I could swear I’ve hit this story before. I’m sure I’m mentioned it periodically. My first book was based on it. To set the intrepid stage, check what I wrote for Steve, the new editor of Iron Works, for their celebratory 20th anniversary issue:
Every year opened with a straight-pipes backfire bang, and 1990 was no different. I was the editor of Easyriders and Editorial director of several other titles. The Easyriders Racing team planned our second assault on the Bonneville Salt Flats, to regain the long-standing Vesco motorcycle land speed record. On July 14th, we brought the record back to America with two old 90-inch Shovelhead motors slammed in a heavy steel frame surrounded by a tin streamlined form. I was a proud member of the team, and from then on the salt boiled in my blood, to resurface 16 years later. I returned to the salt, set two more records, and witnessed the Motorcycle Land Speed Record change hands twice in one Bubs International 2006 Motorcycle Speed Trials weekend.
The same year, around the same time my Evo custom, unlocked below my office (against the code of the west–security breach) in Agoura Hills, California, was stolen. I heard it pop to life and jet onto the freeway on-ramp. I went after it, and with brotherhood and the code of the west on my side, I found and recovered it a week later. I never left a motorcycle unlocked again, unless I could get to it before some bastard did.
Finally, 1990 witnessed my fourth divorce. So what does that have to do with my motorcycle career? In many cases, women, motorcycles and freedom don’t mix.
That gives you a taste of the year 1990, but here’s the stolen-bike story as I remember it almost 20 years later. It started as I rode my rigid frame Evo to the Easyriders headquarters just outside the San Fernando Valley. Our two-story stucco building was located across the street from a gas station, no excuses, and the notorious 101 freeway. It was a direct shot north outta town to Ventura, or south, straight toward Hollywood. The building was built partially over parking spots tucked under the edge of the overhanging structure.
My bike was originally built by Mil Blair, a former partner of Paisano Publications. Somehow, while was hiding out in Ventura for seven years, Mil lost his partnership with Joe Teresi and Lou Kimzey and ended up owning Jammer Cycle, once the CCI of the aftermarket distributorships. I frankly don’t know what happened to Jammer during the ’80s. I was doing time as a straight citizen. Just as well. I avoided the partnership wars and returned after the dust settled. Anyway, Mil was running Jammer, but his timing wasn’t lucky. He was building production customs before Donnie Bitman formed Illusions, then Titan was born, and ultimately the success of Big Dog. Mil did everything right, just rolled the timing dice and they came up snake eyes.
When I returned to Easyriders in ’87, my first ride was this classic, stock rigid with fatbobs, a wide glide and big stock re-pop fenders wrapped around an Evo engine and Softail trans. It was a classic, and I rode the shit out of it. Then Spin developed the first fiberglass Indian-styled fenders for Harleys. He’s another creative mastermind, but lacked the timing or business sense to make it fly. He installed a set of his sleek fenders on this bike, and added a new mostly black paint job coupled with ghosted flames. It was the coolest ride on the block for about a week.
I don’t remember what danced across my plate that particular sunny SoCal day. Except, I was destined to hit the road early, probably female enticement, so I didn’t lock my bike or even turn the key to the locked side of the big fatbob ignition switch. That marked a severe break in the code of the west. It was just after 5:00 in the afternoon, when I heard a motorcycle pop to life. My office resided at the corner of the building, and I immediately stood up to see if I could see the bike. I watched a black motorcycle jam onto the freeway, but didn’t recognize it from above, in the flash of sun and chrome. There was a multitude of bikes around the ER offices. It could have been anyone.
I sat down briefly, but the ill feeling that my bike was unchained nagged me. I finally jogged out of my office and down to the covered parking area. It was gone. As too many folks know, the feeling of losing a precious possession is strange and foreboding. A deep sense of vulnerability, and of being violated crept over me as a stared at the empty concrete parking space. I returned to my office, sat down at my Panhead desk and immediately started calling club guys and shops.
I was pissed off, but it wasn’t a sense of devastating anger. Bikes are stolen all the time, usually because some jackass doesn’t keep an eye on his bike or lock it properly–like me. Don’t get me wrong; stealing bikes is like stealing horses in the 1800s. The bastards should hang, immediately. In my case, I was partially at fault and throwing shit around my office wasn’t going to help. I needed to move. My assistant, a lovely, knockout, tall Asian woman, was also working late and we set about making a flier and developing a way to circulate them.
I knew I had to move damn quick and catch this blunder before the bike was stripped and parted out, or shipped overseas. Fortunately, I have a number of friends and brothers around the San Fernando Valley, and I called everyone. Within 18 hours, my fliers were posted all over the valley and north to Ventura.
Late the second night, I received a seditious call from some bullshit artist requesting award information. I barked and he hung up. Then I rode through a day without any contact except occasional condolence calls. The third afternoon, a call came from a long-time biker in the valley who spotted what he thought might be my scooter. I jumped in Greg Daniel’s hot rod Mustang, with a .38 tucked in my belt and hauled ass to investigate.
We cruised this crusty area near Sun Valley for hours, never spotting any motorcycles, suspicious creeps, gangsters, whatever. We had a rough description and sparse information, but we were able to narrow our disheveled options down to a couple of garages across from a laundry mat. We pulled into the strip mall parking lot and crept around the building as the sun began to drift into the Pacific.
I could see several guys sitting around a partially completed car project in the driveway. There were no motorcycles in the garage, but I couldn’t see into back yard. We were about to give up and return to the west end of the valley, when I decided, what the hell. I had to confront the group in the garage and see if I couldn’t shake out some information.
Greg screeched to a stop in front of their driveway with his loud, rumbling all black Mustang and I jumped out.
“Some sonuvabitch stole my motorcycle,” I said to the guys sitting on milk crates. “Rumor has it, the bike was spotted here yesterday. It can either be returned to me, or all hell is going to break loose.”
“We don’t have it, man,” one of the guys said as he clamored to his feet, while the other guys exchanged sideways glances.
I yanked a card out of my wallet and handed it to this kid.
“Call me, goddamnit,” I said and returned to Greg’s car. We sped away.
Greg was the managing editor of all the Easyriders titles, responsible for the production side of the business until computers ate his job. He was a Wildman-looking guy with long hair and a full beard. He always wore a leather vest with a joint in every pocket. I’ll never forget meeting him for the first time at the ER offices. He was the only badass looking biker on the staff.
“What do you ride, Greg?” I asked when we first met.
“I don’t, my ol’ lady won’t let me,” he said and I fell down.
He was a devoted family man. His daughter, Tami, still works at Easyriders. After I started working there, he bought an FXR and rode like a madman. I believe he’s still in the saddle today. Guess he learned the code of the west: Ride or die trying.
By the time we returned to the office, the phone was ringing. Seems the guy who stole my bike lived nearby. He let one of these kids ride his hot property. The kid rode it home to show his pals. That’s where it was spotted.
The next morning, we returned to the chipped baby blue stucco ’70s box home. The garage was closed and locked and the curtains were pulled. I was armed and ready for whatever might come down, but the kid was straight with me. My scooter was parked out front, all polished, and ready for the road, minus the license plate. I backed it out of the driveway, fired it up, and peeled out. It felt damn good to be back in that saddle again.
I don’t know who spotted my ride and made that call, but I’ll never forget it. As the years passed, I’ve always made an effort to help any brother find his stolen motorcycle. A brother’s bike is his Prized Possession, and that’s what I named my first book. And it’s my Code of the West lesson for December 15, 2009.
