I pondered packing light for the Long Ride, and the packing plan goes all to hell in the blink of a high beam. I started with my Bandit’s bedroll, and handful of skivvies and clean socks, a couple of shirts, and then helmet laws jumped into the mix. My mission included flying from Los Angeles to New Orleans, picking up a Victory flat-black Highball Motorcycle and riding to the Smoke Out in Rockingham, NC. So how could I fuck up this delightful plan?
First, my lovely associate pushed the wrong number on the flight itinerary and my arrival time turned into midnight, not noon, to pick up the bikes. I arrived and Anson Alexander, an avid Bikernet and Horse reader, gave me a lift from the airport to the French Quarter where the party was just getting started.
This was my first Long Road, but the pressure was already building. The Horse boss, Hammer, and the esteemed editor, Englishman, peeled out earlier in the day. They pulled the plug on the third Long Road run from New Orleans to Rockingwhatever, a 1000-mile blast to the east coast and the 12th Smoke Out. I was antsy as we pulled up to historic Bienville House.
“Get out,” Anson said. “I’ll find a place to park if it takes me a week. I’ll be back.”
The shaded parking lot was jammed with rat bikes and predominately all-black choppers. Guys were tinkering, packing, and shooting the shit. The humidity was a mellow 85 percent at 1:00 in the morning. I didn’t sense tension in the air except mine. I was late. The Victory motorcycles we were scheduled to pick up were not nestled under the French Quarter canopy, and my riding partners were nowhere to be found. I needed to catch up or die trying.
I scrambled out of the sack the next morning and was immediately hit by a New Orleans Hurricane, a tall drink so powerful it erased schedules and 100-degree heat with matching humidity. Edge, the commander of the Smoke Out, the master of every accommodation, of every party, of the very map that guided us across six states, cut the sleeves off his t-shirt in New Orleans and got us kicked out of the lavish Irene’s restaurant.
While I slurred my words, I asked him about the notion and the history behind the Long Road.
“For years, a west coast version of the Smoke Out was requested,” said Commander Edge. “We all figured, sure let’s try it. The third time we ran a Smoke Out in the west, we had the simple, but some say brilliant, idea of connecting the two Smoke Outs with a ride.”
“We ran a Smoke Out West for four years, and it was fun and cool, but at the same time, it was never quite the event that is happening at the Rock in North Carolina. We pulled the plug on the west, but we had such a great time on the Long Road, we decided to keep it going.”
“We had 39 chopper junkies pre-register, 40 registered in New Orleans,” said the commander, “and we had about 20 others, staff and such, who mustered the courage for the whole ride. So about 100, give or take.”
By Sunday evening, the rum-packed Hurricanes wore off and the pressure returned. The Colonel eyed me with distain, since I decided not to shave until we reached Rockingport. The producer constantly stuck video cameras in my face, since he’s responsible for live content for Bikernet Studios. He wanted controversial and articulate interviews from me at all times – morning, noon, and night. I was at a loss for words except, “Where’s the girls? Where are those Victorys? And we’re late, goddamnit,” I muttered. “Can I get another Hurricane?”
The blues pouring from the all-night Orleans clubs and Commander Edge’s description of the Long Road medallions enhanced the pressurized atmosphere. From time to time, we stumbled back into the Bienville Hotel and the tiny rat-sized elevator. One brother and a bedroll filed the rattling contraption. I noticed the number of bikes diminishing. Folks were peeling out and we still didn’t have motorcycles.
“I earned one of the numbered Long Road medallions and it is a work of art,” said the commander. “It is also an ounce of silver. When I checked recent silver prices, just the silver in this medallion is about equal to the cost of registering for the Long Road. I started thinking about the finances behind this run. Trips to line this stuff up are probably about a K a trip if you’re not sleeping on the ground. The chase vehicle and trailer is costing at least another thousand, even before you toss the driver a few hundred bucks for expenses. I am looking at a couple hundred for a band here, $300 for a band there, free pizza and beer one night and all you can eat BBQ another and on and on, and I am wondering how this doesn’t cost y’all a wheelbarrow full of cash?”
I couldn’t handle the financial pressure and stumbled back to St. Patty’s for another tall Hurricane. Was the commander sniveling?
“It is not an optical illusion,” the commander said, following me. “It does cost us a wheelbarrow full of cash, but it is our gift to this crazy sub-culture. For now.”
“I’m leaving,” she said with her bags packed. “I got him down here; now it’s your turn to ensure he arrives at the Smoke Out in one piece.”
I could swear she was looking directly at me. WTF? I didn’t know this guy. They were one of those rare couples that matched. They looked alike, short and sorta round, but in just the right places. Hell, how could I keep a watchful eye on her hubby? I didn’t have a motorcycle.
Finally, Monday morning, we all met at the exact time specified by the Colonel in the shoebox lobby cooled by a turbocharged air conditioner. Jimmy, a member of the Commander’s crew, was assigned specific orders to drive his long-bed rig pulling a massive trailer into the Quarter, pick us up and take us to pick up the long-lost Victorys. He did exactly what he was told, arrived at the crack of dawn within one minute of the required time, and called the producer. No answer. He left a message and attempted to park his too-long-for-the-Quarter rig. Unfortunately, he was calling the producer’s lavish upscale offices in South Carolina, five states away, while the producer was sitting 50 feet away in the hotel lobby.
Jimmy had recently recovered from a terrible motorcycle accident and was sequestered in his truck to watch the illegally parked rig. Brothers and Long Road sisters loaded up in the parking lot and peeled out in droves, while we polished pinstriped helmets in the air-conditioned lobby and waited for our ride. Finally, almost two hours after our assigned departure time, one of the Long Road riders stumbled out of the heat into the chilly lobby and said, “There’s a big guy in a truck out back.”
Finally, we were on the Long Road, sorta. My nerves were shot. Depending on pit stops, drugs, and gas tank capacities, a bunch of brothers were seriously out front, hauling ass through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Florida. When Jimmy’s rig hit the highway, the lump in my throat grew as we headed south and west toward Houma, LA and a Polaris dealership, Performance Powersports on Martin Luther King Blvd. We were headed in the opposite direction from the Long Road. WTF?
For an hour and a half, we rumbled along pristine roads over the Mississippi River. We finally arrived and met John Soileau, the general manager. His professional crew rolled out three Victorys, one flat black Highball, one Cory Ness-adorned Cross Country touring machine, and one Ness-customized Vegas, but they immediately noticed problems and rolled all three back into the service department to be checked over. The Highball I was scheduled to ride contained a dead battery, and the crew asked us to grab some lunch and return. They didn’t like to see this big bastard pacing their halls frustrated.
Jimmy received a call. Commander Edge broke down, another chopper battery problem, and since he was the boss, Jimmy and the rig disappeared. Suddenly we were alone, waiting on three unknown motorcycles in a hot and humid southern town packed with franchise restaurants and sparkling car dealerships. It was the same as any burg built in the ’90s with their plastic signs and easily recognizable and familiar logos. I could have been anyplace in America, but it didn’t make me feel any better. We were burning daylight. Even with my most favorite Subway tuna and jalapeno sandwich in hand, I was on edge.
Hot wind feathered the flames, and abruptly the fire jumped the highway into the tree-lined medium and it was set ablaze. For an hour, we melted in the heat until fire fighters scored a victory and we were set free. I could sense the miles growing between us and any other Long Road travelers, seriously out in front of us.
We cut a hazy trail east through billows of smoke, but just as the sky turned blue, a gray mass slipped overheard and unleashed a torrential downpour, less than five miles from the blazing inferno. We pulled off the interstate, gassed up, and a guy in a truck yanked his I-phone and checked weather patterns. We discovered our front was a rapidly moving storm tip. We rode another couple miles and out from under the monsoon cloud. Another five miles and we were dry except for the sweat.
We rode into Mississippi past Gulfport and Biloxi. The roads were fine and smooth aboard the comfortable Victory motorcycles, and the roads became more interesting as we crossed mile-long bridges over chunks of the Gulf of Mexico as we skirted the coastline on a short chunk of Mississippi into Mobile, Alabama, another port town. When they originally carved the state lines, the powers made sure that each state reached the coast and had a port town for commercial endeavors.
We blew in and out of Alabama in an hour, then into Florida, but on the outskirts of Pensacola, we pulled off the freeway for gas and I could no longer shift gears. I had lost the front shift linkage fastener after shop closing time. Another rider pulled up and offered immediate assistance and guidance. We went in search of an autoparts, but it was late, and the sun was fading in the west.
The colonel attempted a key-ring fix and we ultimately tried a couple of tiewraps from my Bandit’s bedroll. I shifted carefully and we hit the road for Destin, Florida. It was dark as we cut south off the 10 onto the 110, narrowing to highway 98 along roads much like Atlantic Avenue in Daytona along strips of sand lined with tourista hotels, bars, restaurants and souvenir shops. It was dark and difficult wearing shades to keep a watchful eye on tourists in compact cars, franchise neon and find our hotel. At 9:00, we rolled into our Comfort Inn parking lot.
Each night, we were supposed to find Captain Jack huddled with his tattered leather notebook in the back of a dark secluded bar and check in, but I was only good for a basket of crab balls and a cold Corona beer before hitting the hay. I needed to find Sonny. His wife’s mantra rested heavily on my mind. We had covered just over 300 miles. I ran into a tall, sore brother in the hallway of some wild seafood eatery in back of the hotel, Fudpuckers. He rode a chopped black metric cruiser, one of the few in the bunch. He looked as bedraggled as I felt. His back was bothering him, along with his knees, but he managed a brief smile.
“We made it,” he said.
Some of these riders rode thousands of miles to join the Long Road.
The next morning, we scrambled out of the sack and hit the box breakfast line near the lobby. My list burned a hole in my already sweaty Gusset Jeans pocket. I had to find a metric bolt and nut, fix my shifter, find Sonny, find the rest of our crew, interview a couple of Long Road participants, pack and get the fuck out of Destin. I snorted a yogurt and a bag of Raisin Bran cereal and peeled to the lobby, where I met the gang from Gangster Choppers, out of Richmond, Virginia. Sonny was part of that crew, the guy who screen prints their t-shirt line.
“Call your wife,” I ordered. “I can’t handle the pressure; you’d best check in.”
I also met up with several other riders, packing and preparing to cut a dusty trail due east. One older rider with pure white hair marched into the sunlight with his gear.
“Goddamnit, trying to get these bastards moving is a bitch!” He was ready to roll, but his crew held the reigns.
Rumor spread of my dilemma and brothers from all over the country unloaded their tool bags in an attempt to repair my shift linkage. Victory motorcycles are built by Polaris, and for some unknown reason, the American-built motorcycles are constructed with metric fasteners. I needed a simple ¼-20 bolt about an inch long. That would have been the easiest bolt on the planet to find, until you toss metric into the mix. The simple ¼-20 wouldn’t fit.
We had to find metric or die trying. A brother, Stan Rabka, who attended this auspicious gathering with his wife, Gayle, found just the right bolt and nut. I was ready to rock, the Colonel was packed, with his lovely guest, Tiffany, and the producer bitched at me about video interviews. Jimmy had to peel out early to keep up with the commander and the Gangster Chopper crew offered to haul our gear.
We were on the road again with John Dodson, the young master builder, Sonny, Marc, and a short older rider on a brilliantly metallic yellow Softail glistening in the Florida sun. I had never ridden through these areas of the country. The lush, verdant scenery, equipped with smooth roaming two-lane highways slithered through back areas toward highway 231 heading north to Interstate 10 and east again. Our first stop found Sonny’s chain smoking. It wasn’t an O-ring job and hadn’t been oiled. We bought a quart of oil and gave it a bath. Don’t tell his wife.
We kept moving north on highway 231 into Alabama. Sonny and John rode rigids and we kept the pace below 75 mph. Marc lead the pack with a highbar late model Dyna glide, with gangster styling and no mirrors, which made the ride damn exciting. A couple of times Marc and I lost the pack, because the road captain couldn’t see behind him. I had to catch him and pass him the memo.
We shifted off 231 onto some small highways, slicing across Alabama and heading for the Georgia border and John, who rode a brilliant Chop Off contender. John was under the impression that to compete in this tight three-bike competition, he had to ride his jockey-shift custom the Long Road distance. What a fine machine, from the highly modified Paughco Frame, to handmade handlebars. The bike was fresh, clean, and John was concerned about overheating, so just as we reached Interstate 85 heading into Atlanta in the late afternoon sun, he decided to take a break, change oil, and let ‘er cool. He encouraged us to keep moving.
I don’t like to ever break up a pack, but we were burnin’ daylight and the three Victorys lit out to reach Atlanta and dodge rush hour congestion. The roads through Florida, Alabama, and Georgia were pristine with carefully cleared and mowed borders between the pavement, and tall stands of southern long-leaf pine trees. But as soon as we rolled into a congested city, road conditions deteriorated, but the last 100 miles reminded me of younger days flying to any destination. I planted my bedroll over my speedo, which was set on kilometers, so I had no idea of our speed. It could be changed, but I didn’t know the secret code.
I picked the fastest car in the pack ahead of us and started a pacing process a ¼-mile back. He or she was driving a small metallic turbo-charged fast and furious street racer. It was easy to spot. If cops were around, she was my lost leader. We rumbled up to around 85-90 mph and started to weave through traffic, as if we received a dime for every car we passed and a quarter for each truck. When we weren’t passing, we slipped into the right lane. Those Victorys were quiet, but the 106-inch motors got up and grooved when we needed to slip passed a half-dozen cars.
Once more, it was dark before we reached the historic Highlands Hotel on a narrow street in Atlanta. Each small room had a window air-conditioner that rattled the walls. It cooled the bottom half of the room. As soon as I lay down, I was comfortable, but if I stood up…I suppose I was too tall for the room.
Again, we downed a couple of dark beers and an appetizer and hit the hay. During the munchies at Café 64 next door, we heard the first injury report. A brother, Meyer Stratton, caught a chunk of dreaded truck retread, kicked off the pavement by a motorist. It hit him in his full-face helmet screen, driving the sharp plexi into his left eye. He was a loner tagging along with a bunch of Long Road riders from Tennessee. They stuck with him and called 911, but since the injury occurred at the Georgia/Alabama border, the agencies couldn’t decide who to send, so no one came. The brothers researched the nearest hospital and called them to the rescue. The reports of his injury ranged from the severe to the macabre.
The next morning, I abruptly I jumped outta the sack. Where were my bags, where was Sonny, had he checked in with his wife, where the hell was I? A light humid rain cleansed the area as we quickly rolled out.
Twice, brothers, including the Colonel and Ansen Alexander, recommended riding without underwear to prevent chaffing in the heat and humidity. Reports filtered in that “El Nomad” Charlie, from Barstow, California would be the first to arrive in Rockingchair. The pressure was on again as we blazed into South Carolina to a small town where the Commander lives near a lake and a campsite for the Long Road party.
His brilliant daughters, Fred and Danny, in their early twenties, wore short-shorts and blazed around the house loading their pickup and making arrangements for party food, the band, and the painted lady contest at the Smoke Out.
Danny explained to the producer the rules about naked women and painting them under the North Carolina legal system.
“The Legion of the Long Road, the chopper junkies that are a part of this thing now will determine if the Long Road stays alive,” Commander Edge said. “Either some of them will step up and cement a future for this, or they won’t, and next year will be the end. Each time has been freaking awesome no matter if we do it four times or 40 times.”
Then the colonel abruptly ordered me into the commander’s lake skiff. I was sure he would tell he how the hog ate the cabbage by demonstrating his powerboat prowess. We promptly ran out of gas in the middle of the mile-long lake and had to call for back up. The next morning, the Smoke Out crew loaded their gear and peeled for Rockingwillow, while the producer and I dropped onto the nearest freeway, heading toward Charlotte and the Aeromach headquarters for a meeting with Paul Aiken, who rides a completely blacked out Victory Vision.
Jeff’s Vegas left its license plate on the road somewhere between Louisiana and Georgia, so we made arrangements to pick up another plate in Charlotte. We peeled through 100 miles into Charlotte at 90 mph and found two Iron Thunder bars near H-D dealerships. We hit Mac’s Speed Shop, another barbecue biker bar for bike night, in Cornelius, where I met the oldest beer in America, Yuengling.
“It tastes like it,” said one of the other patrons.
We toured the vast Aeromach machine shop, grabbed a license plate from the Ride One Victory dealership and prepared for the final early morning run to Rockingville. Paul and his wife, Molly, have an old blind Jack Russell terrier bopping around their hardwood floors as if it was a teenager, but it bumped into furniture and snarled at me. I smelled bad. We rolled out of his long gravel driveway on the three Victories again, passing pink trash containers and bright delivery trucks with the word Bimbo painted in large pearlescent letters on the sides. I was lost again.
We tried to talk a beautiful brunette, Pam, into flying with us to the Smoke Out. She was tall, soft on the eyes, and sharp in the mind. She once took a job with Robbie Gordon racing until they told her to sleep with a sponsor. They pushed her around, but she wouldn’t give in and moved on. Once more, we roamed through beautiful historic towns, along pristine roads, and through thick green cornfields for a couple hundred miles into Rockingworld. Located across from the Rockingham Speedway race complex, the Smoke Out was a buzz of motorcycles. For the first time, we found Captain Jack and checked in. I found Sonny and he checked in at home. The rider who injured his eye refused to be bedridden, climbed on his bike and rode to the Smoke Out. Another couple faced life-threatening brain surgery, but told the doctor it had to wait until after the Smoke Out.
“We scheduled a Long Road Run for next year and we are starting in New Orleans again,” said the commander. “The last stop before the Smoke Out will be Thursday night at the Holiday Inn in Salisbury, NC. Man, I’ll be ready to go tomorrow.”
