Just when we thought the biker drama in whacko Waco, Texas had dulled to low roar, yet another tale comes out of Six Shooter Junction that sounds like something written by Kurt Sutter and played by 1990s Charlie Sheen.

So, said I, in my Jeanie Sue Riley voice, I wanna tell you of a story of a… well, this story ends in a murder for hire trial, not a PTA meeting. In day one of that trial, the judge told the jury this would be long and complex because there are a lot of moving parts with many people involved… I concur with him. Hang tight, and I will try to unwind this Texas sized soap opera for y’all.
But first, a little back story.

(Many people in this story are the lawyers in the Twin Peaks biker shooting… the main character is Waco attorney Seth Sutton. Seth represented some of the members of the dominant club in Texas during Twin Peaks. I am not even gonna say their name in this article, out of respect, because this whole clusterfuck truly did not involve them at all, beyond the Waco cops trying to sneak around and infiltrate someone to spy on them… because, you know, it’s worked SO well in the past, right? This is the total involvement of said dominant club in this whole mess, even though they were mentioned several times in the trial. I reckon they been mentioned enough in stuff they didn’t have anything to do with.)

Seth Sutton, is a Waco attorney, married to Katy Sutton. Allegedly they had some sort of swinger situation going on with Marcus Beaudin, and his wife, Chelsea Tijerna Beaudin, who were also Waco attorneys. Marcus and Chelsea divorced, and Marcus gets accused and eventually indicted of sexual abuse of a female child family member of Sutton.

I suppose after representing the Waco bikers in 2015, Sutton was moved to be a part of the biker community.

First, he ran on the Democrat ticket in 2018 against Abel Reyna, the DA who signed those Twin Peaks arrest warrants… but conceded to Republican Barry Johnson.

Then he made up his own motorcycle club, called, the Red Mouse Cult MC. (Seriously.) He was the President and went by the road name ‘Hollywood.’

Well, in Dec 2019, one of his club members named Jerry Dyers meets this dude named Scott Vaughn in a barber shop and they get to talking motorcycles and clubs and such. Scott Vaughn, has been an undercover Waco cop for around two decades. Well. It comes out that Sutton represented some members of a certain club during Twin Peaks.

Officer Vaughn goes back to his superiors and gets permission to go undercover in the club, to try to get close to the dominant club and try to catch them doing drugs or something. The name of the operation was ‘Operation Mighty Mouse’ and the undercover officer was involved in the operation from December 2019 to May 2020.

Well, he never got any info worth investigating about the big boys and so between Covid and monetary issues, the superiors told him to wrap up the investigation. He decided to disobey them and go rogue. (This is the Charlie Sheen part)

“I was in too deep and didn’t want to leave abruptly, I didn’t want to look suspicious.”

-Officer Scott Vaughn

That very night, Sutton tells Vaughn about the molestation of his family member. He said the girl was troubled and misbehaving and they sent her to a center to get help in Houston, and while she was there, she admitted that Marcus had molested her on multiple occasions. The discussion then turns to murder. Sutton and Vaughn discuss various ways to kill Marcus, including luring him over for sex with Katy or Chelsea, then killing him and making it look like a rape… or making it look like a road rage type incident. This particular scheme was interesting in that Sutton himself was involved in a road rage incident a few months prior.

Waco police reported that Darryl Lynn Gallaway and Waco attorney Seth Sutton got into a verbal altercation in March 2019 about 2:30 a.m. at a Whataburger. Police initially said Gallaway and Sutton got into an argument over how long Gallaway was taking to order at the drive-thru. However, after Gallaway’s arrest a week later, Sutton, a criminal defense attorney, said he made a general comment about the wait time at the restaurant that was not directed at anyone. He did not realize Gallaway heard him, but they got into an argument, he said.

“I wasn’t directing the first initial comment at him, because I know when things take a long time at a restaurant it is not a patron’s fault. But he thought I was directing it at him,” Sutton said at the time. “He started barking at me and I started barking at him, but then it ended and I didn’t think anything too big about it.” Police said Gallaway waited for Sutton to leave the restaurant on his motorcycle, followed him in his SUV and struck him near Waco Drive and North 38th Street.

 So, Vaughn decides to go rogue and keep investigating. He ended up patching into the Red Mouse club on May 13, 2020, against his supervisors’ orders, and Sutton began to trust him.

Text messages flew between the two of them regarding the way they would decide to kill Beaudin, and how Vaughn could leave town and about alibis. Vaughn claimed this was where their initial operation took a ‘hard turn right. He went to his bosses, and told them what Sutton told him. While his supervisors were pissed he went rogue, they decided to have him wear a microphone and camera to capture Sutton plotting the murder. Beaudin was never warned of a threat upon his life.

Vaughn immediately goes to meet up with Sutton and Chelsea at Sutton’s house to talk about how they planned to kill Beaudin… Chelsea is lounging around the pool, and she and Sutton are telling Vaughn the layout and security codes to Beaudin’s house and discussing buying the gun… and Vaughn is secretly taping the whole damned thing.

In the video, Sutton and the officer can be heard forming a plan to kill Beaudin. Vaughn can be heard saying the plan needed to be thought out, a gun needed to be purchased and how they needed to learn Beaudin’s daily routine. Sutton can be heard agreeing and they both agreed this plan would take place in a few weeks.

Not long after this conversation, Sutton and Vaughn arrange to meet at the Salty Dog to exchange the money. Behind the scenes, officers were lining up surveillance and take-down teams in anticipation of Sutton’s arrest later that evening, the undercover detective said during testimony.

The detective told jurors Sutton arrived at the Salty Dog and they got a beer and talked for about an hour or so. Sutton allegedly told the undercover detective to proceed with the murder-for-hire plan and gave the detective $300 to buy the gun. Immediately after that, the police who are lying in wait hop out and arrest Sutton.

Sutton and Tijerina both were arrested Friday, on May 22, 2020 and charged with criminal solicitation of capital murder.

Before the whole thing made it to trial, tragedy occurred…on May 28,2021, Department of Public Safety troopers responded to a deadly motorcycle crash… and the lone rider, Chelsea Tijerina, a 2011 Baylor Law School graduate, co-conspirator in a murder plot, was pronounced dead at the scene.

The whole sordid mess came to a head last week as Seth Sutton stood trial for a plot to murder Marcus Beaudin. He was represented by another household name during the Twin Peaks trials… Dallas attorney Clint Broden.

The prosecution marched cops and ‘biker experts’ and witnesses and videotapes past the jury, and Broden hammered away at each witness about how it seemed like Officer Vaughn was the one doing all the pushing and plotting and planning…. The Marine Veteran officer Scott Vaughn even took the stand himself. The jury saw photos of the biker vest Vaughn wore as a member of the Red Mouse Cult and other ones that showed the money Sutton paid Payne for the gun, ammo, gas and the gun seller.

Then it was time for the defense of Seth Sutton.

Once the State rested its case, Broden took less than five minutes and only included a stipulation, which was one sentence long.

The statement said Beaudin was not told of any potential threat on his life by law enforcement from the time the undercover officer said Sutton told him he wanted to kill Beaudin up until Sutton was arrested.

Jury summations began the morning of Friday, Aug. 18, 2023. Jurors deliberated for 12 hours without reaching a unanimous verdict. The jury foreman told the judge he didn’t see further deliberation leading to a unanimous verdict. While at least six jurors declined to comment after, court officials said that at one point during deliberations the jury was deadlocked 9-3 in favor of guilt…..

And just like that, the Seth Sutton case was declared a mistrial.

-AIW

On August 4-5 in Poland, the 1st Karpacz Custom Bike Show 2023 took place. It was a unique custom motorcycle competition organized as part of the Polish Bike Week, an event listed in the official HOG
(Harley Owners Group) calendar, which annually gathers at the foot of the Sudetes mountains (south-west Poland) with several thousand motorcycles and tens of thousands of automotive enthusiasts.

The 1st Karpacz Custom Bike Show 2023 was a custom competition organized by HD Tour, the organizer of Polish Bike Week, and Game Over Cycles, the most acclaimed Polish custom company, whose machines
have been awarded at the world’s largest and most prestigious events. The first edition of the event left a strong mark on the map of custom events in Poland, both in terms of attendance, the level of the competition, and the attractiveness of the prizes.

“A total of 81 motorcycles were registered for the competition. The event immediately took on an international character, as besides customizers from all over Poland, we also welcomed participants from the Czech Republic, Germany, and Slovenia. I’m also pleased with the very high level of the competition.

“The machines that appeared in Karpacz could easily compete in the largest global events, in which we participated, such as the European Bike Week in Austria, or the Daytona Bike Week and Sturgis Rally in the USA,” said Stanislaw Myszkowski, the head of Game Over Cycles, when asked about
impressions after the event.

 

Summing up the event, Stanislaw Myszkowski added, “I consider the first edition to be very successful, and we already have plans for the next one. Karpacz Custom Bike Show will be an annual event that we will continuously develop, following in the footsteps of the biggest events in the world, while also carving our own path and organizing the event in a way that others don’t. We’re already inviting everyone to the next
edition and see you in Karpacz in 2024.”

1st Karpacz Custom Bike Show 2023 – full list of winners:

OLD SCHOOL
Pawel Zajdel
Name: Shovelhead
Brand: Harley-Davidson FLH
Customization: Pawel Zajdel

TRIKE
Waldemar Obiala
Name: Ural
Customization: Waldemar Obiala

CRAZY BIKE
Vito Klemencic VK Custom Works (Slovenia)
Name: History
Brand: Harley-Davidson Flathead
Customization: VK Custom Works

SPORTSBIKE
Mariusz Kolacki
Name: After
Brand: Harley-Davidson Vrod Muscle
Customization: Snikers Custom Motorcycles

BAGGER/TOURER
Patrick Sommer (Germany)
Name: Performance Bagger
Brand: Harley-Davidson Road Glide Special
Customization: Patrick Sommer

CAFE RACER
Lukasz Borsukiewicz
Name: Street Racer
Brand: BMW R100s
Customization: Borsukiewicz Motorsport

CHOPPER/BOBBER
Roman Buš – Wildstyle (Czechia)
Name: Harley-Davidson Softail
Customization: Wildstyle

MODIFIED HARLEY
Pawel Stachura Nine Hills Motorcycles
Name: Criminal
Brand: Harley-Davidson Breakout
Customization: Nine Hills Motorcycles

JURY SPECIAL AWARD
Boguslaw Bogdanowicz
Nazwa: Harley Davidson V-Rod
Customization: HABETA Custom Szczecin

SHOW PARTNER AWARD
Bozena Strózyk
Name: Agata
Brand: Harley-Davidson Road Glide Special
Customization: V-Force Poznan

PAINTING
Waldemar Obiala
Name: Ural
Painter: Waldemar Obiala

PEOPLE’S CHOICE
Krzysztof Wencel
Name: Rust Pistons

 BEST OF SHOW
Waldemar Obiala
Name: Ural
Customization (construction, bodywork, leather, painting): Waldemar Obiala

The winner of each category received a trophy and sets of tangible prizes from the event partners, companies Anest Iwata and Novol. Additional awards were given to the winners of specific categories:

Chopper/Bobber – leather motorcycle accessories (Piotr Lucky Lapandro)

Modified Harley – custom exhausts (BT Choppers)

Special Jury Award – service at Jack’s Motorcycles Garage

Show Partner Award – Voucher for a stay at the five-star Tremonti Karpacz hotel

Painting – personalized motorcycle helmet painting by one of the most esteemed Polish airbrush artists, Piotr Parczewski, who has adorned helmets for figures like Kamil Stoch, a world champion and three-time
Olympic gold medalist in ski jumping.

People’s Choice Award – invitation for a 6-day trip along the Spanish Costa Blanca coast funded by Eagle

Best of Show – VIP invitation to Custombike-Show in Bad Salzuflen (Germany), the world’s largest trade fair

Dear Reader; What follows is something from the “FAITH-BASED BIKERNET PERSONAL BETTERMENT FILES” long since thought destroyed but apparently those orders were not followed. We are not enemies of spiritual betterment and personal improvement here, our chapel-like environs are welcoming of all pilgrims and travelers along the road of brotherhood and good will. Hence……..this thing.

1: I am one of those Christian motherfuckers. If I’m anything at all, that would be the word to use. The “Christian” word. Not the “motherfucker” word. Oh, ok, what the fuck: use both of ‘em.

2: I don’t just BELIEVE the Bible, I can see very very clearly that it’s an accurate record of actual events by actual people and also non-people from I GUESS other dimensions. Ya know, angels and shit. Which is why I mock “broadcast-atheists.” As often as possible. Ya know, the people who are not quietly atheists and just living their fucking lives, I mean, why would they care if someone else has a fucking deity? No, it’s the atheists who have to broadcast their “gift of reason.” They couldn’t reason their way down of a supermarket aisle. And they’re ALL little snotty shits, by the way. It’s not as though they actually brawl with anyone to defend their shitty little strutting arrogance. Not that anyone actually takes a swing at the little fuckers. Which is a mistake.

3: I easily grant the deity who claims to be the ONLY deity in existence – named I AM – I totally am willing to grant him or her or it sovereign rule over his or her or its own creation. Which is apparently everything.

4: HOWEVER….I have a REAL FUCKING PROBLEM with this “Vengeance is mine” thing that he keeps saying: this fucking Declaration Of Property Ownership that God says belongs to him and him alone. But, hey – He created truth. He didn’t create lies. Other entities came up with those. So in other words, God says vengeance is his private property?….it must be true. But – just so you know, in case you were wondering – I am NOT happy about it. I routinely ask God “Well, ok, vengeance is yours, but I was wondering if I could borrow it for a day or two? I have some real mother fucking assholes that need straightening out: permanently. PLUS….I don’t want any hassles from the authorities. And if you don’t know what the authorities are, just ask Jesus. He’ll give you an earful on THAT topic.”

So far I have not gotten an answer one way or the other. And that’s a bit aggravating. They say we all have a cross to bear? This is mine: God declaring to having a monopoly on vengeance. It just freezes me AND my nuts in a kind of paralysis from time to time, like, I’m itching to move toward the target that needs removing but I’m nailed to the floor.

Now if I just BELIEVED God exists rather than KNOW God exists, what the fuck, I would be doing vengeance routinely and chalking it up to, “Well, ya know, I’m just a poor sinner and I succumbed to weakness, Please forgive me, Lord.” That kinda thing. But I don’t BELIEVE God’s existence, I’m CONVINCED of it.

As for you? I don’t give a fuck what you believe or are convinced of. It’s your business. Not mine. Anyway, it’s not a belief-system with me. It’s a “Yeah, ok, I get it,” system. I seen the fucking historical record that he exists. Now the same people who say the Biblical record is fiction….will believe Columbus sailed a boat two feet long across a 3-4 thousand mile uncharted oceanic voyage no one had ever done before. They’ll believe that.

Based on the historical record. But not the Bible. Which is a historical record. Atheists are pretty fucking flighty about what histories they are going to believe and what ones they’re going to shitcan. They apparently have some innate fucking History Validator that tells them what histories are accurate and what histories are not. They’re like the people who say “global greenhouse science is science” and “covid science is science,” but that the biological science of “two sexes” is NOT science. They’re screaming little disgusting insects that need to be crushed underfoot by a thousand ton mastodon on meth in other words. You can SEE I have fucking anger issues.

Getting back to this vengeance thing: while I have yet to get the go-ahead on borrowing some of God’s vengeance, I ROUTINELY go over to the perennially empty vast, and I do mean vast, Santa Anita Race Track parking lot grounds and environs and make out-loud, sky-facing inquiries about if-and-when God is going to take some of that fucking vengeance he claims to be in charge of and getting off his water-into-wine-drinking ass and start taking care of business…..and then I list the targets of day.

Now you might say “Well, that’s pretty brazen. Seems a bit risky, tempting the Lord. He himself claims that’s a bad idea.” Well before you go into Admonition Mode let me calm you down just a bit. For one thing I’m not “tempting the Lord.” I’m in a fucking meeting with the Lord. It’s basically a sit-down. In a sit-down you state your fucking case. It ain’t a slugfest. It’s a decision-making prelude. You make decisions REGARDING violence. You don’t DO the violence at the sit-down. So that’s what this is. Me and God are having a talk about fucking some people up.

God says he’s the only one authorized to do the fucking. But nothing in the rules says a petitioner can’t come in and say he has a problem that needs some vengeful attention. He says vengeance is His and I’m not contradicting the Sumbitch. I’m not doing that. I’m saying that I’m good with that. I’m not REALLY good with it, but, ya know, I’m trying to be fucking civil with the proclaimed Deity who spent 6,000 fucking years of human history proving he is the Deity with no OTHER deities showing up and saying “This deity has his head up his ass. He ain’t the deity: I’m the fucking deity.” So far that ain’t happened.

What I AM saying to the Deity is “There’s this really heinous clusterfuck going on over here or over there or behind this dumpster that You REALLY need to take a good look at because I know there’s probly a LOTTA shit going on you PROBABLY don’t like but I DON’T THINK You’ve noticed this little shitpile over here that I know if EYE was You, that little shitpile over here would be melted slag right now.” That’s what I say out loud, up to the sky, in the center of the vast sea of asphalt of the Santa Anita Race Track parking lot that has only me in it and the occasional crow flying over.

What this DOES is it calms me down. I’ve said my little piece to the Vengeance-Keeper-Proprietor Anomaly, and since I am convinced he actually does fucking exist, I know I’ve been ‘heard.’ This ain’t fucking “faith.” This is fucking “Oh: whoa; you really exist. Ok. Well fuck me running, here’s the deal….” Then comes the complaint. I know it’s being noticed. That’s different from whatever in the fuck BELIEF is. I BELIEVE I’m gonna fuck Paris Hilton at some point before she gets into the hag zone. I actually believe this. The ODDS are it won’t happen. But I figure fuck the odds. And we know how THAT attitude always plays out.

I should tell you, God has yet to take action on even ONE of my suggestions-for-removal-by-preferably-nuclear-means applications. Does this piss me off? A little. But I don’t go into Rebellion Mode. The last time I heard about that happening it resulted in me being born into a world filled with fucking shitheads. IN FACT God didn’t stop with the Vengeance Mode in Eden: God’s vengeance-circuits ROUTINELY kicked-in even after the Eden shitshow.

Just ONE example, some guy named Onan was ORDERED BY GOD, the creator of cocks and pussies, to use his cock to fuck someone’s pussy. That’s right, he told a guy to fuck a broad. None o’ this gay shit, this “dick-into-Bob’s-Anus” shit, he told Onan to fuck Brenda or Marge or someone and Onan thought he would be clever and yeah he fucked her but then he jizzed his “seed” onto her tits or her face or some damn place because he didn’t want her getting pregnant.

But God DID want her pregnant. Jizz is “seed” in Bible talk. Why anyone thinks the fucking bible is boring I don’t know. Anyway, when God tells you to fuck someone you should PROBABLY not assume it’s for a porno flick where the viewer wants to see the actual jizz. You should send that jizz up the designated repopulation siphon and not try to get cute. When God tells you to fuck someone either clarify the details with him beforehand so there’s no miscommunications or else just assume he means “fuck,” that is, squirt your jizz up her pussy and don’t revise and edit the original assignment.

Now there’s likely some “believers” who are saying, “Well, I don’t think when you are suggesting God should kill someone… I don’t think you can say that’s not “tempting the Lord.” Well actually I can say that. Jesus – who according to the historical record says he’s the human duplicate of the Bible Deity – Jesus says “Don’t be afraid to ask God anything.” And then, in typical Jesus ingenious detail he said “If you go to the Place of Petitioning and you ask the Petitions Magistrate for what you think is justice, does he throw a pile of writhing poisonous snakes at you?….even though personally he is very likely a piece of shit – that I love for some reason – but he’s a personal piece of shit same as you? Who I also love? For some reason? So why do you think He Who Has No Sin And Is Totally Fair – unlike yourself – …..is going to fuck you up for making a request? Tell God what you want. Worst that can happen is NOTHING or you get a “No.” Who knows, you might get a ‘Ok, whatdafuck.’ You WON’T get snakes.”

So that’s where I’m coming from when I’m in the Santa Anita Race Track parking lot yelling up at the clouds, “Are you paying attention to what (and then the name goes here: USUALLY a fucking bureaucrat) is doing NOW? How long you gonna let this fuckhead motherfucker remain intact and in operation? Where’s that vengeance hammer you claim to have a lock on? Did you lose the fucking key? SMASH this cocksucker! Ok, Mister ‘Slow To Anger’ I get it: you’re ‘slow to anger.’ Ok. Whatever. But really: this is drifting into Rip Van Winkle level of Slow. You’ve heard of Bennies, right? Do you drink coffee at all? Are you just TIRED???? Is this still part of the ‘on the 7th day you rested’ thing going on here?”

So far this hasn’t worked. But I’m AS YET not covered in snakes. And I always leave the parking lot a lot calmer. Well, noticeably calmer. To some extent. Maybe you’ll have better luck. For one thing maybe don’t hack your nuts when you’re going through this tirade. That’s usually what I’m doing. Maybe that’s, I dunno, a decorum violation. I don’t fucking know! Ok? Whatever, I don’t have no snakes on me. So far. Good luck!

Lemmee know if it works out. Maybe you can gimmee a heads-up on your approach.

_J.J. Solari

Dan Brown brought forth the power of symbols in an entertaining way when people were starting to forget writings of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell. Many were surprised with how symbols relevant to civilized humans changed over the years — sometimes in just a few years.

Change in symbols is not to be confused with the theme of transformation as imagined in ‘The Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka or ‘The Silence of the Lambs’ by Thomas Harris. For example, the novel ‘The Silence of the Lambs’ by Thomas Harris refers to a moth as symbolic for the serial-killer’s obsession with transforming ‘himself’.

Symbols can represent personal as well as social change. It can even be revolutionary or represent a sanctuary, a place of safety or refuge.

Recently, Twitter changed its famous logo to represent a new vision from the new owner Elon Musk. A logo is not just a brand icon, but also a symbol representing the purpose and ambitions of the company, product or service, the management (and sometimes its users/customers). The word ‘Twitter’ and ‘tweet’ itself may go away as Twitter is currently rebranding to X which is also its new logo.

Symbolic expressions? What’s the easiest symbol to make yourself approachable and friendly? Yup, just smile!

Meanwhile, no one seems to have made as much of an impact on Earthlings with climate related fiction as the late author Michael Crichton’s novel ‘State of Fear’. My consideration for this year 2004 novel is primarily because domestic terrorism is now a reality not just in third world nations but in developed nations as well. People today are ‘offended’ with just about everything. They are retreating into their digital devices and the only social exchange is a public display of dislike and differences between groups.

While referring to Crichton’s novel, ‘Doomsday’ and end-of-the-world is an old concept used since hundreds if not thousands of years to control and coerce society and gain power. Symbols play an important role in events and ideas affecting the whole world.

Want a bad analogy? Here is one…Not all bears are ‘teddy bears’ but they are all important with regards to ecological diversity, ecosystem and environment. Putting them all in a sanctuary or a zoo is not the solution. However, recognizing and celebrating differences while finding ways to co-exist without encroachment or hostility is a learning curve for all lifeforms at present.

Be human (though that may or may not be a good thing as per perspectives).

Meanwhile, below is something more serious than the above:

Why the climate movement doesn’t talk about polar bears anymore

Global warming moved from the North Pole to your backyard — and so did its symbols.

“The hunters in particular have a really deep respect for those big-ass, crazy scarred ones,” National Geographic photographer Yuyan said. “When that bear came down, everyone was like, ‘That one, he’s a survivor. Let him eat. Let him eat!’ Everyone was shouting it.”

Starting about two decades ago, National Geographic and the like began churning out images of lonely, hungry bears adrift on melting ice floes, painting them as the hapless victims of climate change. Whereas charts and statistics had failed to evince much of a reaction from the public, the polar bear sparked sympathy.

Today, that symbol has largely fallen out of fashion. The advocacy group ClimateXChange even says the focus on the polar bear has done a “disservice” to the goals of the movement; a handbook for public engagement for members of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, the world’s leading group of climate experts convened by the United Nations, says the image prompts “cynicism and fatigue.”

full story at: https://grist.org/culture/climate-change-polar-bears-symbol-history/

refer also: https://climate-xchange.org/communicating-the-climate-crisis/

A divorced rider, Marty, with a hot rod Dyna and a pocket fulla cash rode out of LA for the last time. Sad to the bone he stopped in Coachella Valley for a Date shake but drank six beers in a biker bar.

His Dyna barked and stumbled into a gas station for refueling. He paid cash at the counter and lifted the high-test nozzle. His heart crushed after his 15-year relationship crumbled, when the love of his life fucked her boss. He demanded blow-jobs daily from his new babe and the wicked relationship started to crumble, like bad chrome on aluminum primaries.

An attorney, he handled the divorce on his dime while fucking his client, his employee and his wife. Marty, stared at his Harley is disbelief. Unlike most of his brothers, his bike was silver and polished aluminum. His mag wheels shined bright without the dread black most riders drenched their bikes in nowadays.

Marty stood just 5’10”, but he didn’t mess around. He worked hard as a seaside truck driver lifting hundreds of pounds of fresh catch daily but stuck in traffic allowed his mind to wander into the danger zone.

He struggled against depression and mental anxiety, but riding helped. He kept going, leaving everything behind. He rode through Blythe out of California into Arizona, but not towards Phoenix. He headed south at Tucson but wouldn’t have another city. He caught two-lanes further south into Tombstone, where he slid to a stop in front of the only remaining historic bar across the street from the OK corral.

He wanted to drink himself into oblivion or ride. After a shot of Tequila, he mustered the courage to ride east, into Bisbee, Warren and Douglas. On the crest of a desert hill peppered with sand, creosote, tumbleweed and Yucca plants he could see the border town of Nogales in the valley below.

Something alluring struck him about the desert burg, but he had enough for one day and found a grungy motel where he could shower, crash for the night and ponder his fate with a bottle of tequila, a cheap salt shaker and two limes.

The next morning, his outlook trimmed with a chorizo burrito, a cup of coffee and a tall shot of tequila, he grappled with his fumbling fix on life. The sun glistened on the valley below him and cactus bent to the heat. The border town, surrounded by chain-link fence, concertina wire and guards of different varieties called to him.

He took another shot, took a shit and rode. Without anything to center his thinking, he lost mental ground, saw only the plights and obstacles to his future. He rode hard and fast to the border, uncaring if they shot him down as he approached. He didn’t give a shit if he lived out the day, ended up in prison or dead.

He pulled up to the Mexican guards in dirty Navy blue uniforms, who had no use for a biker, except to steal and sell his Harley after drenched in too much cheap tequila. They steered him to a bar of bad dreams and no hope, Bandit’s Cantina on the edge of town.

“Si Senor,” the burly, pot-bellied border guard muttered and pointed to the edge of town. “You can’t miss it.”

Marty dropped the clutch, and in a drunken haze, tried one more time to entice the law to shoot down the wild gringo. He was through the crossing and sliced through the dusty town as if he owned the roads and no one lived there. He didn’t care.

He pulled into the sandy lot in front of an old western dilapidated building. Only a handful of rusting hulks of vehicles, like old pickups, resided in the massive parking area. They stood like tombstones to failed relationships and he sensed he was next. In his current mental state, he didn’t give a damn.

He pulled on his leather vest over a torn flannel shirt and stepped up onto the faded, wood-slat porch. Outside the sun’s fiery brilliance roasted all the color from any abandoned vehicles. The dried wooden building bleached, and even his silver Dyna seemed to disappear in the dust as if it reached its seemingly last destination.

Marty yanked on his scruffy beard and entered the deep, dank and dark saloon as if someone turned out all the lights as he stumbled in. Even after removing his dark sunglasses, he couldn’t focus except on a swaying light above the bar, as if he tripped into an underground mine and only one flickering bulb hung from an overhead extension cord.

He found the bar and ordered a bottle of 100 percent agave reposado. He knew where he was heading and as his blistering pupils adjusted to the change in scenery, he found himself nearly alone in a sprawling saloon surrounded by a troop of thugs looking for their next prey. He knew trouble when he saw it, but then something touched his shoulder.

“Senor,” a voice as calm as an ocean tide cut through the mariachi music blaring from the blinking jute box. Instinctively he turned.

“Hablo Español?” she asked.

“Muy pequito,” Marty said and tried to focus on her soft features.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered and leaned close.

“Donde, where can I go,” He mixed his limited Spanish with his drunken English. On the verge of self-destruction, he began to focus on her dark concerned eyes, her fleeting smile and her gathered cotton top. Her face an angelic, Hispanic tan as soft as a baby’s ass and those warm eyes yanked him away from his doldrums.

“Go to Maria’s Tortilla flats, quickly,” she muttered. “I will meet you. I must go.”

She poured him a large glass of his reposado and laughed out loud as if taunting him to drink it, which he did and tried to find the door.

He grabbed the bottle and stuffed the limes in his vest pocket and stood swaying. As he focused on the door, two thugs moved to block his escape.

“Senor,” Enrique said, a nasty sort with a long mustach. “We get you anything you need here from something special to smoke, to young girls.”

“Who was she?” Marty said pointing in the direction of the waitress.

“She’s nobody,” Enrique said. “Let me find you a quiet table and some hot action.”

“I need to run an errand,” Marty said slipping his narrow shades back over his face and staring at the blistering sunlight creeping through a crack in the wooden door. “But I’ll be back.”

Enrique wasn’t convinced, but he opened the door for Marty and nodded to his partner. “He will be back. There’s no place in town like this one.”

All they needed was one lost customer a week and they made bank, after they stripped him of his cash, credit, belongings and vehicle. He’d most likely end up in a shallow grave just beyond town and no one cared. Another soulless gringo buried in the desert.

Marty shuffled into the overwhelming heat and sunlight. His lips were parched before he threw his leg over his Dyna. He didn’t know where Maria’s was or what to do next. Somewhere beyond the haze he was aware of what the girl with the soft eyes did for him.

He motored out of the parking area and kept toward the edge of town, where he lumbered onto a colorful palapa with a brilliant multi-colored sign, Maria’s Tortilla Flats. Something glowed about the atmosphere surrounding the flats, with its rich green shrubs and agave plants in colorful ceramic pots. Brightly adorned tables with red and white checkered table cloths made up the patio area.

Marty carefully stopped the dyna to prevent undue dust from marring the setting. He dismounted trying not to disturb what looked like local patrons mixed with a smattering of evil white tourists perched at various tables. A large jovial woman stepped out the main entrance and passed the outside covered patio. Bigger than life, her smile glistened surrounded by shimmering waves of full black locks. She wore a similar cotton gathered top as the other girl, and her abundant chest said it’s warm and comfortable here.

“You found me,” she said knowingly. “Felina called.” She motioned for Marty to follow with his bottle of tequila and a lime and a half. She took them from his hand and threw them in the trash. “You don’t need these. I have fresh ones.”

She led him inside to a small wooden table under a whirling fan in the corner of the ceramic tile floor. “Sentarse,” she said. “Relax, I’ll set you up.”

Marty scanned the room. His morning buzz interrupted by everything unfolding in front of him. He scratched under his earlobe and pulled at his mustache. His depression suspended as the room offered two rows of small round tables surrounded by four wooden and artistically adorned chairs laced with grass seating. The wooden tables faced an area for dancing and a verdant stage festively adorned.

Maria returned with a glass filled with ice, a shot glass, a small ceramic plate containing slices of lime and a small crystal-like mound of pure white salt. “Knock yourself out, Senor,” Maria said. “But try to stay sober enough to enjoy the show. Your blues will be forgotten.”

Marty looked at her wondering as three mariachis entered the bar and made for the stage with their bongos and steel guitars. As if fresh from a bullfight, each member of the band adorned himself with silver conchos, delicately embroidered pants and shirts, plus broad sweeping sombreros spilled from their heads in waves of silver and festive colors.

Marty couldn’t believe his cloudy eyes as couples poured into the merry room chatting and holding hands. The music group sprang into traditional Mexican festivities, stamping their ornate cowboy boots with silver spurs against the marred wood slat stage, when suddenly the corner of the crimson curtain flapped and a netted stocking-wrapped shapely leg appeared, her red flashy dancing shoe adorned with a brilliant silk flower twisted and teased the crowd.

Felina burst onto the dance floor nodding to the band, and then spinning, her dress revealing her legs and more. Her hands moved quickly out, around and then above her shapely torso while her fiery red cassinettes clapped and worked flawlessly with the Mariachi’s lively music.

It was the girl from Bandit’s Cantina as beautiful as a freshly blooming flower swaying in a warm breeze. Marty shoved the liquor bottle aside as they made eye contact and he felt a connection as if in a dream. It felt real, warm and wonderful.

She didn’t seem to let go of him as she danced with all her heart and spun along the shiny floor. As soon as the dance was over, she darted to his side. “Are you feeling bueno?” She asked him intent on his answer.

They introduced themselves and she glowed with every word Marty said. As the day wore on and the sun faded in the west, they cuddled and kissed. She fit against him like a hand sewn deer skin glove. She brought him tacos and salsa, sincerely concerned.

She danced with the mariachis and always returned to his side immediately. By the night fall she became his tranquility, his soulmate, and his salvation. She had but one more set and she could be his, seemingly forever.

The clock struck midnight and she sashayed onto the dance floor as if walking on air. Marty moved to a closer table at her behest, so each dance drew them tighter to their sealed relationship.

The three Mariachi performers played with enhanced gusto, knowing full well this was their last set, but excited to make an unwavering impression on the full house. A shotgun blast rocked the joyful atmosphere like a wet blanket over a fireworks display. The band stopped with a final out-of-tune twang.

“I thought you were coming back to the Cantina, gringo,” Enrique bumped Marty’s shoulder as he passed his table. Marty jumped to his feet.

Enrique, the thug with the wicked mustache and evil eyes walked to the center of the room and grabbed Felina’s arm. “You work only for Bandit’s Cantina whore and fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.” He fired another round from his double-barreled shot gun into the ceiling, scattering the silenced room with debris. Patrons darted for the door, hid behind their tables and women screamed. Enrique tossed the old sawed-off shotgun to the floor.

Marty watched as Enrique yanked and slashed at Felina’s delicate flesh. He witnessed his love being mauled, his future abused and his salvation crushed under the hands of a simple thug from across town. Enrique reached inside his vest hauling out a long-barreled, stainless, .357 magnum, revolver he spun toward Marty dragging the girl with him.

Likewise, Marty’s hand slipped into his vest gun pocked and yanked on a rusting, blued .38 snub-nosed Colt. Marty’s alert blue eyes locked with Enrique’s dark evil gaze. Enrique whirled, dragging Felina’s supple body in front of him for protection and lifted his polished weapon to fire in one deadly flowing motion.

Marty dropped to one knee, took aim and aimed at the slurry bastard, man-handling Felina. They fired simultaneously. Marty’s bullet pierced the man’s forehead and he died before he took another step.

Marty, realizing what he did, dropped the old pistol and started to run to Felina’s side, but Maria headed him off. “You must leave quickly,” she said, “More will come. I will protect her.”

In a hot flash Maria steered Marty toward a side door not far from his motorcycle. He straddled it and inserted his key quickly. The Dyna roared to life and he cut a dusty trail deeper into the heartland of Mexico. He rode hard through the night and into the sunrise along unlit highways south. His mind a blur of emotions, anger and guilt, he refueled in Hermosillo and just kept riding.

Low on cash, low on hope and dragging bottom at midday he rolled into Guaymas a desolate port town on the West Coast of mainland Mexico. He slid to a stop on the edge of the sand, struggled in his riding boots to walk across the soft beach to the waters edge. Kneeling in the sinking sand he removed his riding gloves and splashed the briny Gulf of California water in his face. It was as hot as the blistering air he breathed and he stood up abruptly. The notion of hell filled his destitute brain cells.

He looked up at the small town perched on the hillside around a craggy inlet. On reserve he rolled into town where he meandered along the single street until he saw a young prostitute on a second story deck above a crusty, dank discothèque waving her arms frantically. “Senor, Senor,” she hollered as he approached. Like a scene from the old west, a boardwalk of tilting wood planks lined the street and wooden poles were still in place for horses.

Marty parked his Dyna and the perky broad with her jet black hair pulled in a ponytail, wearing a western whore frilly dress ran to his side barefoot. “It’s you, it’s you,” she said with bright eyes. “Come inside, come inside,” she repeated herself.

“Can I have something to drink,” Marty said and found himself sitting in a similar setting to Maria’s in Nogales. He looked around confused.

“Cervesa?” The tiny young thing hurried behind the bar and returned with a Corona and a slice of lime.

Marty squeezed the lime, turned the bottle upside down to mix the juice and drank half of it.

“Maria called,” the young girl spoke anxiously. “You can’t go back there.”

“I must, but I need a job,” Marty said and buried his face in his arms. “I need Felina,” he muttered to himself.

The little Cecily’s boss offered Marty work as saloon security with a room in the back. Daily he chased down the skinny kid in the same western dress and bare feet. “Have you heard from Maria?”

“You must stay, very bad men looking for you,” Cecily responded with sad eyes and never mentioned Felina.

They stashed his motorcycle is a wooden shed behind the old building. Mariachis played every night to a half empty saloon. They didn’t move with the same passion or with the dynamic furfur as the brilliantly dressed Nogales crew.

Weeks passed and Marty’s angst grew. “I can’t take it,” he pleaded to Cecily. “I must find my Felina.”

Another Saturday night came and the bar filled with riders who spoke of Mariachis in Nogales and the lovely dancer with sad eyes. Marty’s tip jar overflowed, and he bought a bottle of their best Reposado. Half into the bottle and with a full tank of gas, Marty gave into his emotions. After closing time, against Cecily’s pleadings he hit the road north.

Afraid and distraught he rode like a madman into the night and slept under a Joshua cactus with the tarantulas. He drank tequila for breakfast and rode like the wind north. He had to see and touch his Felina for a moment, for an hour, for the rest of his life. She returned love, warmth and goodness to his being. She was his spirit, his recovery and his future.

As the sun set in the west, Marty refueled once more at a dried out truck stop in the desert. He cleaned up, dusted himself off, polished his boots and sprayed off his Dyna. It sparkled in the setting sun as he threw his leg over it, donned his cleaned dark glasses and fired it to life.

The Dyna was all he had to his name and another .38 the bar owner gave him in the right gun pocket of his 5-Ball vest. Felina was all he wanted in life and he didn’t care about anything else. He took a final shot of tequila and tossed the bottle into the tumbleweeds on the side of the road.

He rode into the night, his single headlight dancing along the unlit two-lane road. Passing a small mountain range, he entered another desolate vast valley containing a tiny grouping of sparkling lights like a clump of burning bushes. It had to be Nogales at the base of the Patagonia mountains. He pushed dangerously hard at almost 90 mph, when the flash of five motorcycle headlights lit-up to his left and the roar of bikes filled the air. A dozen or more sprang to life in the darkness on his right, half mile away and charged in his direction.

Mussel flashes pierced the darkness as he neared the town. Bullets whistled in the air. Marty reached for his weapon but felt something slice into his chest. Wavering, he pushed on, lead projectiles slamming into his Dyna as he lost control less than 1/8 mile from town.

The motorcycle lay in the sand off the road, thumping it’s final beats before it died and the headlight, like Marty’s last bastion of hope went out. Marty lay at the road’s edge surrounded by the lights of his attackers.

Maria’s pickup truck slid to a stop and Felina ran to his side. She lifted his bloody head and his eyes opened. Her beauty filled his heart with all he wished for and she kissed him. “Felina my love, good bye.”

This piece was inspired by a Marty Robbins song from 1959

About El Paso

“El Paso City” is a song written and recorded by American country music artist Marty Robbins. It was released in March 1976 as the first single and title track from the album El Paso City. The song was Robbins’ 15th number one on the U. S. country singles chart. The single stayed at number one for two weeks and spent 11 weeks on the chart.

Out in the west Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Nighttime would fine me in Rosa’s Cantina,
Music would play and Felina would whirl.

–Marty Robbins
1959

 “Cold beer…Good food…Children welcome” is a sign that welcomes visitors to Cook’s Corner, a family friendly biker bar nestled in Trabuco Canyon in Orange County, California.

Cook’s Corner is named after Andrew Jackson Cook, who acquired the land on which the roadhouse now sat in 1884. In 1926, his son, Earl, turned an old cabin on the property into an eatery for locals. In 1933 when prohibition ended, Cook’s Corner Cabin eatery was converted into a bar. Over the years, their clientele has transformed from coal miners to bikers… Cook’s has become popular for two things…. Their spaghetti nights, and their endless, tireless support of the biker community. They are known for hosting charity rides, from 9/11 to Children’s Hospitals.

Families and regulars were enjoying heaping plates of pasta and cold beers, listening to the M Street band play Fleetwood Mac’s song “Rhiannon” at Cook’s Corner on August 23rd, when terror came right through the door.

Authorities said John Snowling, armed with multiple weapons, went to Cook’s Corner looking for his estranged wife, who had filed for divorce nine months earlier. He walked up to her, and without “a discussion, dialogue or an argument,” Orange County Sheriff Don Barnes said, “he immediately fired upon her, striking her once.”

The 59-year-old John Snowling, a retired sergeant from the Ventura Police Department, walked into the bar with a gun in each hand, and shot his estranged wife, Marie, in the jaw before turning his gun on her friend Tonya Clark, who was there celebrating her birthday. Tonya was able to stagger outside and get to the roadway, but collapsed and was later pronounced dead. She was the mother of two sons and a daughter.

Snowling then started firing randomly at other patrons inside the bar and then went outside and shot others there as well, including Glen Sprowl Jr., 53, of Stanton, who tried to confront him.

Snowling was not to be deterred as he headed to his truck to retrieve two more weapons, another handgun and a shotgun. People were screaming and scrambling to hide or get away as the rogue cop fired again and again.

As soon as he heard gunshots, Lake Forest resident Ryan Guidus, 36, reached down, unlatched his 7-month-old daughter from her stroller, and started running with her in his arms. He and his mother-in-law ran onto the patio and into the nearby bushes and trees. Guidus was hiding with other people who started screaming that the gunman was coming up the other side of Cook’s. The father yelled for everyone to keep calm and to stop drawing attention to their hideout.

Guidus was looking for a way out. He asked another diner to hold his daughter as he slid down the side of the nearby ravine where he was assisted by mountain bikers. The man handed Guidus’ baby back to him and he sprinted down the road clutching his infant.

Wounded band member recalled the ‘horror’ to ABC7

The entire ordeal felt like it went on for 30 minutes, Guidus said, but after he spoke with the officers, he learned the shooting had lasted less than five minutes.

At that point, deputies arrived and confronted Snowling, fatally shooting him. Seven deputies were involved in that encounter and none of them were injured. Investigators later recovered four weapons: a .380 pistol, .38 revolver, .25 pistol and a shotgun. Barnes said Snowling had legally acquired all four. The gunman, retired police sergeant John Snowling, was shot and killed by sheriff’s deputies who responded to the scene.

Snowling killed three people, and also wounded six people in the shooting, including two band members as well as his estranged wife Marie.

Among the wounded were two members of the band M Street, who were playing on stage at Cook’s Corner when Snowling walked in, opening fire with a gun in each hand.

Bass player Dave Stretch was wounded in the hip. His bandmate was struck in the arm. He talked to ABC7 News about what it was like.

John Leehey, 67, was killed in the mass shooting on Weds., Aug 23, 2023 at Cook’s Corner in Trabuco Canyon. (Courtesy of JML Planning Consultancy)

“There was not a discussion, dialogue or an argument,” Orange County Sheriff Don Barnes said Thursday. Authorities said Snowling used two weapons — pistols or revolvers — in the shooting and had two other firearms in a Ford F-250 truck parked outside.

Providence Mission Hospital said three of the six patients it treated have been released. A fourth patient, a man who was shot in the arm, had surgery and a fifth patient, a man who had been shot in the chest, remained in critical condition.

Marie Snowling, was initially treated at Providence Mission Hospital Wednesday before being transferred to UC Irvine Medical Center in Orange.. survived the attack.

Mass shootings are always horrific tragedies that forever change the landscape and history of a place… and we always ask why it happened. When I saw that John Snowling had been a policeman since the mid 80s in Ventura… I reached out to someone especially well versed in Ventura bikers and cops for answers.

George Christie, Jr. served as president of the Ventura, California chapter of the Hells Angels between 1978 and 2011. He is the longest-serving chapter president in the club’s history. Christie was also a national spokesman for the Hells Angels before they parted ways… and George did indeed remember John Snowling.

“I knew the Sergeant well,” said Christie. “He had a personal problem with Hells Angels, but seemed to target the younger members. He was unnecessarily aggressive. I tried to resolve the problem through direct dialogue, but he seemed to put up an impenetrable wall. I became concerned enough to contact the chief. The Ventura Hells Angels had an open line of communication with the Ventura police department. I am not sure what measures were taken, but it seemed to resolve our problem with this particular officer. “

According to notorious George, who now spends his days doing podcasts and books since he parted ways with the Angels, there was definitely an underlying hatred of bikers in Snowling’s way of thinking. We can only contemplate as to that being the reason why he snapped and went on a killing spree when his estranged wife took up with hanging out at a biker bar… especially knowing he purchased a new Harley a few days before he pissed on that thin blue line he was sworn to uphold and protect.

We here at Bikernet send our condolences to the families, and to Cook’s Corner for this tragic event… and we pray you are all able to recover and carry on and survive. God bless y’all.

 These high-performance nitrogen over-oil shocks were designed with Öhlins specifically for Screamin’ Eagle Factory Team race bikes. They are monotube design with a remote reservoir that are completely adjustable to match a riding style using an tune-able preload spring to set sag and fine tune adjustments for compression at the reservoir and rebound at the bottom of the shock.

 

 

 Installation is straight forward and easy if you have Sockets, Torx Bits, Allen Bits, and of course a Torque Wrench.

 

 You will need to have the rear suspension off the ground. It’s much simpler if you have a lift with a jack under the frame.

 

 1)      PREPARE FOR REMOVAL

a)      Set vehicle upright.

b)      Secure with tie-downs.

c)      Raise rear of vehicle.

d)      Remove saddlebags.

2)      REMOVE OLD SHOCKS

 

a)      Remove upper and lower shock absorber mounting bolts, lock washers and flat washers and remove shock absorber.

i)        Save screws and washers for later use.

b)      Remove OE screws from fender strut.

 

a)      Install appropriate spacers into mounting bracket. Apply thread locker to mounting spacers. Loctite 262 High Strength (Red) and tighten and torque to 8 ft-lbs.

i)        NOTE

(1)   For spacer selection, reference the accessory that is used on the vehicle.

(a)    Short Spacer: Use with Tour Pak or saddlebag support insert. Other accessory inserts can be used like the 4-Point Docking Hardware Kit.

(b)   Long Spacer: Use with fender strut insert.

  

bb)b)  Apply thread locker to long screw. Loctite 262 High Strength (Red)   

i)        Note

(1)   The installation calls for Loctite 262 High Strength (Red), I chose to use Loctite 243 Medium Strength (Blue) which would make for easier disassembly in the future without stripping Allen heads.

c)      Install mounting bracket and install screws. Tighten and torque to 20 ft-lbs.

 

d)      Install flat head screw in reservoir clamp. Do not tighten completely.

  

4)      INSTALL SHOCK ASSEMBLY

The shock lengths are set to stock at factory. You will most likely run into issue with holes not being perfectly aligned on both sides for both shocks. I found the easiest way to do this was to start on the right-hand side of the motorcycle. Partially install lower bolt assembly into shock and swingarm. Raise and or lower the jack to line up the hole with top bolt assembly and install bolt into upper frame. Then continue to the left side and repeat the same steps to install the bolts. If you don’t do this pressure will be required to align the hole for the bolt and you can easily cross thread hardware and fight yourself starting the bolt. Do not forget to use the provided washers on the inside of the shock as the stock assembly only used washers on the outside.

a)      Note:

i)        Reuse original OE mounting hardware.

b)      Apply thread locker to each mounting bolt. Loctite 243 Medium Strength (Blue)

c)      Important:

i)        Install screw to shock assembly using original washer on outside and the provided kit washer to the inside of the shock to the frame side.

d)      Install screws to frame. Do not tighten completely.

e)      Repeat procedure for other screw.

f)       Tighten screws and torque to 63–70 ft-lbs.

 

5)      INSTALL RESERVOIR

a)      Install reservoir in clamp bracket.

b)      Adjust as needed for proper hose routing.

c)      Install clamp bracket to mounting bracket.

i)        Note:

(1)   I found it easier to install the brackets to the mounts then insert and tighten the reservoir.

d)      Install screws and tighten and torque to 62 in-lbs.

e)      Tighten screw flat head screw and torque to 27 in-lbs.

f)       Secure hose with cable straps. 

6)      NOTE

a)      Öhlins shocks are pre-set at Harley-Davidson’s original equipment length.

b)      Adjusting length could result in tire and fender contact or axle and muffler contact at travel limits on some vehicles.

c)      Reference Öhlins owner’s manual for: Setting up, adjustments, spring preload, compression damping, rebound damping adjust length and general setup.

7)      Install saddlebags.

8)      Lower rear wheel.

 

I chose to leave the shock preload alone and rebound alone while only adjusting compression to 15 clicks. This is handled by turning clockwise until it stops and turning adjuster to first click. This will be 0 for both rebound and compression. Then count your clicks for the appropriate setting.

 

After the first mile on these I was totally impressed and sold with a night and day difference. I started to try and find as many bumps as possible, as I couldn’t believe the difference this setup makes. It is so much smoother, as the compression and rebound work perfectly with my ass staying in the seat without feeling like I would be ejected sometimes or crushing my spine on a bump.

-Misled

What was the Sturgis Rally Attendance in 2023? SD Department of Transportation reported traffic counts of 458,161 (click here).

2023 Sturgis Motorcycle Rally taxes were down 6%.​

2024 Sturgis Motorcycle Rally Dates

So, if you have been reading stuff on Bikernet.com since 2006 or from past few years, you might know I ride an Enfield. I also owned an all-terrain dirt bike after selling my second Enfield. A Hero XPulse (yes, from Hero MotoCorp, the partner and exclusive distributor for Harley-Davidson motorcycles sales & service in India).

However, I recently purchased a used vehicle. An out-of-production cast-iron engine Enfield Bullet 350cc with right-hand-side gear shift, which is the closest thing available to the 1955 Enfield Bullet 350 including chassis and engine design by the Britishers among other things such as dashboard, tank, hand-painted pinstripe, etc. These come with Green Tax for the alleged pollution they may or might be making. I got a fitness test certificate from the Road Transport office, where the ownership change is registered.

There are draconian laws in the Indian nation against customization and you can be cited with a ticket (called ‘challan’) even for painting your vehicle in a different color than what is mentioned in the registration papers. Supposedly, this discourages vehicle theft and maybe even terrorism (parked scooter explosions are real and no, not the EV fires). That’s like banning guns because guns kill people? How bank robbers or terrorists manage to get their arms & ammunition is a cosmic mystery.

However, in a nation as diverse and overactive as India, maybe its best people have less access to mischief and mayhem!

My purchase wasn’t planned. Hell, I didn’t even want to ever own another Enfield after having willingly sold my second one, a Bullet 500cc. My first one was lovely, a cast-iron engine like the present one and it lasted 10 years, prompting plenty of travelogues and fiction for Bikernet.com

My frustration was with the quality of materials and work on newer mass production Enfields. Recently, Siddhartha Lal, MD, Eicher Motors which owns Royal Enfield stated or rather boasted, “our three plants crank out a motorcycle every 38 seconds”. Hey, maybe that’s the problem; not really a positive aspect of your brand?

Anyways, friggin’ social media was showing me Enfields, then came free advert listings of people selling their Enfields, then I came across movies featuring Enfields in a popular video-posting website. Was it the universally destined choice of vehicle for me or friggin’ nerds crunching ‘Big Data’ with their machine learning programs, pitching things I don’t need anymore?

Well, as luck would have it, I was on a street where an old acquaintance has a shop for buying and selling used motorcycles. Out of curiosity (which killed my bank account….later) I asked him how much do Enfield old cast-iron engines go for anyways? He showed me how he has a wonderful one which starts with just one smooth kick—took me by the arms and led me to his parking lot to prove the worthiness of the rusting black Bullet 350 from year 2004. Demonstrating the minor differences between this model and my former 2007 Enfield Bullet 350, he gladly asked me when I was planning to buy it.

My mind swirled between happy memories of my Enfield and sad realities about older vehicle related laws in the city and nation. Then the EV future loomed large, and maybe a ban on ICE engines purchases or ownership if that’s the route USA decides to go—and the world follows, including India!

Last time, when I first purchased an Enfield, i.e. a Bullet 350 with cast-iron engine in 2007, I had expedited my decision because, hey, they were gonna stop manufacturing cast-iron engines and the factory had already pulled the plug on 500cc cast-iron engines!

Again, fear and doom ruled! Will they ban ICE sales this year, next year, by the time I save enough, by the time there is a better choice of cast-iron Bullet for sale….and I bought the bait, and chewed on this purchase for four agonizing months.

Well, the motorcycle was definitely nice and the deal was cool, at a more than reasonable rate. Yet, I should have been wary when the seller offered to restore some of the eye-sores on the old horse for an extra wad of cash.

That was the pain in the purchase. The four months of purgatory where both me and my Enfield Bullet suffered separation and neglect. Life was happening. My mother was in and out of hospitals. Work suffered, so was my health running about doing errands and familial obligations, paying bills, maintaining accounts, keeping up appearances, etc. I had already paid for the insurance, the ownership transfer, the repairs this dude was gonna do.

Then September and beginning of what is a grand series of festivals in India arrived. Till New Year’s eve, this festive season is when every salesman worth its (are they human or reptilian? “its” it is) salt doesn’t have to make any effort to hard-sell as the brands / companies offer glorious schemes and benefits for maximizing profits through economies of scale. Plus there are banks, non-banking finance firms, fintech startups, etc enabling the temptations. If you sell a million units instead of a thousand, then you can manufacture and sell the unit for a lot less – that’s the economics of a nation of billion humans. Hey, more people here have a mobile phone and/or smart phone than a television or jobs for that matter (okay, that’s just speculation, but probably true!?!)

Automotive business is booming in India and so is luxury brands. Even Electric Vehicles now have a representation in the monthly-quarterly industry sales pie-charts.

Thus, in September, I pulled up myself by the bootstraps, looked in the mirror and decidedly saw I wore pants and I pulled ’em down to make sure I am still a man! I went over to the bloke, the shop-owner procrastinating and making excuses for not handing over my motorcycle because this and that work is still pending.

I said, “Is it running?”

He answered, “Yes! Of course!”

“I’ll take it,” and off I went out of this world of misadventure.

It took me a while to figure out I had been had. Not that I am a simpleton but I give the benefit of doubt to the same person more frequently than I should. I wanted to believe he was a man of his word and would not feel I cheated him out of anything because I didn’t bargain. Back in May 2023, he had quoted a price for this used Enfield Bullet 350 and I said ‘okay.’ That was that. I didn’t haggle and he shouldn’t act like a greedy fisherwoman after the sale was done.

He had promised to help with some of the aspects of repair for the motorcycle that would make me happier taking delivery of the Bullet as it would look and run a lot better.

Ultimately, it was more than four months of anxiety and worn-out shoes strolling to his shop and a hundred plus phone calls to him before I rode away with my new prized possession. The Enfield Bullet itself runs smooth enough. It had 26,373 kms on it when I got hold of it (not like he was offering delivery gladly) – and I am sure that douchebag rode a few hundred kilometres on my motorcycle in the months between purchase and ‘possession.’

I just let go of that shopkeeper physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually, because there is no point crying over how he milked me. I went to a garage that only does repair and does not sell anything at all.

The thing with people going to a repair shop or authorized service centre instead of working on their vehicle themselves is again simple logic and math. Instead of spending time and money and (precious) space for DIY repairs, you can get your motorcycle or car fixed for less than one tenth the costs (million customers per square kilometre of cities). Finding an honorable mechanic is the key to the kilometres of fun.

The garage I went to had an old-timer and his name translated to English literally means ‘King.’ He told me what spares I will need. I went to a spare parts shop and bought them. Then he fixed the immediate necessities – a horn, a turn signal bulb, the petrol pipe connecting the tank to the carburetor, the tank lid lock which was throwing out petrol because it was missing a rubber washer. He greased the spring on the central stand since it wouldn’t sprung when the stand was off the ground for riding (yes, even latest Enfield motorcycles have a centre-stand along with the Western choice of side-stand).

For all of this, his labour, his fee was Rs. 100 only. (US 1 dollar and 20 cents)

The shop from where I had purchased this Enfield had sold it to me for Rs. 68,000 + 21,000 for repairs & restoration. (USD 830 + USD 256).

I guess, some doors close and new garage doors open with a welcome change.

So far, I have done well over 100 KMs on the Bullet in two days. The petrol consumption is 20 to 23 km per litre. If I go above 60 kmph, then the petrol consumption is fast and frivolous and the old engine & chassis vibrates like the poltergeist in Exorcist and a creatively named Spielberg movie (Trivia? Spielberg was only the writer for 1982’s Poltergeist).

That’s that and now the adventure on the road begins. I hope to ride this heap of metal to November’s Rider Mania event, held annually by Royal Enfield company at Vagator beach, Goa (India).

I will write more about riding experience with this 2004 machinery on typical Indian roads and upcoming repairs if any. Hopefully, Bandit and Bikernet.com will see more travelogues rather than tech. Keep in mind, petrol is imported and thus expensive commodity here. 86% of crude oil is imported by India, losing precious foreign exchange with each drop of fuel. No wonder they imagine EV is their enlightenment. That is a separate dialogue and debate for another article or editorial.

Let’s hope ICE engines don’t suffer rapture and we all continue to have God-given freewill as civilized humans to choose what we want to ride on Earth forever. Is customer king? Well, we are all conditioned since decades if not centuries. So, data mining and targeted advertising is just another spoke in the wheel of capitalist industry.

Live and let riding make us feel alive. Meanwhile, here is a painting of Enfield in India.