To tell the truth, I didn't plan to attend to Biketoberfest. My to-do paint list was over the moon. Yet looking back, it was all worth it. I had no idea of the nutty time awaiting me. The initial plan was simple, go to the Corbin party, maybe hang out with Jose and Frank, and go to The Horse BC Bike Show. I'd take a few pictures, talk to a few people — nothin' much at all.
It all started Wednesday night. The Iron Horse wasn't packed. Easy to walk around, I didn't see anyone I knew. I split. I stopped back at my campsite and spotted a loose seat fastener. I didn't have another bolt and the chances of finding the right size, fine thread, at midnight, were nil.
Miraculously, the only bolts looked to be the correct size and thread, but a little on the long side. I grabbed up a bolt and all the washers I could find. By the light of my mini-maglite, I adjusted the amount of washers to make the bolt the correct length and screwed that sucker in. I was good to go! So I rode over the causeway to Lollipops to see who was hanging out. Everyone goes there. Nearly every mover, shaker and faker in the custom m/c industry was on hand Wednesday night. “I'll see ya at Lollypops,” must be the thing most often whispered after 11:00 p.m. Even outside, the place was jammed with new arrivals and folks, who couldn't handle the heat, leaving. Inside I squeezed no farther than the pool tables, next to the door.
Jose was there, along with Ramon, Generro, and the Chicago Greaser, with his gorgeous wife Artimesa. It was a severely twisted evening. We hung at the bar by the pool tables, watching the parade. It's a freak show, that's for sure, and the night drooled a freaky ooze by 1:00 a.m. This one chick, who thought she looked like Demi Moore (that is, if Demi never exercised, ate speed, and chain-smoked for 25 years), was really showing her ass. Good god, I thought Ramon was going puke right there. Then she challenged him to the green felt mambo. He gracefully declined, but I helped him resist the urge to whack her in the head with a pool cue. All too soon, it was closing time.
Outside the night air was just cool enough to be invigorating. The crescent moon blessed the sky in a soothing glow. It was so bright the landscape had an almost daylight shadow. Riding along the Intercoastal, the moon's reflection dancing across the water and was another treasure to experience. Meanwhile back at my campsite, at The Ranch, it was a battle of wits between the dog, who was determined to sneak out the gate, and me, who was desperate to keep him in the yard. Each night I won, but each night became more of a challenge.
Choppers were everywhere. The bike scene shifted dramatically in the past few years. Anyone who wasn't on a chopper, wanted one. Every major manufacturer had choppers as part of their display. Is it possible to get sick of choppers? The clones are over running each other. The stretched bike scene, beat to death, hasn't phased the masses. They just keep buying 'em up. Beach Street displays were full of polished line-ups of clone bikes, each one a little different from the rest.
I also didn't see a single gooseneck chop.
There is room to be different, that is, if you looked south of Daytona to Horsetoberfest headquarters. Or to the east, the Far East. The Chica and Zero Engineering style of custom choppers are still undiscovered territory as far as the general public is concerned.
Which brings me to this question, what happened to all those billet barges of the late 1990s? Were they torn down and turned into choppers? Could be cos I didn't see even one among the thousands of bikes in Daytona. Well, choppers are more fun anyway.
We weren't flopping through the Streets of Daytona to enjoy ourselves. We were there to work or find work. And very hard work it was battling at the buffet bar at Corbin's yearly party. Frank Kaisler took the shrimp bowl and hid out in the corner. Hot feminine bods in tight dresses offered up trays of chocolate covered strawberries while magazine and corporate honchos duked it out at the open bar. Total decadence, all while Goth Girl played her own brand of gothical music on a grand piano. Hammer, editor of The Horse, and his gorgeous girlfriend Priscilla quietly ducked in, grabbed a bite and left. This infuriated Goth and she ordered me to leave strange and cryptic messages on his voice mail. Seeing as how Mike Corbin's Daytona building is up for sale; this may have been the last party at his place.
Toward the end of the evening, Goth announced she had written a song just for Mike. We all eagerly gathered around the stage and waited as Goth unexpectedly broke into “Happy Birthday To You.” Mike's birthday was later that week. Goth introduced me to her friend, Wall of Death rider Sam Morgan, who rides with the American Motordrome Company. You can meet Sam and see much of the history of The Wall and its riders on her site
The trouble started over a freezer. Sam and I were wearing tall shoes and we needed a seat. We made a grab for the freezer lid after the tallest, biggest chick at Biketoberfest got off of it. It was roomy enough for both Sam and me. Unfortunately Bertha wasn't done with it. Now Sam has ridden the Wall for over 20 years, fallen 16 ft, had bikes fall on top of her. Some 6'7″ tall, 225 lb woman wasn't gonna scare her. Next thing I know, tall chick is off to the side kinda snarling at us. She angrily chewed the straw on her drink as she wandered away. Meanwhile Howard Kelly offered up stinging observations on the fashion parade that was passing by. Chunky chicks in low cut jeans with G-strings showing got a big thumbs down. Goth and Sam had played a game clipping something on an unsuspecting victims. All night, Goth had been trying to get Howard and he kept busting her. Later, I picked up the clip and snagged it on the back of his shirt. He didn't have a clue. I even snapped a few pictures.
Goth came to our rescue with her scathing wit (which usually flies right over the head of the intended victim), “Hey, so I see that height thing never worked out for you.”
It was the only time I spent on Main Street. Places like the Broken Spoke, Iron Horse, LastResort and other out of town hangouts are getting busier as people tire of the impossible crowds on Main St. You can see weird people everywhere and the really cool bikes, don't even bother coming downtown.
The Last Resort was a cool bike central with The HORSE magazine set up there. And there's no dust storm. The place is paved so your bike won't get buried in dirt. Trees stretch over the area, offering lots of shade. There was plenty of food, drink booths and vendors. The cops blocked off a lane of Rte 1 just for bikes. It made coming and going much easier and traffic was no problem. Al, the owner was out there himself, flagging bikes in. The HORSE has found a new home for Daytona. It's so perfect, that we will be throwing a Chopper Show in March at Bike Week.
Friday provided another day of incredible weather. The crowds packed Beach St. and Main St. I hooked up with my buddy Jennifer Smathers and a few friends. Jennifer rides this wicked RedNeck Enginuity custom chopper. We took the back roads through Tomaka State Park and rode through the jungle up to the Snack Shack on Flagler Beach. At one point the road follows along curves and twists of a canal, and if some dead-above-the-neck driver, isn't blocking the way, it is one of the best road rides in the Daytona area.
I stopped back by The Ranch, where two other campsites were set-up and a small happy party was rolling along under the enormous sweeping Japanese Plum tree garden. Unless you're a beer expert or from Pittsburgh, you've probably never heard of Iron City Beer. But in Pittsburgh, it's not just a beer, it's a way of life, right up there with the Steelers. Iron City threw a contest this year and one lucky Steelers/Iron City fan received the privilege of having his/hers picture on cans of Iron City Brew. The honor went to a regular camper here at The Ranch, our very own LapDog. He posed along with his bike, which he doctored with a Steelers themed paint job, of course.
As darkness fell, I rode up to The Broken Spoke, where a sweet young thing was eagerly twitching as a smiling artist airbrushed her bod. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch, and many missed seeing the arrival of Goth Girl, Sam, and their bodyguard, Big Mike. Big Mike, from Germany, has an accent similar to Gov Arnold's. He had a wry sense of humor that made the night even more interesting.
“Oh no, keep dat gurl avay frum me. She's a bad gurl,” he said as this 6 ft brunette wrapped her legs around him and planted kisses all over his bald head..
Jay, the owner of The Broken Spoke, escorted us into his $1.5 million motorhome. That thing was fairly wondrous, mirrors everywhere, bar, inlaid lights in the floor that sparkle and change color, but for 1.5 mil, hell, the thing should drive itself and cook dinner. But I should note that is up for sale at a bargain $900,000. At that price, Bandit should get one for his lowly East Coast correspondents to buy it for Bikernet. The Broken Spoke was totally cool; Goth could freely stroll around. The Iron Horse was another story. A crushing crowd quickly gathered and she ducked behind The California Hell Riders motordrome. I had the pleasure of meeting brothers Don and Ian Danials and Don's fiancee, the very sweet Sandra D. They were all Sam's good pals. The wall riders are a small group and they all know one another. They're a friendly, good-hearted bunch, who are all quite passionate about their sport. I got to listen to them talk about their bikes. Antique Indians appear to be the bike of choice. Something about how the engine and transmission line up that makes it a smooth and very steady bike for riding horizontally. Replacement parts are almost impossible to get, and they make or rig up nearly everything they need to stay against the wall. They know the location of most Indian stash piles. Sam swears, if I rode an old Indian, it would become my first choice of bikes. An Indian expert, we met earlier, in the megalith motor home agreed. Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to try out one of Sam's Indians before I left.
As Goth was busy stomping her disagreeable cell phone into the dirt, “I hate that phone, die phone, die!!!” She screamed. I took off for Lollipops. Most of the Horse staff was there, holding down the fort. Serious chopper talk went on as nearly naked women slithered across the floor.
I thoroughly relished another perfect evening ride. But the noise police weren't taking any chances. A very occupied patrol car sat discreetly at the entrance to the Seabreeze Causeway. I kept a light hand on the throttle. Riding in the night air over the bridge, seeing the brightly lit hotels along the beach, glittering in the distance, would do just fine.
Saturday afternoon I was on a quest to see if any cool bikes could be found within Daytona's city limits. I roamed the Dead Rat's Boardwalk Show, (I'll never forget that guy), when I was grabbed and forced to race go-carts with Click Baldwin and his wife Diane and daughter Chelsea. Diane was slamming the shit out of me, then I slammed her to hell, and then we both went after Click. He didn't have a chance.
I hooked up with Jennifer, and we blasted down to The Last Resort. The HORSE party was at full capacity. It was shoulder to shoulder as folks crammed in to view the 120 brutal choppers in the bike show. Billy Lane did the judging and he gave each bike a thorough going over. Good thing he wasn't judging the chicks walking around, he may have never recovered.
“Quick, get a picture of her!!!!!!” Jennifer cried. I thought I'd seen nearly everything. This was a real first and I hope, a last. There were guys posing with this woman even. It was the only thing that could have taken anyone's eyes off the wild bikes.
Then Melanie came on the scene and Jose had somewhere to put his hands. Melanie's sister, Nannette, gets her attention by calling, “Melanie! Camera!” If they are representative of the Hawaiian people, then it is one genuinely friendly place.
Actually most of the crowd at Horsetoberfest headquarters were very cool folks. It was one big, happy party where folks were bonded by their love of choppers.
The night progressed and Billy finally finished his judging and handed the winner his trophy. I didn't see exactly which bike won, but it had to be extreme because an extraordinary hardtail Crocker took 2nd Place.
Meanwhile after making a blistering getaway from Willie's Tropical Tattoo, Goth, Sam, and Mike arrived. Geno, who was disguised as a Colombian “Exporter” was carefully guarding a prototype oil tank. Goth snuck up behind him, attempting to nab the oil tank, but he was sharp as last year's razor and she was denied.
I ended up at Sam's trailer. The night took on an incredibly relaxed mood as Sam told stories about growing up with the Wall. I looked through photos and she told a story of going from the street to riding the wall at age 15, when veteran rider Sonny Pelaquin took her under his wing. She learned everything from trick riding to rebuilding the bikes, to assembling, repairing, and rebuilding the entire wall structure. Her web site keeps Sonny and The Wall's history alive. Goth relaxed by decorating her leather jacket with paint, attempting to find good tunes on the radio, trying to picture what a Goth worthy tattoo would look like, and cleaning the entire trailer. It was 3:00 a.m. when I fired up the Sporty, only to find the gate locked.
Sam let me out and I soaked up every mile as I rode home to my campsite. As strange as it may sound, my favorite part of Daytona is not the riding (although it's a close second,) or the events. Ok, seeing my friends is wonderful, but it's the end of the day, the winding down and heading back over the causeway. Although, it is now a lot less fun, due to the police presence at the entrance to the bridge. Up and over the bridge, run along the Intercoastal, full moon playing across the water-lending a surreal glow against the mysterious palms. Then cruising through the deserted side streets, over a few blocks and it's home sweet home. It's an extraordinary place, tucked into the middle of everything but completely isolated from the anything beyond it's secure confines. Climbing into the tent and into my pajamas, bike motor making cracking noises as it cools off, I sit in the open doorway of the tent, gazing out over the shimmer of the lake next to my campsite. The moon intensely silhouetted against the palms, I sit there, comfy. A solitary V-twin rumbles far off in the distance. Scrappy, the housedog, sits stoically with me guarding the entrance of the tent. Then there's the ritual of the nighttime snack we have together. He nips on dog treats. I make a snack of cheese and crackers, zip up the tent and fall asleep looking up at the stars. So relaxing, it may be outlawed someday, a life so foreign to the usual daily routine of the civilized existence.
You can check out Goth and get your Devil Doll worship gear at
