The end of February found me in the winter humdrums. My bike had been down since I got hassled in December at the local DMV for having my VIN numbers obscured by the lock tab on my 1978 Narrow Glide frontend. The DMV gave me the option of taking the bike to Auto Squad so they could verify the numbers. That wans’t going to happen, and I ordered a 2-inch under Springer without anything on it that would obscure the numbers. Such are the trials and tribulations of a biker tramp with his home-built special construction. As of this writing, I’m still waiting on parts that will allow me to run the 1978 dual-disk setup on the Springer. I’m getting close and am considering a fresh backyard paint job this year.
Friday night, March 1st, found me hanging out in front of the local A.A. club talking cams with Joe, an old friend. The conversation revolved around lift and duration for a twin cam motor Joe was hoping up. Another friend of mine, Bruce, showed up and entered into the conversation. I met Bruce in rehab when I was on spin-dry and his story struck close to home with me. Turns out Bruce ran with a club down south in the '70s and still rode. I backed him into a corner and wanted to know how he made it out of the cycle of substance abuse.
Bruce patted me on the shoulder and told me it was simple: “Just don’t use.”
I was brutally spaced out at that point in my life and resembled a cartoon caricature more than a human being. I wandered back to my room in the hospital with the hope that one day, I would be back in the breeze again.
As time rolled by and I racked up a few 24 hours, our paths crossed on a weekly basis. We became friends and put some miles under our wheels. The conversations drifted to Daytona and who was riding down this year. I was out, due to my current two-wheeled dilemma. Bruce said that he was going, but the guy that was to ride down with him was out because of problems with his old lady. And Joe just started a new job and couldn’t go. Plans looked bleak, as is the norm for this time of the year in the semi-northeast.
Our conversations trailed off and we were all left with our own lingering depressed thoughts, when Bruce came up with a solution. He asked me if I would like to ride his 2003 Low Rider to Bike Week? Turns out his missus didn’t want him riding down alone. Shit, this was a big deal for me; ride someone else’s bike from Washington, D.C. to Daytona, some 976 miles? I thought about the responsibility for about one second and gave him a vigorous thumbs-up.
During the preceding week, I was like a kid waiting' on Santa to arrive. I spent anxious time at work and at home preparing road gear, while looking at the extended forecast for the east coast. Sunday, March 9th, arrived clear and cold. The temp when we rolled out was 27 degrees. I traveled extensively on my 1980 Super Glide up and down the east coast some 28 years ago, so I knew how to dress for the road and the weather. The Low Rider I was on had a clip-on windshield and bags, so I traveled in relative comfort out on interstate 95. Bruce was on a 2005 Road Glide with a cup holder, GPS, CD player, XM radio, and cruise control. The latter was a real blessing and I would recommend this to anyone. The cruise control was set to the GPS, and we motored fill up to reserve non-stop.
We left DC around 9:00 a.m. and rode through Virginia, North Carolina, and into South Carolina before a layover in Florence. While covering the miles at every stop, we peeled off a layer of clothes and our big shit-eating grins expanded. It was damn cool to ride with someone who liked to cover miles. Bruce rode out front and I rode right off of his right shoulder. At first, I laid back and watched his riding style. I soon realized that Bruce wasn’t telling any bullshit stories about his younger days.
During lane changes, he set me up so I could cover his back. All of his moves were well-telegraphed, so I knew what was going on well before it happened. As we logged miles, our styles integrated and started to flow, and we rode as one blasting down the interstate. This is one of the simple pleasures of riding with another experienced rider. Most of the other riders we ran across were on baggers and seemed to be in no hurry to get anywhere. I couldn’t understand the number of folks we passed who were trailering full-dressed Harleys to Daytona. What’s the point?
Day two (Monday) was more of the same. We made Jacksonville around rush hour wearing tee shirts. The crowds of bikers out on the road grew with each exit ramp. We both have a friend, Slim, who runs a sober house in Daytona; that was our destination for the day and our free crash pad for the week (Thanks, Slim). I ended up buying Slim and Bruce dinner every night while we were there as a sorta “thank you.”
While in town, our days were a no hurry, no worry life style. Up at 7 a.m. and about a gallon of coffee for me, along with a strong dose of rock-n-roll from a local FM station. We checked the bikes over while discussing destinations for the day. There is so much shit you can do in Daytona that you would really have to haul ass from one destination to another to cover it all. And don't spend too much time lingering at any one spot.
Tuesday, we peeled down to Main Street to check out the convention center and tried to locate Bandit, but he was out and about like the rest of us. I picked up a shit-kicking leather at a vendor stand, because folks were talking rain. We grabbed lunch, took pictures for ya’ll, and just plain fucked off.
Damn, we missed the coleslaw wrestling on Wednesday because we spent too much time at destination Harley-Davidson. While there, I ran into Rollin Sands just wandering around unnoticed. We talked for about five minutes and Rollin seems like a down-to-earth person. The crowds were down this year by a third, the vendors said. They attributed most of it to the gas prices, which I didn’t understand at first, because bikes get good gas mileage. Then a vendor informed me: The cost of pulling a trailer loaded with an 800 pound motorcycle is exorbitant. So the trailer trash was down this year. I guess that would explain why I didn’t hear all the folks revving their motors at stoplights.
We made it to Carl's Speed Shop after we left Destination Daytona. Carl's place always pumps us with a performance buzz.
Thursday was swap meet day and we rode out by the racetrack. Swap meets are the shit. I can spend hours picking up parts and trying to figure out what model and model year bike it works on. I saw a lot of good used stuff and a lot of bad used stuff. I also saw a lot of German, French and Danish folks buying early stock Springers and early (pre-1967) parts. I asked a few vendors what was up with that, and was told that because of the weak dollar, these folks were buying' shit and shipping it back home to build some kick-ass rides. I got a clutch cable clamp, set of ace of spade license plate bolts, and a $14.00 biker ring made out of something that will not turn my finger green, guaranteed.
Friday was supposed to be a ride day, so Thursday night, we laid out a route from Daytona up A-1-A north to St. Augustine. Then we would hang a left on 207 west to Palatka. From there, we would take 100 back to Flagler Beach, then south back to Daytona on A-1-A.
We made St. Augustine and the skies let go heavy. Rode for a piece but the stuff wasn’t letting up. We made a break back south on A-1-A along the coast and escaped the downpour. Stopped at a little roadside joint and had lunch. We ate long enough for the storm to catch us again, so we hung out and shot the shit with our waitress and two guys who rode in from Tenn. After a bit, the storm passed and we hauled ass back to our Daytona digs. Spent the rest of the day cooling out and taking it easy.
Saturday was our getaway day, but the winds were extreme (40-60 mph gusts), so we laid over and checked out the action close to home. Tropical Tattoo first, then we slipped down the street to check out Sucker Punch Sally stuff. Met Keino while I was there and congratulated him on his break from Indian Larry Legacy. We talked for a bit and in the end agreed to see each other at the Smoke Out.
After we left there, Bruce had a notion to ride. Shit, man; what a trip. We leaned into the wind, riding past Daytona International Airport into an industrial wasteland headed to Port Orange. The Law was out hot and heavy, and the wind blew shit out of the gutters and across the roadway.
At a traffic light, I asked him where the fuck we were heading? He was looking for a rib shack. We pulled a U-turn and found a good place to eat on Nova Road. We ducked inside and watched the Honda 200 on the tube.
Our time in Daytona '08 wound down and I contemplated the ride home with anticipation. The trek home was about the ride down in reverse. Both of us had that sinking feeling. We would rather spend the rest of our lives riding the interstate than going' back to what modern society had waiting for us. Fuck being politically correct.
In closing these are my thoughts: All you folks that down the factory should step back and take a ride across country on my bike. It is a replica of a 1980 Super Glide and will beat you up. I have never ridden anything other than a Shovel with a four-speed transmission. The 2003 Low Rider I rode was a dream, no vibration in the mirrors or my ass. Five speed that I cruised at 80 mph while taching 3400 rpm. A great ride. The run consisted of 976 miles down and 976 back. We covered a total of 2,800 total for the week.
The 2005 Road Glide, which I tried on twice, wasn’t my style but was a class act and cruised down the road sweet. All the luxuries and comfort an old fart could want in a bike.
The folks that trailer their stuff to events should allow bikers to pass them in the fast lane, not the slow lane. When you get in the fast lane, get the fuck out of the way after you get around your fellow trailer trash. You, my friends, are a road hazard and are the topic of many a two-wheeled gas pump conversations.
Saw two bad trailer accidents on the way home. Folks dropping the trailer wheels off the shoulder in the fast lane then the big roll over. The folks that stopped to help both times were on two wheels while the rest of the traffic just went by gawking.
–LTR
