Two Wheeled Tales

The back of the Shovelhead bucked and kicked as Travis cut across three lanes of traffic, gunning his damaged bike toward the exit ramp. An eighteen-wheeler loomed in the right lane, closing in on his escape route. No stopping on a dime for that load. Travis snapped the throttle on the S&S, cutting between the […]

Travis rolled off the throttle as he crested the hill. The open prairie opened up before him. It was one of the things he loved most about this country. How you could be cutting through rolling hills of a coteau one minute, cross a threshold and the entire countryside would change to open prairie. He

    “When I die I want to meet God and say, what the Hell were you thinking; like what were you thinking?” —Indian Larry     “Hold on to yourself Bartlett, you’re twenty feet short.” —Steve McQueen …from the movie THE GREAT ESCAPE     “If I had to describe him, I’d say he

Travis rounded the corner and gunned the throttle. The burst of sound from the drag pipes scattered the neighborhood kids playing street hockey running past their goals before they could lift them out of the way. His bungalow was the third one in from the top of the block. He backed the bike to the

                  I left Panama during the rainy season. From Panama City I had 3,000 miles to go before reaching Mexico’s northern border. My twin cam engine was overheating every day now and if I ran into trouble I knew of only two Harley dealers in Central America. Mexico had several dealerships

  Dawn was upon us, stars were winking out and the moon had given up trying to outshine the morning sun. Charon moved to the side, letting Larry and I pass; as we rode by he gave us a small salute, “Remember to stay on the Ridge Route, no alternate routes, Ma’s orders.” Beyond the

We’re riding on a narrow, twisting mountain road. Themorning sun is warm on our faces, and your body ispressed tightly against my back. I can feel your fullbreasts against me, your nipples hard from the coolmorning air. Your hair flows out from under yourhelmet in our slipstream like molten honey. The road narrows, forcing me

The ponds are shrouded in inky blackness as I make myway slowly down the levies between them. I know youhear me coming, the staccato rumble of the Harley’sengine echoes out across the calm surface of thewater, and my headlight carves an erratic path throughthe darkness as I search for you. I know you workedlate; your

“Dago” Red sat on the bottom bunk and watched a roachscurry across the toes of his county issued slippers.He had sat, elbows on knees, his chin resting in hispalms for the last two hours waiting for his attorneyto show up. The arrogant bastard. Red reached outsuddenly, squashing the roach with the sole of hisright foot,

The roar of the explosion rocked the Rat Hole Bar and Grill, shaking thewalls and a fine mist of accumulated dust loose from the ceiling,along with a pair of Lizard Lips Louise’s panties that had stuck to the roofseveral months ago. Tanker cursed, wiping off the remains of his pickled pig’s foot that had slipped

There's Ken Saxon Editor's Note: Mike didn't supply images so we ask Curt Lout if we could use some riding shots from his 2005 coverage. He kindly said yeah, so enjoy. The road has characteristics and glitches that sometimes confuse you, sometimes work in your favor, and sometimes slap ya in the back of the

With the unfortunate passing of David Mann, there has been a lot of attention on his effect on the motorcycle world for generations. My view on David’s death is a little different. You see, David Mann and my father, John, had been friends for more than 35 years. They met through mutual friends in the

My first Harley was a 1979 Sportster, Guards red (Porshe red) with the old style lettering on the tank. I remember picking it up in March. My brother Gary had a truck or I should say what was left of a truck. Yeah I picked it up in a truck due to insurance reasons. It

Every time I saw a Harley I used to say “Some day”.I had a lot of Harleys. My first was a black pan. All black with black saddlebags. Had another black chop pan that never ran right and bled oil. It had black saddlebags too. Had a 79 Lowrider in orange and O.D. green. Loved

My first Harley. Well let me back up a little bit and start by saying I had just sold my last Yamaha to buy a car from a friend who was going to the brig. I needed to get back up on two wheels. I knew I didn't want another japaneese bike, but I was

I had to call Bandit back at his velvet-walled Bikernet penthouse office three times before he stopped hanging up on me.“I’m serious, you stolen-plate runnin’ bastard! And stop hanging up on me!” I shouted into the phone.“You want me to fly you out there and pay you to cover Miami strip clubs?” came the suddenly

This is the story of my first Harley. It is one filled with dreams, good times, friends, and enemies, drugs, business dealings, parties, women, & treachery. It is a story that needs to be told, for the young ones to learn from, if they will. The time is approximate, and all names have been changed

Scoots First Ride Scoot’s second chopperMy first ride was a “Bug” mini bike when I was around 12-yrs. Old. It was one of those “cool” ones with the peanut tank and baby apes. First thing I did was rip off the exhaust and put on a straight pipe. My life went down hill from then

Art still owns his first Shovelhead.ART'S FIRST BIKE AND BLUES1983, Pushing the front end of the big Shovelhead down the coastal highway of the outer banks of North Carolina, thinking about the year on Okinawa. I was Scrimping and saving to purchase the 1980 FXE. The time spent as a barracks rat was worth every

Author and custom painter, Joann Bortles, or Crazyhorse. CRAZYHORSE'S DREAM COME TRUE–ALMOST They say, that a human brain will take a traumatic experience and bury it, not allowing the conscious mind to dwell on it. By 1994 owning a Harley became so distant a dream, that I never even thought about it anymore. I was

Old shots from Bugs. Doesn't have a damn thing to do with this story.FIRST MEMORIESWith me, it started on a highway somewhere in LA, when I was probably in the 3rd grade. It was the early '60s. My mom and dad, who were and are fine upstanding citizens, had no interest in motorcycles. As a

Here's Johnny, the authorThe Origins of a Passion I have had many people ask me why I ride a motorcycle. I’m sure most who ride have known the scenario of pulling up to the gas station to refuel and getting hammered with the stories of cycle lore by every customer. You know the stories, “My

Bike Building Boot Camp or A Crash Course In Chopper Building The 50th Team.A rare e-mail address flashed across my in-box. Jesse James from Monster Garage wrote, “Wanna help build an Old School Chopper?” I wrote back, “I'm not a master builder, you have a number of talented builders at West Coast Choppers. I'm just

There's always a lot of squawkin' about what a true chopper is. Some guys swear it's a chopper if it's a motorcycle with long fork$$$$$. Others believe it's an anti-social statement in the form of a motorcycle. The descriptions and beliefs on the subject are endless, and (this being America) there ain't a damn thing