t have to isolate and lockdown a population when Strontium 90 turns up somewhere. Because it doesn’t fucking spread. The Strontium 90 is isolated instead. Not the populace. Because it stays put. And no one ever demonstrates or calls national emergencies or declares a public health crisis against this practice. Which is one way you know that NOT declaring the existence of Strontium 90 somewhere as being a “public health crisis”….is actually sensible.

Which brings us to Governor Grisham.

To Governor Grisham, she considers herself a gal on the move. So why wait for something as bizarre and arcane and unlikely as Strontium 90 to show up to call it a health crisis – which she probably would do: no, I want to be President someday, let’s do something Presidential, or in other words, off-the-chart, Trudeau/Biden/Harris/Ocasio-level stupid: let’s call inert base metal that just sits there – which would be a PISTOL – a health hazard. No wait, let’s call it a health crisis. No wait: let’s call certain-shaped wads of inert metal AN ASS-KICKING PUBLIC HEALTH EMERGENCY!! I think is the way she put it.

She declared a non-radioactive construction of inert metal – pistols – to be capable of something that SO FAR in human history or even in METAL history has never been associated with the spread of disease: she declared inert-welding-material – pistols…….. a public health emergency.

Now, she didn’t just dream all this shit up out of the blue after a dose of LSD. No. She had precedent to go on. She was not the first piece of shit bureaucrat to test the waters of tyrannical sociopathy. She had the World Health “Organization:” the Center for Disease Control; every piece of shit “news’ apparatus on earth; the need to get rid of Trump; the cowardly traditions of the medical profession; and the relentless stupidity of Authority-Dependent Humanity to help her onward to new heights of Fuckutopia.

She was VERY LIKELY inspired to attempt this due to the worldwide success of “doctors” suddenly being declared by “world leaders” as having the political run of entire countries and cities. Of course, they DIDN’T have any political power but the people who DO said “Our hands are tied: doctors know what they are doing. We have to trust them.” So, then the people with the actual power – which isn’t the doctors – used the doctors as excuses….to go into tyranny mode. And fucking get away with it. Because, you know, “doctors’ orders.” You can’t go against those. For some reason. Meanwhile 99.99999 percent of the doctors were going, looking around at each other……”Is there a health emergency?” Well, every news agency on earth said there was. Cause journalists don’t care. Turmoil is their daily bread on the table at Mom’s or their boyfriend’s house. The last thing a journalist wants is everyone being calm all the time. Where’s the news there.

So, this pile of human refuse called a “governor” declared firearms a health emergency. Do you think the New York Times staff of Ace Crack Pulitzer-Winning Safeguardians of a free and vibrant whatever-the-fuck-a-democracy-is raised the fucking journalistic roof over this Stalinesque perversion of reality? Do you think David Manure or George Squatenopolis or Rachel Madcow or George Willynilly blasted onto the scene declaring the brain of Rachel Grisham to be officially null and void due to her declaration of inert metals to be viral bacterial biological hazmat contagions of disease and animate spores of organic decay and slow debilitating death by infection?

I’ll escort you quietly through this: No. They did not. They stayed their course of emphasizing threats to our sacred democracy caused by Elon Musk: and praising the beauties of inclusivity, diversity, intersectionality, sustainability and empowerment; and condemning the evils of oil production, the use of water, the use of air conditioners, the use of social media, and the existence of Donald Trump; they remained outraged at the injustice of there being only two declared sexes and the unfairness of hiring only competent people and the unfairness of not giving drug-addicted and sanity-free, plague-ridden psychopathic shitters on the sidewalks free hotel suites, free meals, free drugs and free public-shitting privileges; and continued announcing the need for cross-dressing flashers to visit classrooms of 6-year-olds and show them their penises and escort them to the bathrooms of their choice and help them pull down their pants.

And as for the Governor of New Mexico declaring inert metal a public health emergency?……Not a fucking word from our watchdogs of liberty, the American Journalist Society of Soldiers of The Free Press Guardians of Our Sacred Democracy.

You think governor Grisham has been FIRED for being an incompetent if not simple-minded pain in the fucking ass? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

–J.J. Solari

 Christy and I just came back from a ride on my 2022 Harley Ultra Limited to the Smokey Mountains. It is a really nice time of the year to do that with the weather and trees changing. As it turned out a lot of other people must have had the same motorcycling notion. Everywhere we went the majority of travelers were on motorcycles.

 

Stopped in Helen Georgia for lunch on the way north at The Two Tire Tavern for an adult beverage.

 

 We did take the opportunity to visit nine different Harley dealerships to pick up poker chips which we both collect from. We also snatched t-shirts from here and there. We decided to keep some of the other dealerships for future visits. There were more…

 Being from Florida where it is hard to find a hill, never mind a mountain, we took advantage of riding the fantastic lush Smokeys. Besides the Dragon there were plenty of other twisties and even the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. I saw deer and elk but no bears and that was okay. Rode through the twisty mountain roads during the daytime mostly, but some after nightfall and even slithered in light rain. Oh yeah, and the 18-wheeler that we met coming towards us in our lane. Just enough to make things interesting.

GPS wasn’t dependable in the mountains, so the HOG Harley Map, available everywhere, were a big help in getting from one place to another.

 

 There are numerous train rides through the mountains, and we took one of them. Even grabbed the opportunity to down some Moonshine while jiggling on the train.

 

 

 

 Of course, we went to Mel’s Diner while in Pidgeon Forge.

It started to get a little chilly, so we dressed warmly. The bonus was the Ultra comes from the factory with heated grips and I got one of the new Harley Heated Seats to try out. Oh Yeah, Say What Ya Want but they made for a more comfortable and enjoyable ride.

If you get the chance, I suggest you put this on your bucket list.

There’s a reason we’re fucked. It’s because we’re stupid.

This is a bread package from our kitchen. This bread, as you can clearly see, supports digestive health. Three words stuck together that have absolutely no communication value. “Supports” means it doesn’t fuck up your digestive health. It won’t say to your digestive health, “Gut some bad news for ya, pardner: me and you are parting company. It’s via vietcong con dios, mi compadre puto. No more digestive supportage for you.” In other words…… there is no actual meaning to “supports digestive health.” It supports it.

That means, if it means anything, it doesn’t fuck it up. It doesn’t fuck-up the health of your digestive. Your digestive stays totally healthed and intact when you eat this. It means it’s compatible with digestive health. You’ll notice it doesn’t say “digestion” health. That would ALMOST have a meaning and could possibly be actionable in a contrived lawsuit. Because all this jibberjabber is about avoiding lawsuits for making false claims. But if you make NO claims and disguise your meaningless random-word-generator enough to where it SEEMS to be saying something……the American Moron Voter will go “(burp) Guess I’ll buy this! It will make me digest healthier and more powerfully and with support! Like a fuckin’ jockstrap! The balls of my digestives will be supported and hoisted into glory!!! Creeflo?

Quit fuckin’ the mule and give a listen!…… I gut a jockstrap on my digestive balls!!!”

The words, “supports digestive health,” you may have noticed, assuming you notice things, have an explosion of light behind them. This is to convince you that these three words are like unto a visitation from Jesus, filled with light and understanding and a mind-awakening revelation of truth. “Supports digestive health” isn’t just THERE, it’s there with Holy Ghost Illumination radiating from the vaults of The Most High and bursting through the firmament like a nova releasing its elements unto the stars to create new worlds and abundant life.

“Supports digestive health” is thus not only NOT meaningless drooling slobber, it is in fact granted a place in the celestial plasma-field of enlightenment, with yellow rays of abundant, life-giving sunlight, that gives life to all, bursting off the cellophane and into your heart and mind and transforming words idiotically-assembled with no context or even a reason for existing into suddenly becoming incentives to ACTION: the action being you pick up whatever this circular lump of air is and walk it over to the cashier and trade some money for it in digestive health supportedness and inclusivitosity journied sustaintanceness. Halleluia.

–J.J. Solari

Yesterday, I roamed to the Arkansas Confederation of Clubs chili cookoff. I loaded my truck down with chili and pastries and cornbread and headed to the Longbranch Saloon in Little Rock. It has been the heart of Arkansas bikerdom since Moby Dick was a minnow…

Even though biker bars come and go, the Longbranch remains the staple, the home place where our memories are seeped into the darkened walls that are stained with photos and momentos of those who have joined the forever chapter for perhaps forty or fifty years now… a bar wallpapered with brothers and sisters who now forever preside over the clacking pool balls from a blurry photograph.

The Longbranch is the place where we always congregate to discuss the memories after our marryin’ and buryin’ and pool tournaments and of course, the chili cookoff, the night before Little Rock’s Toy Hill run… the largest toy run in the state.

So, I loaded up and went… the same as I did my very first Christmas as a brand new biker… twenty five years ago… and as my eyes adjusted to the dark smoky pool hall I saw that many of the same people were playing pool and standing at the bar, who were there over two decades ago the first time my eyes took in the room. Of course, I saw the ones who weren’t there anymore, too.

Even though my move from Iowa to Arkansas was several months ago, and even though I been back in my hometown in Arkansas since early summer… my soul didn’t truly feel the click of Dorothy’s heels until I stomped the dust off my riding boots, walked past the row of Harleys, and stood in the doorway of the LongBranch.

People I haven’t seen in seven years hugged me. I made my way through the building and the hugs and the familiar smells, remembering the times I walked through the door so many times, so many men, so many minutes, so many memories before, like the time I rode in wearing a fur coat and heels… the times I rode up with tears streaming down my face… the times I carried my drunk out the front door… the times in rain, pain and mud, the fear and the courage, the chill and the heat, the music and the laughter and the beer. I put my prodigal chili, my restitution for my absence for far too long, on the tables with the other entries in the chili contest. I would not win… I did not care… I was home.

I spent the day in nostalgic stupor. While I was sitting there watching people fooling around at a table full of patches with men who wore patches the first time I came to that old bar, 25 years ago.

I watched the VnVMC members walking around who were literally at the Dermott, Arkansas Crawdad festival in 1999…. When I rode up on a Road King with one of their friends, a man long gone, the old biker who taught me to ride and died in my arms. Those of his friends who are either lucky enough or cursed enough to still be livin’ were all there last night, the same old men who were around the campfire my very first ride on a motorcycle ever, one hot muggy crawfishy Arkansas night that changed my soul and the course of my life irrevocably forever.

I felt like Dorothy once more, reunited with the Tin Man and the scarecrow and the lion who lead her on a grand adventure like none she ever dreamed before… over a rainbow of colors, indeed! I watched the 1%ers and the church folks and the other clubs in the Confederation hug and smile and fellowship together.

Plus, there was this precious little lady bug of a girl selling tickets and being a little doll. I smiled as I watched her innocent smile, and figured to myself she was someone’s ol’ lady in a mom ‘n pop probably. She made a little crack like about she was being voluntold to sell tickets… She goes ‘if anyone knows how I got roped into this let me know cuz I don’t know how I got here.’ I laughed at her little joke, and I said ‘its ok baby girl. I been sitting at this table since my booboos were up where yours are, and I still don’t know how I got here either.

–The Wicked Bitch

What is the Washington Press Corps. It’s a question we’ve all asked ourselves at one time or another. As is the question so what’s actually the deal with Jill Biden’s tits. We see them packed together like pigs to the slaughter….. ok, I’m back to the Washington Press Corps, by the way. I’ve left Jill Biden’s tits. We’ve spent enough time on those butterbags of sadness that dispense the milk of despair.

Getting back on topic and kissing Jill Biden’s tits goodbye, we routinely see the members of the Washington Press Corps packed together like pigs to the slaughter: we see them galloping down hallways of the White House like Andalusians or whatever the fuck they are during the Running of the Bulls in Consuelo Yolanda Con Gleem Spain or wherever the fuck that even happens: we see them packed into their chairs in some hall closet in some White House version of a homeless encampment: they’re treated like subway train riders being herded by A.I. and they don’t mind it one bit.

And the reason for THAT is Washington Press Corps journalists have absolutely no pride, no integrity, no minimum standards for personal dignity, no sense of decorum, no conception of civility, a total absence of empathy regarding any life form though sometimes they will admit to a condescending nod to the existence of chemical compounds, such as C02 for example. And those journalists who make it onto the cattle-roster of “The Washington Press Corps” are there not because of talent – whatever that word could even mean regarding journalism – no, they’re not there because of any talent, they’re there because they display the journalistic-world minimum standards of worthless, inept, delusional child-like mentalities who are convinced their snotty, arrogant, petulant temper tantrums regarding other people not obeying the journalist’s decrees of proper behavior…are totally justified.

They’re in the Washington Press Corps because they believe that you, by not obeying the journalists’ decrees regarding the proper levels of whatever they are defining morality and holiness as this week…are deserving of contempt: your individuality renders you as sub human. They’re there in the Washington Press Corps because their superior level of sanctity demands that you – the citizenry – proclaim as valid the journalists’ proclaimed levels of “selflessness” and his relentlessly decreed levels of holiness requiring your worship of the journalists’ Caligula-like journalistic souls. They’re there – in the Washington Press Corps – because those journalists in particular actually HAVE that list of dignity-free and backbone-free and character-free attributes I just itemized and they have them in double-doses of worthless useless talentless whining, shit-ass carloads. The members of the Washington Press Corps have all these bottomfeeder, rancid, very shitty qualities, and not just in spades but in hearts and diamonds and clubs and jacks or better and in a crooked deck with you getting dealt no cards at all and still losing your shirt. And that’s why they’re in the Washington Press Corps: it’s the final step “up” into the talentless toilet of twat infection called “news writing.”

Naturally the only life form LOWER than a journalist – which would be a government official – recognizes these abysmal qualities. And if the journalist has these abysmal qualities in high enough quantities….he is, with a condescending nod, admitted to the ultimate snake pit of human failures known as The Washington Press Corps.

The Washington Press Corps is SUPPOSED to be referred to and honored as the watchdog of liberty: a body of stalwart soldiers of truth holding firm to the sacred oaths, virtues, and perfections of Journalism as iterated and carried forward by the mighty journalists of the past who have bravely and fearlessly fought against the juggernaut of evil that is the ever-present danger of governmental overreach into the rights and liberties of the American People.

However, to review, what the Washington Press Corps actually IS is a collection of “journalists” – or failed novelists – occupying, in the hierarchy of human complexity and aesthetic wonderment, approximately the same level and degree of nobility as plankton occupies in the society of stagnant water, contaminated runoff, and other festering deadly lagoons of deteriorating rot. In other words, backwaters and brackish runoff and mosquito-infested evaporating swamp lagoons of steaming decomposing filth have plankton, and the White House has the Washington Press Corps.

However, unlike plankton, the Washington Press Corps does not go about its random, drifting, sargasso-strewn existence in murmured and quiet, almost hushed, silence. No. Washington Press Corps personnel are forever in a turgid, rolling-boil agitation when assembled in the conference room or the press room or the cramped, homeless-encampment-like hallway or corridor or wherever it is that the “folding chairs for the imaginary elite” are unpacked and opened up and, basically, insultingly slammed into position for them in the White House Assembly Circus. Adding insult to haughty disdain, the folding chairs cavalierly arrayed for the Press Corps Cattle to wriggle their way into are not just orchestrated insults: Austin Theory of the WWE, when Roman Reigns reaches under the ring to haul out a folding chair and then climb with it into the ring to then slam Theory from behind with the chair, sending Theory face first into the canvas while then being mercilessly slammed over and over with the chair until Theory AND the chair are both turned into contorted grotesqueries of ruin……. this is benevolent courtesy and respect to Theory compared to the indignities the White House Staffers display with THEIR folding chairs to the chumps in the Washington Press Corps.

Returning to the plankton theme of Press Corps evolutionary levels: unlike ocean plankton, which is quiet….. terrestrial plankton, or the Washington Press Corps, when it is corralled into a narrow hallway and insultingly plopped into wooden chairs packed closer to each other than quarters in a roll of coins… terrestrial plankton – or the Washington Press Corps, – is not quiet like stagnant lagoon plankton. No: it bellows, shouts and calls-out noisily like seagulls hovering above the stern of a boat that’s chumming the waters with bucketloads of minced salmon skulls.

This raucous bellowing and outcry begins as soon as the “press-handler” announces that the bellowing may now begin. After a brief but preposterous outburst of noise the press-handler will nod or aim a forefinger at one of the pressed and condensed members of the hallway menagerie and a question will come forth from that person. The question will not only have no merit as a question it will have no bearing on anything that would have to do with the citizenry of this planet or any other planet, nor with anything that remotely could be considered of interest to anyone with a communication level higher than that of a kennel operator talking to a cocker spaniel.

Journalists are not aware that there even IS a citizenry. Journalists are only aware of their own personal failure at becoming famous. Like Jim Acosta having failed at becoming George Clooney. If they are aware of the citizenry at all it is a sullen, snarky awareness filled with bitterness that the citizenry does not swarm them with requests for autographs as they would Taylor Swift or Benjamin Franklin or Lucky Luciano. This longed-for goal – actual admiration – is forever denied the journalist. And by the time he gets to being in the Washington Press Corps he knows all hope is forever lost: those crappy chairs are going to be his final throne of authority and influence. Or in other words, a position lower and more battered than Austin Theory’s position face down on the mat being hammered by Roman Reign’s folding chair across his spine.

It gets worse for these sullen, petulant remora. Even though they are part of the “President”’s hand sifted and separated collection of found-to-be-suitable non-entities: they rarely get to “conference” with an actual President. What they usually get is a “spokesman.” And in the case of the present representative of the President, the jury is still out on what the fuck that apparition that is the present “press interventioner” even is. Which is amazing since the one before her pretty much broke the mold on – for one thing bad hair. She was some red headed Borg named Psaki-rhymes-with-buttcracky who apparently took styling tips from DEVO, had the personality of tree bark, and the disposition of a badger with Crones disease trying to shit razorwire out its ass and whose reddish rigor-mortised hair looked like it was colored by feral epileptic children using Crayolas.

She was tough to beat for sheer repugnance but Joe & Co. used the Find-A-Freak dredging machine which never fails them and unearthed an even more worthless candidate.

The Press-Handler at the moment is a chocolate-skinned, completely preposterous walking oblivion named something with a hyphen in it and who looks like she has a sea anemone on top of her head. It is a pretty good bet that what you would think would be the most-asked question from the compressed wall of hysteria-generating gooseherd of journalism-degree holders would be about her hair and when the fuck she is going to do something even remotely aesthetic with that squalid-looking reminiscence of Forensic Files bloodspatter. H.R.Giger has to be looking down – or looking up – from wherever he is and wondering if Miss Hyphenated has picked up the horror mantle from when he dropped it at his demise.

This question about whateverthefuck is going on on top of her empty head is not only NOT the most-asked inquiry of Miss Hyphenated….it’s never been asked even ONCE. You would THINK that it would be the number one question on every White House Press Hack’s agenda list. Her hair is a violation of every rule of Earthly Life Forms to the point where not only should it be number-one on every journalist’s agenda to investigate, it should even be on driving tests. It should just be a worldwide question that’s just out-there until the matter gets answered. It’s not a tough question. Here would be an example of it: “What in the FUCK is going on above your vapid brainless cranium, is that HAIR or is it some sort of virulent parasitic Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse?” If it were to be asked it would not be met with cordial good-time jocularity from Miss Anemone. It would be met with virulent, hiss-filled, saliva spray so hot it would leave chemtrails of steam as the molten particles of spit spread out across the sea of bland, lifleless journalism majors and that PARTICULAR journalism major would be banned from White House Press Corps hallway clumping sessions forevermore. Small price to pay to get the question asked.

While we may never get any answers as to what the present Press Secretary actually IS, Journalists in the Washington Press Corps can to some extent be deciphered through simple observation such that some blanket statements can be made about them that are, at least until further notice, dead on target.

Washington Press Corps journalists are like cops in that 1: they’re stupid, and 2: they’re convinced they’re NOT stupid. They are in fact, like cops, convinced they are necessary and essential for an ordered and calm civilization to exist. 3: They are convinced that not only are they NOT stupid but that they have an insight and focus on proper human behavior that is hundreds if not thousands of years ahead of our time in wisdom and insight into the human predicament. In FACT journalists in general have not only declared themselves essential they have carved out an entire meaningless slogan for themselves that elevates them in equality to the three other meaningless slogans currently in place as Definers OF Humanity In Western Civilization: which, if you are a citizen of Europe, Canada, the USA, Australia, New Zealand and are NOT a Muslim – you – you reading this – are actually a part of. We are heading into full-blown delusional crazed psychotic if not sociopathic criminal mentality here so fasten your fucking seat belt. We are going to discuss The Fourth Estate.

The Fourth Estate is a category of Western “society” that was declared as a brand new “estate” that exists just as mightily and righteously and filled with holy and superhuman virtue and essentialness as the other three “estates” and this Fourth Estate was announced and declared real….by the people IN the “estate” who CREATED it: journalists. Or “news” hacks in other words. Talk about bold.

The first three estates were created by something called “philosophers.” Philosophers in Western Civilization are people who come up with sweeping scientific theories that they declare as fact without ever doing any actual research or testing on the declarations and which have nothing to do with science. Todays “climate scientists” are philosophers. Philosophers are basically freelance religious cultists.

In the world of “learning,” meaning what they tell you in “school”….. Western humanity is divided into 4 political categories, which in the world of “learning” are every bit as valid and meaningful and essential as any other list of categories you want to put people into. If not more so. They are, in fact, in the minds of the people IN these “estates,” holy and almost, if not actually, categories of divinity.

These then are the “Estates.” There used to be three of these but now there are four thanks to the menacing and unfortunate ability of journalists to not just take control of vocabulary but to rattle it into oblivion. Much as a coyote might rattle into oblivion the dying body of a ground squirrel via a jawclamp onto its body and a thrashing of its and the ground squirrel’s head into a cornucopia of g-forces that only the coyote is going to emerge from with all its connective tissue still intact.

These three original “estates,” NONE of which are ACTUALLY important to human progress, are, the Church or the First Estate, or the costumed self-proclaimed representatives of the deity-of-the-moment, in this case Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews and likely soon to be replaced by Allah, and which costumed unemployables are the pontificators of morality: the Second Estate, Royalty, which is basically the warlord of the moment, who is in control of the slaves: or the Third Estate, or the citizenry as it is called, or the Common Folk. Meaning people not in celestial authority like the First Estate nor in government authority like the Second Estate but rather under both of these overlords, and these “common folk” are granted “estate” status, The Third Estate, even though they have about as much status as sheep on a hillside being calmly scrutinized by a distant wolfpack sitting down and quietly considering today’s best strategy to eat some of the sheep for dinner.

With the creation of the printing press which instantly threatened the existence of Royalty and what Ayn Rand correctly referred to as the Witch Doctors – or the clergy….. people who could Actually Compose Sentences became “the voice of the people” – a lie created by the new, self-proclaimed Fourth Estate and actually believed by the other three Estates as being factual.

These “voices of the people,” the elite of whom end up in the Washington Press Corps, use their mighty voice of the people to compose sentences like this one:

“On Nov third the President of Nigeria said that he would not consider a renewal of the Commonwealth Pac of 1858 unless there was a renegotiation of the intercontinental agronomy agreement with the President of the Netherlands under the condition of mutual coordination of the Anomaly Agreement of 1702. Given that the President of the US has repeatedly stated that reciprocation without adequate reciprocity from mutually involved non participants renders all agreements null is there any chance that the fallout from any adverse adumbrations of agreements could result in quid pro quo?”

Press Spokesman Anemone La Pierre Cumquat Adieu: “I have nothing on that at the moment.”

This sort of back and forth imbecilic retardation is supposed convince you – the Third Estate – that the Press – the FOURTH Estate – and the Royalty of the Presidency – the Second Estate – are engaged in a mutually productive oversight of the intricate and complex interaction between nations: rather than demonstrating your relentless gullibility in believing that government OR the press is actually anything.

The Press’s creation of themselves as a new and genuine Estate – capital E – is one of the great accomplishments of sheer utter chutzpah in the history of brazen self-righteous bullshit. The first three Estates – bullshit-enough for anyone I should think – have at least SOME credible, arguable, semi-reasonable, kind of understandable justification for applying to themselves the mighty and noble title of being an “Estate.” We are all in one or the other Estate and have accepted these three compartments of fucked-up humanity as being totally noble and worthwhile and necessary and just super fucking awesome. This all STARTED with the Catholic Church. This is not a criticism: my feeling is, if the “public” is that fucking gullible, fuck ‘em: pour it on.

Well, this Estate business got traction, and the “press” realizing that the printing press gave them power – being literate – why not use it and declare yourself, well, basically a branch of government AND religion AND the citizenry: a “Fourth” Estate, created by themselves, not to overthrow the other three Estates but to keep all three in line and having them willing to cooperate with the Fourth Estate’s actual agenda: keeping the other three estates frozen in fear that the Fourth Estate can eliminate the other Three at will via “bad press,” the eradication of conceptual thinking and the igniting of “public opinion.” Or instigating rioting, as it’s also called.

How this is being accomplished is an entire other article. And I don’t know about you but I’m already getting bored. I’m ready for a few tit pics. But before we go let’s give the White House Press Corps the abuse they deserve as a meaningless Estate.

The Third Estate likes being oblivious. It helps convince them that what the other three estates are doing to them is deserved. It’s called guilt. When was the last time you saw a preacher or a councilman or a journalist feel guilt? They don’t feel guilt. They inflict it onto you, the Third Estate.

Next time in American Government 101: The Supreme Court

This piece speaks to so many things. This brother is retired, but he’s not turning the motorcycle flame down. When we started this series, he faced three restorations of 1913-’14 Harleys and one Excelsior-Henderson. I could be wrong. There could be a 4th. Since then, he’s scored more early bikes, sold bikes, restored Museum bikes and is currently trying to buy another JD-model V-twin.

So, don’t mind me if I get crossed up from time to time. The other day Dan sent me shots of lacing and truing early wheels, so here we go. All early wheels are laced with the hub centered over the rims. All early motorcycle wheels came with clincher rims and tires, which are tough to mount and even tougher to install the tubes. All the early bikes had 28-inch in diameter rims.

All the early bikes came with 36 spokes until 1912 when Harley engines grew more powerful, so they switched to 40-spoke wheels. They’ve been the same ever since. Sure the rims changed and widened and the spoke thickness became more substantial.

Let me see if I can get this straight. Dan lays towels down and starts to connect the hub to the rim with spokes. While carefully watching the position of the nipples, he installs a spoke in the hub and counts four dimples over on the rim and installs it. If he was lacing a hummer wheel, it would be three-over.

If you wondered if you were doing it right check the length of the spoke sticking through the rim. If it’s way long or short, you’re off and need to correct.

He laced the inside group and then the outside group crossing four spokes of the inside group with each new spoke. He flipped the wheel over, did the inside group and handled the outside group of spokes before installing the wheel in the truing stand.

In the stand, he applied masking tape to the four, 90 degree corners. Then he started to tighten the nipples up and down and side to side while watching his truing gauge. He has the old cool tightening tools for the job. He can now lace a wheel in just about 10 minutes. Truing takes patience, bourbon and time.

Remember to check the length of the spoke sticking through the rim and nipple. If one is way off, you might have a problem.

Once close to completion, Dan punched each nipple from the outside because of the thickness of the paint. After final tightening and truing, he checked and ground any protruding spokes to prevent tire puncturing. He made sure all the surfaces were smooth and wiped clean before applying the rim strip.

His tolerance for early wheels, which are more forgiving is .060.

Here’s a sidebar story. Russell Mitchell was involved in a TV series. If the contestant could build a bike within 30 days from the ground up, he could keep it. Lacing wheels became the toughest hurdle to the competition. More guys lost because they couldn’t lace and true a wheel in time.

Here’s an adage direct from Dan, “If you can’t find a part—you make it!” Here’s a Magneto cable control sleeve he fabricated.

Okay, that’s it for this episode. Dan is currently restoring a ’13 and ’14 from the Mecum auction donated to a museum by E. J. Cole for Dan’s makeshift shop display. Tom Faber is building Bars for these rollers and with new paint for the tanks and fenders, they will be complete and ready for display.

See ya next time.

–Bandit

The Supreme Court has nine members, some men, some women, some who aren’t sure what they are, eventually some will be cross-dressing women with penises who identify as pelicans.

Soon some will be illegal aliens just like what is now being allowed into our military for when the time comes for the Pentagon and Gen. Milley Vanilli to declare war on the American citizenry with the expectation of obedience from our Isis-M-13-Cartel Inc.

Military – which obedience Milley Vanilli will get – some will be jihadists, some will be high-school shooters from prison some will be Hamas as are already some of our Congress Inhabitants. Some will be people who glue their hands to runways and throw paint at priceless art objects without retribution and some will be actual non-humans, probably kangaroos, declared by the Supreme Court as having all the rights of American citizens.

At the MOMENT the freakiest most incomprehensibly moronic member of the Supreme Court is none of the above. I take that back, she actually is one of the above, a woman who, when questioned regarding her qualifications for the job, confessed that she has no idea what a woman is since she is not a biologist. She doesn’t know what a woman is because she’s not a biologist but she knows how to translate a document written in 1789 into a 2023 roadmap-to-liberty for 350 million people who DO know what a woman is presently living in America. And she will KEEP doing it with don’t-know-what-a-woman-is level of competence and intelligence until she fucking dies. Since she can’t be fired. Talk about the fix being in.

This “doesn’t know what a woman is because she’s not a biologist” idiot is leading the pack toward what the Supreme Court has officially become: namely, a sideshow shitshow circus of imbecility taken to the level of a monkey menagerie on angel dust.

Before she got the green light to take her Forever Job there was an earlier incident with an imbecilic candidate for the Supreme Court who has ALSO since gotten the job. He was, or is, an alleged male who was up for review to join for life the Supreme Court and he wasn’t interrogated on his medical knowledge of what the sexes are, no, he was cross examined by his intellectual kin in the Senate regarding his personal penis-sanctity.

He MAY have liked fucking women! At least that was the suggestion or implication or rumor or innuendo. His accusers didn’t say he did like fucking women and they didn’t say he didn’t like fucking women, what they said was to suggest that if he DID like fucking women that that was bad or not normal or who even knows. He proved his qualification for the lifetime job, however, by going to pieces over this, dragging his little daughters into the circus arena and allowing them to watch dad go to pieces in person rather than just hearing about it from David Muir.

Like I say, the implications or suggestions were unclear regarding the sexual topics aimed his direction. Being a normal male with a lustful interest in feeling coochi and tits is looked-upon by today’s American Office Holders and certainly “members of trusted news teams” as a perversion.

Heterosexual perversion – men liking pussy – is frowned upon by Congressional Interrogators and members of trusted news teams for one reason or another, the main reason being it implies heterosexuality and therefore COULD prejudice your Reasoning Powers regarding proper sex which in 2023 is homosexual aberrated sex unless children are involved then it’s a full speed ahead totally normal sexual attraction.

Before him there was the Man Whose Life Matters who has since become apparently mute who was accused by some woman of having put a pubic hair on top of her can of cola. This quite understandably rendered him unfit for a meaningless job for life, but somehow he got past this sanctity/morality barrier and got the job either because he actually did this heinous act or else because it couldn’t be proved he did this heinous act, the public hair never having come actually into evidence for all to see and examine and perhaps sniff.

If you THINK this suggests the Supreme Court is deteriorating in its sanity levels, well you would be wrong, mi amigo. It was CREATED insane. It’s merely fulfilling its destiny.

Thinking you can create liberty and justice for all when you have never done such a thing before ever in your lifetime is called by people who still have unaltered gain-of-function RNA “delusions of grandeur.” It’s ALSO called by the Mob as “conning easy marks into going all-in with no hand.”

Since the focus on this piece is the Supreme Court, or in other words only one of the alleged “three branches of government” – all of which were created overnight just like the FBI was, and which three have been expanded at this point into a thousand branches of government – the most powerful now being “the health-advisory” branch. Which, if I remember correctly, appeared – much like the Constitution itself did – overnight. And was born with full dictatorial, devastating, tyrannical, “declared wise” orders that affected – as far as we know – ONLY Western Civilization nations. Excluding Russia: who said fuck this Covid-crap.

Since this focus is to review merely the Supreme Court and not the other two “branches of government” let’s get down to ripping its pompous-ass posturing of Possessing Divine Wisdom Imparted To Nine Costumed Termination-Free Sub-Deities into confetti via the Woodchipper of Reason.

Here is the job description of the nine members of the Supreme Court: “Nine people who will spend their lives doing absolutely nothing until a decree already passed into law created by any one of ten trillion ‘lawmakers’ comes to their attention that has raised enough fuss in the press-activated public THAT ALL NINE AGREE TO ACTUALLY TAKE A FUCKING LOOK AT IT. After which time of ruminating and deliberating and mumbling and scratching at their be-robed balls and their be-robed cunts and ‘forming opinions’….they grandly announce whether or not at least five of the nine came to an agreement ‘that the law is – or isn’t – Constitutional.”

Here’s why this is a joke: APPARENTLY the Constitution is such a Gavin-Newsom-level pile of incomprehensible, random, arbitrary pretenses at divine wisdom and prose and rules and decrees and edicts and creations of reality out of nothing….. that NO ONE ACTUALLY KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK IT ACTUALLY SAYS. And when the bickering gets OVERT enough to where it’s actually causing people to – ya know – start SHOOTING people or setting fire to Macy’s – then and only then will the Supreme Court’s useless coven of unassailable, can’t be fired membership of be-robed, yawning, dreary, Bohemian Grove masturbators who have to account to no one for being wrong – whatever “being wrong” would even be when deciding what a load of gobbledygook says or doesn’t say – only then will these nine Sith Costumees doing their Star Wars make-believe Comicon cosplay nine-man Pronouncement of the Hierarchs “interpretance” the Constitution – only then will they stop hacking their nuts long enough to pronounce and decide and opinionate regarding whatever aspect of the runic, secret language Constitution roadmap-to-nirvana presently up for consideration as to MEANING….actually means. Until further notice.

And this preposterous “enlightened” version of government has been going on for 250 years, this “interpreting” of the Constitution, which is apparently the most arcane, elusive, mysterious, subliminal, subtle, code-like and apparently bewildering flabbergastance ever committed to paper by the 1789 First Timers at Constitution-making. Or whatever you even call this sort of thing that someone decided to do to advance the science of constitutionology. One of which every country on earth now has. And how THAT workin’ out, earthlings. Looks like the world’s bureaucrats knew a bad idea when they saw one and raced each other to get on board..

You ever actually read the Constitution? Get prepared to scream to death, pardner. Get prepared to march one foot in front of ‘tuther into a fucking maelstrom of arbitrary, pontificating, hear ye hear ye blathering The Good News of Redemption bureaucrat style. Keep in mind the average bureaucrat cannot create a chocolate fucking milkshake forget about how to secure the blessings of liberty to 350 million, some of them legal, inhabitants, all, at the moment, on the verge of 20 different categories of civil war.

I know what you’re saying: “The Constitution is so majestically configured and designed and constructed and deployed and engineered and made so perfect by bureaucrats with such minute and magnificent tolerances with Jesus himself actually opening his hands upon the document and proclaiming it from God that you need an IQ of 300 just to even begin to learn its wonders, and a complete understanding could take years. It is too sublime for us in the peasant citizenry to understand.

Only the High Priests of Constitutional Understanding who live under Mt. Shasta can, after a lifetime of focus and immersion into The Law and the Prophets bring the Divine down to Earth and fill these wise men of the Court with the extraterrestrial knowledge of the Old Ones of the firmament, as we walk in a slow circle of prayer and slaughter the sacred bull of Isis.” That’s what you’re saying. And who could blame you.

And I’m sure you would agree if you are any kind of politically-astute loyal American that In fact it could take 250 years and an IQ of three thousand not just three hundred because so far NO one, at least no one on the fucking Supreme Court, has ANY FUCKING IDEA what the fuck the Constitution says from one fucking day to the next. It’s no wonder that that snake-oil spitting dentures-clacking skank Nancy Pterodactyl Pelosi calls it a Living Document. She actually totally gets it: because it’s not just living document: it’s having a fucking goddamn 250 yearlong epileptic butt-seizing, backflipping, bone-breaking spaz attack.

Let’s face it, if you hire 9 guys who can only be replaced by death and their sole job is to figure out what a 4500 word edict made by a British committee actually says…then you musta fucking seen this coming right out the gate when you were tossing this Kamala Harris Constitutional word salad together. You and your pompous ass, British Government Loving, former loyal subjects of Good King George must have said to each other “Why the fuck are we putting in all these so called checks and balances when we COULD decide ‘Fuck the checking and the balancing, let’s just SAY they’re checks and balances since apparently these colonists are gung-ho for English Oppression American Style. We’ll CALL it checks and balances and then let’s hook-up and become fucking PARTNERS against a common enemy: namely – EVERYONE NOT IN GOVERNMENT!!!”

Then they all laughed, tossed back a few flagons of really shitty beer and said “Ok, let’s get back to writing-out this litany of holiness that will entitle us to tax, arrest, license, fine, draft, confiscate private property, summons everyone to jury duty and call it liberty and justice for all and get this over with, I have some darkie, naked-titty teens to fuck that I just bought from some other darkies.”

TURNS OUT….. after 250 years they are still interpreting the mystical heavenly language that may or may not remain in place when the next nine Lifers take their places in the Job Security Chairs and decide the previous interpretations were wrong or the interpreters assumed something unwarranted or they created an irrelevancy no longer applicable to the present application of the sense of and by the sense in the sense of which you are sensing things.

IN FACT, if they fucking DECIDED to, in a 5 to 4 majority fucking OPINION, the Supreme Court could declare something Constitutional or NOT Constitutional and they could give as their reason, “because the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with my ballsack,” and no one in the other 3,000 compartments of government could say shit about it and as far as YOU having a fucking say in all of this? Go get Covid-“vaccine” Number Three Hundred and Five instead. You’ll be accomplishing a lot more in the line of sanity and good sense.

The reason there is a Supreme Court at all is 1: to provide 9 eternal bureaucrats who can’t be fired with costuming and housing and a pension etc. for “deciding” if there’s a majority of 5 of the 9 regarding what is “Constitutional” and what isn’t. Because if we don’t know what’s Constitutional and what isn’t then we could all die of Covid and global warming. The other reason, which would be reason number 2, is to create the myth that everyone thinks is real called “the balance of power.”

To have a “balance of power” you have to have more than one power. The thinking here is if you just have one power that is too much power: because there are no rival powers put into place to keep the one power from becoming, well, the dominant power. To prevent this, you create two more power departments. In other words, instead of creating just one dragon you create three of them. THAT way you have the One Power’s power reduced by two thirds. Which keeps us all safe. Because now there are three dragons of power who cannot ascend to Total Power because the other two dragons of power will resist and thus the powers that could be manifest by one dragon will not be manifested because there are now three dragons. Unless of course they decide to work together.

Follow this closely, this is how creators of Faux England – or the USA – reasoned. By creating three powers and not just one and declaring them via a declaration as being equally powerful, then all three powers are reduced to zero power, since they balance and thus nullify each other’s power and thus create harmony and the absence of power which is peace and prosperity because the three created powers now are No-Power Empowerments. It really is all quite magical and has been shown to be working via the illuminated conclusions of the Rationalists of the Enlightenment.

IT TURNS OUT that the Executive Branch, which has only one fucking member, can actually not over-rule but can, well, over-power the other two “branches” of government even though the executive branch only has one, well, ya know, guy. The President. The other two power sharers have nine in one Balance-ment and, basically, six hundred and fifty, more or less, in the other Balance-ment.

I know what you’re saying: “This doesn’t sound like a balance of power.” I know. It sounds more like a clown house of fucking assholes. I know. And that’s what it is. It’s almost like……it’s almost like the plan that was voted on was never tested. Also, in the balance of power, only one of the powers has authority over the National War Apparatus: the President: or in other words the Executive Branch. It’s like making sure there is always a potential Hitler at the helm of the national military in case the balance of power threatens to overthrow the President. Which no President wants.

The thin thread that holds all this nonsense together is the “faith” in the “Nation” by the citizenry. TURNS OUT that segment of the citizenry who actually thinks patriotically are all dying of old age and all the generations after them – at least so far – are all useless, brainless lovers of “all of us being in this together.”

No matter WHAT it might be we’re all IN together. It could be a tranny brothel in a blue homeless tent. As long as we embrace it in the interests of keeping everyone safe: meaning obedient. That’s basically what American patriotism is today: a banner on the side of a public bus that reminds us we’re all in this together. For some reason the word “comrade” is not yet at the end of that slogan.

So, let’s review. The Supreme Court, nine members, one of whom, a woman who doesn’t know what a woman is, and one of whom, a man, who cried when accused of being at a frat party in college, and also, lest we forget, a different man who is best known for being accused of putting a female pubic hair on top of a beer can and who apparently is mute, and six other people so bland and boring that they’re not known for ANYTHING; they all have lifetime jobs of waiting for one of the other two branches of government to do something and ten years later the Supreme Court MIGHT take a gander at whether or not whatever they did violates or doesn’t violate whatever the living document of the Constitution proclaims itself as saying at the moment.

And if I might return for a moment to the issue regarding the woman who got hired as a Supreme Court Judge even though she said she did know what a woman is…..you really can’t blame her: she was ADMITTING she was a goddamn fucking idiot. She was declaring in fair warning that she didn’t have the brains God gave shit-smeared artichokes. And she got hired anyway. She GOT the job. By the people interrogating her.

So, she will be, for as long as she fucking lives, one of the nine moronic costumed people who will be deciphering the living writhing coiling tour-zhah-taying, spinning, vibrating living document that no one can agree in 250 years on what it ACTUALLY says. So, in a sense you can’t fault the Supreme Court for being inhabited exclusively by moronic koala-brained lizards. They didn’t hire themselves. That would be unconstitutional. No: they were hired by people even stupider than the members of the Supreme Court–thanks to the balance of power. Or balance of morons that is designed to crush anyone who accidentally shows up with an IQ.

That’s apparently what the people operating and doing the hiring at the Supreme Court have as their hiring criteria: that the chosen lifers all be bewilderingly sub-par individuals. Who actually hires these judges?

They SAY it’s members of one of the three branches of dragons but I’m thinking maybe some 4th branch of government we’ve never heard of, the Justice Personnel Department, or maybe some 3,375th branch of government created by the Janitor Department of government or maybe by the CDC or maybe the WHO or maybe the Parks Department or the DMV or maybe David Muir or Gavin Newsom or Ping Pong Dung of China.

At this point I don’t think it really fucking matters what idiot sector of the Idiot-go-round is hiring unfireable morons, all idiots seem to be pretty much interchangeable, and in government pretty much mandatory.

One more thing: the question arises if you have any level of human awareness….. what had to be going through the craniums of the Create-a-Nation creation team of 1789, most of whom likely could not cut a sandwich in half, in thinking that creating three governments which had oversight authority over State governments – or another load of governments, in other words – which had oversight authority over county governments – another shitload of governments…that had oversight authority over city governments…..MORE shitloads of governments…all of them in a race to see who can “create legislation” for the Supreme Court “to write opinions” on, not only faster than any other legislation-creator might be doing but even more progressively deranged legislation than anything in history, like they’re all in a race to be the most imbecilic-ly fucked up…

What if anything was going through their drunken, self-absorbed, pompous Jerry Nadler-brained heads to where they were ass-fuckingly, Worshipful Masteredly, buttless-aproned-attiredly convinced this out-of-nowhere “creation” was going to bring “a New Order,” not fucking chaos, bedlam, wrath, rage and rioting, no, none of that, but rather A New Order….to our de-Englanded shores?

I guess it never occurred to these powdered-wigged dandies that 250 years down the road….this would all turn into a fucking Ocasio-level screaming shitload of America-hating bedlam. Pretty confident of themselves. I guess they all thought it would work. Just like California’s bullet-train project. Just like the Covid Protocols. Just like altering the weather by not eating meat. Just like voting a child-sniffer into one of the checks-and-balances dragons’ nests.

There you have it…

–J.J. Solari

I made plans to attend Harley Davidson’s 120^th Anniversary in Wisconsin, when I got a phone call from Berry Wardlaw. He told me about the Panhead Anniversary and the event that was happening to celebrate it in the Milwaukee area.

 The Event was June 22-24 and the Harley Reunion was July 13-16. That would mean two rides to Milwaukee from Florida and back. With almost a month between the events, so it was doable.

 

I contacted Greg Lew who promoted the event and made arrangements to attend. I even got a VIP badge, something to do with being old I was told. 

Well, I got caught in one of those rain storms that made it difficult to see the front wheel on my way from Florida to Accurate Engineering in Alabama. I ride through them on a regular basis in Florida, but it does slow me down some. The weather report announced more rain on the way to Milwaukee. We faced a run schedule, and I did not want to be the one holding us up.

It turned out Vivian’s Pan and the Indian were going in the van and my bike on the trailer. I personally do not like trailering a motorcycle, if it is rideable, but do realize that sometimes it is necessary. As it turned out putting it on the trailer this time was the thing to do.

We had a great trip to our friends Tony and Vickie’s house just outside of Milwaukee where we would be staying.

My new Ultra let me know it was not happy going on a trailer. Luckily, I caught it the first night we stopped. I fixed the issue and all it took was a short low charge of the battery in Tony’s garage to correct her attitude.

 

Tony has a sharp, organized shop set up in his garage, and the vintage bikes faced last-minute adjustments.

The generator was not working on Wigwam (Molly’s Indian), so it was decided to just run it off the battery and not use the headlight. A spare battery went along on the rides, just in case. These things happen and the mission was to make the ride and fix the motorcycle when parts and time were available. Mission Accomplished.

 

 

 

On site features thanks to Tom Hinderholtz included sprawling grass areas for tents, parking with water, showers, electricity and other facilities.

There were hotels and RV parks close by as well.

 

 

 

 

On Saturday morning a reported 108 Panheads and other motorcycles met at Wetzel Brothers Lot in Cudahy for a Police Escorted Ride to the Harley Museum.

 

Since Berry was on an Indian, and I was riding a new Ultra we rode in the back of the group.

When arriving at the museum the Panheads were lined up handlebar to handlebar for a panoramic photo with the oldest motorcycles in the middle of the photo.

 

 

After the photo there was a bike show in front of the museum and also other motorcycles were involved in field games.

What a great, historic day.

I should note that Vivian did offer to let me ride her Panhead in the parade, but I did not feel right doing that as it was not mine. That’s a Good Sister.

 I thought I would mention a lot of these older motorcycles have lights that are not that bright even when they are working (6-volt). “We need to get home before dark,” said many vintage riders.