I hadn't been on my '09 Road Glide for about six months. I'd broken my leg earlier in the year and it seemed like it had healed well enough for me to begin riding again. I still wasn't able to walk without a cane but walking and riding are two different things. I could hold the big bagger up during take-offs and landings; once in the wind all is good. I'd done a couple of short rides and had even been called to do a “rescue ride” when one of my guys dropped his bike on his ankle at a club run about a hundred miles from home. By November I was mobile enough to fly to Phoenix where both my Road Glide and my wife live.
Seeing the bike for the first time, and pulling the cover off of it, was like seeing an old friend. I gave it a quick battery charge and it was ready to go. I was in Phoenix the week of Thanksgiving, my wife, who’s a flight attendant, was working a three day flight to Boston and Detroit when I decided to ride the four-hundred miles to San Diego to visit friends. I'd ride to San Diego on Monday, visit on Tuesday and ride back to Phoenix on Wednesday. My wife would return to Phoenix onWednesday afternoon and we'd celebrate Thanksgiving on Thursday.
She left for the airport early on Monday morning; I waited until the sun had warmed the morning and the rush hour traffic had died down before completing my final packing and hitting the road. The desert sky was as clear as it could be; the morning was a bit crisp but not enough to quell my enthusiasm for the day. A ride like this not only gives me time to reflect on my life and re-energize my soul but more importantly, it validates me as a man and a rider. I had been coming back from over two years of medical challenges and was working as hard as I could to regain the physical abilities that I once had. I’ll definitely agree that the aging process is not for sissies!!!
By nine o'clock on Monday morning I was ready for my ride. The 103” motor fired immediately and the electronic brain adjusted the mixture and RPM for the short warm-up cycle. Within a minute the motor had dropped back to idle; another minute and I could feel the heat building when I touched the back of my hand to the rear cylinder rocker box cover. Finishing the last of my morning Joe, I mounted this beauty and pointed the bike onto the city streets that would take me to the freeway. Five minutes later, and I was blazing a trail west on the freeway. I crossed four lanes of traffic, got into the HOV lane and paced myself with traffic that was running seventy-five in the fast lanes. Thirty miles west on I-10 and I turned onto Arizona Highway 85, south to Gila Bend and I-8 which would take me through Yuma, El Centro, up and over the Laguna mountain range that spans about seventy miles and reaches an elevation of over 4,200 feet. Once over the mountain it was an easy ride through El Cajon and into San Diego where I¹d turn north on I-805 into San Diego's North County where I'd get on I-5 to Encinitas and my destination.
I made my first gas stop in Gila Bend, called my friend and gave him a brief road report. I’d estimated getting into Encinitas about three that afternoon. With a full tank of gas, I was back on the bike and on I-8 for the next hour-and-a-half to Yuma. I planned to stop for a sandwich and stretch my legs a bit before the second leg of the trip. I rolled into Yuma, dropped my speed to five-over-the-limit, and began looking for a fast food restaurant.
As I began looking for an exit to take I could see a motorcyclist about ten cars ahead of me. He was riding less than the speed limit and was in the slow lane. As I rolled around him I checked out his bike and gave him a friendly wave. It didn't take a second look for me to realize that the rider I¹d just passed was a road warrior; an endangered species & perhaps the last of his kind left in America. I slowed down and waited until he caught up to me; as he rode past me he gave me a big smile and dropped his left leg off of the foot peg and made a circle with his foot; an indication that he was pedaling as fast as he could, or at least as fast as he intended. I smiled and again soaked in both the rider and the ride. I pulled into the slow lane, behind him and rode the fifty-five miles an hour required to keep pace with him.
What drew this rider and his bike to my attention was just how unique he is in this day and age. The rider was sixty or more years old, his beard was silver and full, his hair was long, and in a pony-tail and his eyes a brilliant blue. His clothes were simple and worn and only the necessities: faded Levis, a black Harley t-shirt and a black hoodie. His beanie helmet was completely covered with decals, not “FTW” or “Helmet Laws Suck” decals but ones with towns and states where he¹d traveled. I couldn’t really tell it at the time, but his bike was a 1960 Harley Panhead. I could see that this ancient Panhead was in a hard-tail frame and had a late model Springer front end. I also noticed a suicide shift, the shift lever was behind his left leg and the knob was an old glass door knob. Other than the five gallon fat-bob tanks and modest apes I really couldn't see much more of the bike.
His pack was as unique as his bike. Where all my road gear was tucked neatly away in my hard saddlebags, his bike was loaded with everything he'd need to survive on the road. His bedroll (not really a sleeping bag) was bungeed to his handlebars, giving him some protection from the wind. He was running saddle bags and a sissy bar. Every conceivable space behind the rider was occupied. The back seat, if there was one, was loaded with a duffel bag and all manner of packing containers were strapped to his sissy bar. I decided to follow him until he exited the freeway and, at least, stop him long enough to say hello. I knew that he had an incredible story to tell and that, even though I did have a schedule, my day would be enriched if I could gain some insight into what this man was doing in Yuma, Arizona.
I knew that he’d be pulling off the freeway soon; an old bike like he was riding required the rider to make frequent stops. Even if I had to follow him for fifty miles or so at speeds twenty to thirty miles an hour slower than I was running, it would be worth my while. I was lucky; it wasn’t five miles before he pulled off the freeway. I followed him to the stop sign at the freeway overpass and shouted over the engine noise, “I don't know where you're going but I hope you can stop long enough for me to shake your hand.” He pointed to the casino on the opposite side of the freeway and slipped the clutch on his old Panhead, launching it gently into a left-hand turn towards the casino. I followed him for the short ride to the casino parking lot where he stopped, shifted into neutral and keyed the old motor off. We both got off our bikes and he introduced himself as Billy. I opened my left saddlebag and retrieved my cane so that I could walk around his bike, taking it all in as we began our conversation. Before I’d gotten my cane out of my saddlebag he was already in the process of hand-rolling a cigarette made from loose Bugler tobacco.
Here's where the story gets good; this guy, who’s known as Panhead Billy, has been on the road for the last twenty-four years. He was down in the early 1990s when his leg was broken in an accident at Sturgis. He spent two years getting his leg sorted out before getting back on the road. Even more impressive is the fact that he’s been riding the same 1960 Panhead on his cross country trips for all these years. Billy explained that when he first decided to explore the U.S. his goal was to visit all of the Harley Davidson dealerships. He completed that goal many years ago and, when he can get into Canada, he visits the dealerships there. Now he’s added historic sites, casinos, and other points of interest. He collects things like decals from the dealerships, which he puts on his helmet, and match books from casinos; just something to remind him of where he’s been.
I spent a full hour talking to Billy, asking him about his bike and his life on the road. Billy is not a man of few words and loves to talk about where he’s been, what he’s seen and experienced and, more importantly, where he's going next. I’ll have to say that I envy Panhead Billy for the lifestyle that he's created for himself. As much as I like to ride and especially as much as I love cross country trips, I know thatBilly’s life is often a challenge. It’s physically demanding to ride the way I do: five hundred miles a day for several days at a time. Billy’s approach really makes a lot more sense. He’s out there riding on the back roads and taking it slow and easy. I suspect that he hardly ever rides more than a couple hundred miles a day and that he’ll stop and visit with the locals or just enjoy the beauty of a roadside vista. The first thing we can all learn from Panhead Billy is don’t rush the trip when you can enjoy the scenery.
Billy and I talked about motorcycles, the Harley-Davidson Motor Company, the roads we’d traveled, and where we’d be going next. We talked about motorcycle clubs and I told him that I ride with the Gypsy MC. He knew the club and had actually attended the St. Valentine's Day Massacre several years ago. For a few short minutes I felt that I was one of Billy’s peers & but I really know better. His life is the road and he lives it twenty-four seven; my life is made up of as many road trips as I can make, but I'm a long way from living on the road. I savor every moment that I can ride, whether it's running solo or with my brothers or wife, but my life is filled with a lot of different interests.
Billy lives it on-the-road and my hat is off to him. We're similar because of our love for the road and the opportunity to see what weve never seen before. Our styles are different but meeting Billy and getting a glimpse into the smell the roses road discipline he¹s established is something that I'll try to incorporate into my life. We continued talking for the better part of an hour before I realized that my schedule was slipping and I needed to get back on the road. As Billy and I began saying our good-byes and heading out in separate directions he began telling me about an Internet site that had a short video interview with him and the owner of a motorcycle museum. Check it out at Wheels Through Time.
I shook Billy's hand one more time before getting back on my bike and starting the second half of my ride. It's brief encounters like these that make traveling on a motorcycle a truly unique way to get to your destination!
–Raoul
