The chopper, set up to ride, had over an inch of travel in the sprung seat, rubber grips and pegs, rubber mounted risers and bars. The engine, factory balanced had an Andrews cam, Branch heads, tuned exhaust and the oil level was checked. It rocked, like a bullet in the night, slicing through the dark hillsides. The 5-speed trans was classic and battleship strong with a freshly oiled chain drive to the rear wheel.
As Bandit blasted out of the hills along mildly bending curves surrounded by forest, streams and lakes, his mind whirled with thoughts of how to handle the issue ahead, as he stared into the darkness, while surrounded with the wafting smell of Jack pine trees. Difficult, but not impossible, he endeavored to shift his thinking to his first wife and how he loved the ride from a heavy cruiser in San Diego to Long Beach and her soft side on his first Harley, a Sportster. She was amazing in so many satin ways. Her lips, her thighs and those magnificent tits he could lie against and admire for days. And no other woman in his life was ever as responsive.
He could ponder their tender nights together forever. Unfortunately, he had a looming deadline, a threat to his existence and his family’s livelihood, plus the threat of violence loomed. There was an even more immediate threat, as Bandit shifted his cowboy boots against his 80 mph vibrating pegs: gas stops. At 46 mpg and 3.5 gallons of gas he could only slice through about 150 miles before being dangerously low on fuel.
That’s between eight and ten gas stops between the Badlands and the coast. He had to calculate each stop as close as possible. Stops too soon would burn significant time. Stops spaced too far could be devastating. He had a small, inaccurate speedo with a trip gauge, which he zeroed out as he coasted down the street in the town of Deadwood. He would need gas in Wright, Wyoming. He couldn’t make it to Casper. There was another threat.
Between Deadwood and Rawlings, he would slice along seven different two-lane highways and some signage was tricky especially in New Castle, Midwest and Casper. He prayed for sunlight to help, but that wouldn’t come for 7 hours. First he needed to reach Wright and an open gas station. New Castle contained the junction of five highways darting in five different directions. He needed to quickly find his way from Highway 85 to the 450 West to Wright.
He was forced to slow to 45 through town to the next junction. He passed several open gas-stops and was tempted to top off but kept going. By Wright he would have sliced through over 100 miles, maybe 120. New Castle became a major gathering point for Sturgis Rally Riders. A natural for riders from Denver, New Mexico and Arizona.
He struggled to find the correct junction, the 450 West to Wright. The 450 was dark and desolate. Afternoon winds could kick your ass in the summer, but it was cold and dark. Wright was a growing agricultural junction where Highway 59, the 387 and the 450 met. He was forced to turn right or north on 59 for a minute, and then left on 387. In his gut turning North was against his sought-after direction. Then the next T in the road was a mess of construction equipment and hedge rows of red dirt pushed aside to make way for expansion. The truck stop was lit up, but Bandit struggled to find an opening.
He turned left and searched behind the station for ingress, which he discovered at the next street. Careful not to lean and slip in the mud and red, iron rich, dirt of Wyoming he made his way around the back of the station and into the bays. He stood up, grabbed his wallet, pulled his card, inserted it into the machine, dialed his zip code, waited for the approval, while putting his card and wallet away. His kickstand was not down and the bike remained upright for fueling.
He pulled the nozzle, selected high-test fuel, removed his cap and set it on his bedroll. He refueled quickly, replaced the nozzle and the cap. He had used but slightly over 2 gallons of fuel. He had more to go. He zeroed his trip gauge and sat down fired the Evo to life, pulled in the clutch and kept rolling.
He had to cover 100 miles to Casper along the desolate the 387, to the 289 shortcut in Edgerton to the wide, clean Highway 25 south to Casper.
This stretch was sorta straight forward. No question marks, just stay focused in the middle of the dark nowhere. Bandit started to think of what lay ahead and how to handle it. There were still questions to be answered by Sammy, who knew downtown LA and Hollywood action and even the Wilshire financial district. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be called to visit some rich guy in a big-office high-rise. These guys really didn’t like some broad fucking with their money, and sometimes they lost perspective. It was up to Sammy to steer them back onto the right path. Pay your bills and move on—count your lucky stars you still have the rest of your shit.
Bandit was forced to gas up in Casper. The next 100-mile stretch was wide open on the 220 to Muddy Gap along the Platte river to the 287 almost directly south into Rawlings. In Casper he refueled while standing but took a slug of water before rolling on. He wanted to keep the momentum going strong through the darkness. The Muddy gap was notorious for winter bad weather as the elevation was over 6000 feet as it crossed the Continental Divide. He felt blessed to be rolling through the area in the summer, even though it was still pitch black and he starred at a variety of dividing lines, passing lanes and fluorescent highway markers. The speed limits were up there and he could make flying time, but it was always roll of the dice in the dark.
Forced to keep his speeds moderate for fear of deer, rodents, buffalo, elk, cows, coyotes, spare truck parts, you name it, he rolled into Rawlings at 4:00. Making good time, he remembered taking a kid, who had never been to Sturgis, to a church pancake breakfast in Rawlings, on their way to Sturgis. Nothing like hot pancakes slathered with warm butter and syrup after a long haul. The two bikers were surrounded by farmers and religious folk, who checked out his fully tattooed arms.
Rawlings, a travelers’ town of old and new still held onto old historic buildings and grew with new schools funded by agriculture but had a seedy side of crappy motels and truck stops. Bandit was forced to refuel, the next stop would be over 100 miles and this time he slipped off the bike, stretched and took a leak. He took another slug of water and a mouth full of trail mix, looked over the chopper from stem to stern for anything outta place or loose. He climbed back on board, fired it to life and hit the road, now on the wide interstate 80 heading for Rock Springs, Wyoming about 110 miles west.
The air was cool and crisp, but he knew it would warm shortly. The Harley loved this atmosphere of dense air. He could feel the S&S carburetor gulp at the passing molecules and spit out power as he entered the first four-lane interstate since Deadwood, but now he had partners in his plight. Truckers blasted along at 80 mph where the speed limit allowed good time at 75 mph. The road was clear and wide with two asphalt lanes allowed in each direction, separated by large swaths of grassy plains. Bandit punched it up to about 85 mph and started to pass trucks, watching carefully for winch handles, mud flaps, and loose cargo flying off errant trucks thundering west in the night. And it was still dark except for an occasional street light or multi-truck-lights which occasionally flashed thumbs up to the lone biker barreling west on the 80, hell bent for steel, leather, Salt Lake City, Utah and Las Vegas, Nevada 580 miles and 8 hours away.
In Rock Springs he stood, gassed and peeled out. His anxiety was beginning to grip the handlebars tighter. Some 110 miles ahead was Evanston, Wyoming, but Bandit was determined to get the hell out of Wyoming and wanted to cut through more miles before the next gas stop. He passed some of the same trucks between Rock Springs and Evanston. He sliced over the Continental divide a number of times through manmade pie shapes cut into the rugged hillsides.
The 80 begged to be handled fast, but regular, intermittent and lengthy road repairs brought action to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The night held a certain level of mysticism like a blanket of protection from the renegade gods. But then at around 6:00 a.m. a warm glow entered the atmosphere. A new day was born proclaiming glorious light and comforting warmth, enhanced vision and a new world of images, information and opportunities. Plus, it was somewhat like a shift change. Suddenly tired eyes were rejuvenated and alert once more to all the new data and prospects.
He rolled into Evanston and was forced to stop. The next 100 miles would be critical, trying to slice around Salt Lake City into Provo to catch the 15 toward Vegas. Marko left a text message. The Mayor of Los Angeles shut down all restaurants outdoor dining and would only allow take away. Furious, Bandit knew immediately the bastard closed his outdoor bar, a major source of income. Liquor sales were suddenly gone. He slammed his glove covered fist against the gas pump in a fit of rage. Gnashing his teeth, he burned out and headed back to the freeway. A single stroke by a rich mayor’s pen could destroy Bandit’s effort to keep his Cantina family safe and secure. It could wipe out his life savings and put him and his crew on the streets with the rapidly growing homeless population. Unbeknownst to Bandit the mayor threatened to shut power and water off to any business that allowed folks to gather, except for protesters, looters or religious gatherings.
Bandit flew down the 80 and cleared the border into Utah and 30 miles to state highway 40 South, which merged with the 189 into Provo and onto Interstate 15 southwest. He wasn’t sure of the mileage but needed to slice savagely through the towns of Herber and Provo onto the interstate as quickly as possible. The highway slithered through a weaving pass south of Park City, where the Sundance film festival took place.
There would be fuel opportunities everywhere once the sharp canyon road met with the bustling town of Provo, the home of the Brigham Young University. He could run onto reserve if he needed the miles. He hit Provo at just over 100 miles. After hundreds of miles of open roads, he suddenly found himself slammed into streetlight congestion, kids on bicycles, franchise joints and gas stations on every other corner. He needed to find his way to the 15 interstates quickly and get the hell out of dodge. He studied street signs for his escape route to the interstate, when he came across a trestle overpass, where trains escaped the harried city streets and blasted out of town. The historic steel structure almost distracted him from the sign he needed to be able to cut out of the city and onto the interstate.
He seethed with a fury he hadn’t felt in years. He kept going and hit reserve as he entered Nephi almost 150 miles from his last stop. The brilliant sun forced him to remove a few layers of clothing at the gas stop. He ate a protein bar quick, tossed the wrapper in the trash, kicked the can, took a slug of water and kept rolling. By hitting Nephi, he could just make it to Cedar City, but he would be pushing it. Cedar city was 167 miles. He tried to calculate his mileage, divide the last stretch by the fuel intake. If he was getting 46 mpg out of a 3.5-gallon tank he could make it 161 miles. He grabbed a stout plastic water bottle and filled it with gas and bungeed it to his bedroll. The bike flew along the open interstate, clear and smooth and away from Salt Lake City congestion.
He was mad, alert and rolling strong but something seemed to be wrong. He sensed a mechanical change but kept going. As he closed in on Cedar City he had a habit of not looking at mileage sign posts. They popped up every ten miles or so and seemed to slow progress. He looked away or hid them behind a truck. It felt much more progressive to slice through 50 miles. He noticed the vibration again as he neared Cedar City. It had something to do with his air cleaner he thought. Maybe it was vibrating lose, but if a fastener bounced into the throat of the carburetor he’d be dead in the water. That couldn’t happen and he nervously jammed through the last 25 miles on reserve into Cedar City, a town of 33,000, Utah’s festival city.
On edge he down-shifted and slid to a dusty stop surrounded by Spinach and strawberry fields. He reached down and suspected his intake was loose. It still ran and he could see a large truck stop on the other side of the freeway.
As he jammed over the overpass he thought about the all the mechanical pieces involved in feeding fuel and air to his engine. The custom air cleaner, the fasteners holding it in place, the carburetor and its connections to the intake manifold and the backing plate. The carb mounting bracket that held it in place and the intake manifold. What could be the problem? And did he have the tools and or fasteners to make his rocket ship healthy again, and then there was the time issue.
He pulled into a large gas stop. It contained a half-dozen lanes but only a small check-out station with barely a convenience store with only candy bars drinks and chips, no service bays, mechanics or mechanical parts counter, tools or even light bulbs.
He jumped off the stretched chopper and removed his leather gloves. Studying the right side of the engine, he grabbed the carburetor and tried to move it. It seemed solid. He checked the mounting bracket for cracks or loose fasteners. He broke out a handful of tools form his bedroll and tested the tightness. He knew in his experienced soul that any change to the intake side caused the bike to idle erratically or it to start to run lean. The intake seemed tight, but something vibrated. Something was wrong and he needed to find it.
He refueled and checked his oil, his frustration peaking. He needed to keep moving but refueling allowed the engine and exhaust system to cool slightly. He put his gloves back on and checked the pipe on the right side. The rear exhaust ran out the right side and the front ran out the left over the primary. Lose exhaust systems were notorious on rigid framed choppers. They were linked between the vibrating engine and the road vibration hammering the frame.
Bandit made sure there were more than one mounting points for both exhausts, but there was in inherent issue with the system. The engine vibrated one way while the frame especially the length of the exhaust system vibrated in another direction. They fought each other and were eventually doomed. Some riders would hang their exhaust off the exhaust manifold mounting and bolt the muffler to the frame, a disaster waiting to happen. Bandit’s front exhaust system on the left was tight and he snugged down the fasteners.
When he grabbed the muffler on the right, it wasn’t happy. The heat shield was loose and the muffler rattled. One of the fasteners holding the pipe to the frame was gone and the rest were lose. Fortunately, all the tabs were secure and not cracked. He pushed his bike out to the direct sunlight into the shade and went to work, but he was concerned about a replacement-fasteners, which he needed to find first.
If he tightened the fastener at the head and the one at the muffler at the other end of the pipe, the new fastener might not fit or align properly. He needed to handle this in the most expedient manner possible and get back on the road. He dug into his bedroll, tool flap, in a pocked where he kept bits of hose, hose clamps, wire and tie-wraps. He found one washer and a too-long bolt. It would be an option, if push came to shove.
He unzipped the pocket at the end of the bedroll, where he kept his keys and Chapstick, nothing. He couldn’t panic, but he was getting near an emotional crossroad as he unzipped the final pocket at the other end of the roll. Out jumped a spare bungy cord. He was notorious for saving anything he found alongside of the road or had left-over from another mechanical transaction. Out came a variety of nuts, bolts and washers.
He slammed the myriad of fasteners on the seat and started to dig for a 1-inch long 5/16 bolt of any variety, washers and a locking nut. Time ticked like a hammer against a metal drum in his chest. He found some of the elements and coupled them to the washer from his tool pouch and shoved them into place behind the muffler. He returned to the tool pouch to retrieve the tube of blue Loctite. He quickly started at the rear head and carefully tightened the exhaust manifold, which were notorious, because of the hot aluminum base, not good against a steel unforgiving fastener and exhaust system vibration.
He moved to the first steel on frame bracket, tightened it and then tightened the new fastener with a healthy dose of locking chemical that hardened under pressure. He didn’t stop and started to check every accessible fastener on the bike. One vibration can lead to another. He even checked the axle nuts, fender brackets, you name it. He checked the tranny fluid level and wanted to throw his tools in the weeds and haul ass, but he knew better. He packed everything quickly and starred at his watch. He had burned through almost 30 minutes, but his chopper had to get him home.
He straddled the bike like a pony express rider on a mission, firing it to life and kicking up the side-stand. His brain was in recheck overload. He need to know that everything was ready to go as he hit 4th gear and started to blast onto the interstate. This was the time when shit flew off a bike, or the gas cap turned up missing.
He remembered his trip gauge knob and reached up to zero it. It was gone, a victim of added vibration. He looked at the trip meter and tried to calculate. It bounced at 175 miles from the last stop. The blistering sun pounded his back with harsh rays and fed the spinach fields around him with warm growing nutrients.
He calculated with his road map that it was approximately 60 miles to Saint George, on the edge of the Mojave Desert and adjacent to the Pine Valley Mountains. Only a few miles past was the Arizona border for only about 10 miles before slicing into Nevada and another 60 miles to Glendale, where he would be forced to refuel. The Arizona miles snaked through a majestic canyon where traffic slowed, but he pushed hard passing anything in his way, while listening to his fish tip pipes reverberate off the steep, jagged slopes. He could almost make it to the outskirts of Vegas. His trip gauge would bounce off 300 miles about that time.
It would be afternoon when he reached Glendale. From Glendale to LA would be another six hours, baring any hiccups. Then what? It would be over 100 degrees as he passed through Vegas and his chopper wouldn’t be happy. He needed to cut through the desert and neon city and reach Prim on the border to California before pulling off the freeway.
He kept rolling and the sun climbed in the sky blistering everything in it’s path.
In Glendale he stopped in a truck stop station, refueled, took a leak, bought a 5-hour energy drink and a protein bar and finished both before he got back to his bike. He gassed up, looked the bike over, stuffed a spare protein bar in the Bandit’s bedroll and kept moving.
The desert region of Nevada took over with barren landscapes, cactus, Yucca trees and a flat sandy, bleak surroundings, but the Vegas billboards increased as he sliced past semi-trucks and trailers flying along at over 80 mph. Bandit began to itch. The 5-hour energy drink did it’s trick and he had a meth buzz working through his veins.
The 15 was straight and hot as a metallic black pickup blazed up alongside Bandit. The window rolled down and a muscled tattooed arm reached out at 90 mph with a cold beer. Bandit focused on the road and hollered, “No thanks,” and lifted a declining gloved fist.
It would be next to impossible to drink a beer and make time. The truck pulled slightly to the right and gunned it, stomping on the gas and engaging his big turbo-charged engine. The truck leapt forward and abruptly pulled into Bandit’s lane and the driver tossed his empties into the chopper’s path and began to speed away.
He could see Sin City in the distance as he passed the highway 93 offramp leading north to Wendover and the Bonneville salt flats. His rearview mirror was tiny and vibrated like metal particles on a grinding table. He could see a sportscar fast approaching and leaned heavily to the right. A bright red Ferrari blasted past him as if he was standing still.
The Vegas area was a vast landscape of diverse cultures construction workers of all trades building you name it from home developments to Casinos and office buildings. Then there were the folks who ran the casinos, from janitors to wealthy executives and owners. And finally, the performers from Hollywood stars, rock and roll bands, dancers and musicians. The traffic on 15 contained a myriad of diverse drivers, who were on drugs and never slept, to drunken electricians with a 12-pack at their side, heading home, you name it and this 20-mile treacherous stretch was always a roll of the dice.
Bandit on high alert, prayed to make it out of town to Prim on the boarder for his last gas stop before entering California, the land of regulation. He didn’t have time for drunks in pickups. He checked the position of his old stub-nosed 38 in the bedroll. Suddenly, he passed the fire-engine red Ferrari sandwiched between two semis barreling into town.
As he pulled up, the driver window slid down and a young woman’s face appeared, and then voluptuous cleavage to die for. Here bright pure white and emerald eyes flashed in the sunlight and her thick wavy crimson hard jostled with the wind. She smiled and Bandit was almost run over by another semi barreling up behind him. She licked her lips and turned her torso slightly in his direction. In a blast of her 12-cylinder twin overhead cam engine exhaust, 500 horses of immense power lurched ahead shifted into his lane and was gone once more.
Bandit was relieved it wasn’t the nasty Wim Tat Nam, the Chinese hooker, drug lord. He needed to get through Vegas and out of Nevada. He could feel his cell phone vibrating a number of times against his chest. His energy and alertness was strong, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He had to stop in Prim for fuel and he better check his phone for updates, but first he needed to survive 100 degrees and bumper to bumper congestion. Unlike LA the traffic jam lasted only 8 miles, but also unlike LA white-lining cars was illegal. Bandit make the most of quick lane changes but his speed was reduced to 35 mph and the sweltering heat engulfed him.
As he rumbled past the new Southpoint Casino traffic lightened and he had just 40 miles to reach Prim for refueling. It was virtually a straight shot over a flat desert terrain. He rumbled on and he could sense the motorcycle’s need for more, faster air flowing through it’s fins. Bandit always ran an oil cooler on his chopper, but in 100 degrees at 40 mph it wasn’t much help.
Another element helped the efficiency of the V-twin engine, the sun was beginning to set. Bandit was beginning to feel the grim burning daylight deadline. He pulled off the freeway at the only Prim exit and his springer bounced into a couple of potholes outside Whiskey Pete’s Casino. The facility started to show it’s age, deterioration and multiple owners. He moved along the parking lot perimeter to the large fueling stop, with a massive convenience store.
Bandit gassed up under the shade of the 76 islands. He rolled the motorcycle for a minute to find a spot out of the blistering heat to check his phone. He looked at his text messages from Marko, who proclaimed doom and gloom at the hands of the city. He was beginning to sweat when Marko called.
“We are working hard to supply burritos to the doc workers,” Marko said anxiously. “We are even delivering burritos to job sites, but the bar and patio business is done. Clay came and sat outside with a beer and the city called and threatened to shut off our power.”
“I’ll be there in a few hours,” Bandit said and hung up. His level of desperation mounted. His entire life was wrapped up in the Cantina and the lives of his crew. His phone vibrated again. It was Sammy, the black bill collector.
“I’ve got the mob scoped out,” Charlie said, “but you may need an army. Thugs are losing income all over the city with the shutdown. The bosses are leaning on their lieutenants for more action and income. Drug sales have plummeted with the influx of homeless who sell shit drugs for cheap. The overdose rate is skyrocketing This isn’t going to be fun.”
As Bandit listened, but something caught his eye in the blistering heat. A flashy red Ferrari entered the hot asphalt facility and sped between the pumps directly at Bandit and his smoldering chopper. It pulled alongside Bandit and the passenger window descended. “Get in, Bandit,” this broad said in a voice that would melt diamonds in Alaska during the winter.
“Hold on,” Bandit said to Sammy, “I’ll get back to you.” He hung up and opened the car door. He slid inside and shut the door. The window rolled up and he was suddenly surrounded by chilled cool air. She handed him a flask.
“Jack Daniels, right,” she said.
He took a slug, looked her over and she was even more magnificent than he recalled from the freeway encounter. Her outfit was to die for and more. “Where the fuck did you come from, and what’s it all mean?”
