To Helmet or Not to Helmet, that is THE Question!
By Bandit |
Helmets and helmet laws are incredibly controversial and divisive. Navigating all the conflicting and sometimes unreliable and confusing studies on both sides of the debate can and will drive you crazy.
Whether you are for helmets or against helmets, whether you always wear a helmet or never wear a helmet – the discussion still goes on, and there are arguments for both sides. The debate seems to be slowly changing…..
Feds will stop hyping effectiveness of bike helmets.
Two federal government agencies will withdraw their longstanding claims that bicycle helmets reduce the risk of a head injury by 85%. The decision comes in response to a petition the Washington Area Bicyclists Association (WABA) filed under the federal Data Quality Act.
In 1989, a study in Seattle estimated that helmets prevent 85% of head injuries. Later efforts to replicate those results found a weaker connection between helmets and head injuries, but public health advocates, government web sites, and the news media often present it as fact…..
Read more: http://greatergreaterwashington.org/post/19036/feds-will-stop-hyping-effectiveness-of-bike-helmets/
1989 Study:
Abstract:
Bicycling accidents cause many serious injuries and, in the United States, about 1300 deaths per year, mainly from head injuries. Safety helmets are widely recommended for cyclists, but convincing evidence of their effectiveness is lacking. Over one year we conducted a case-control study in which the case patients were 235 persons with head injuries received while bicycling, who sought emergency care at one of five hospitals…..
They concluded that bicycle safety helmets are highly effective in preventing head injury. Helmets are particularly important for children, since they suffer the majority of serious head injuries from bicycling accidents….
Read more: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/2716781
WHY NOT WEAR A BIKE HELMET?
I don’t care if you wear a bicycle helmet.
Helmets are a ridiculously divisive issue, and it seems like many people pick their corner and defend it at all costs, no matter how ridiculous their arguments become. I don’t think you’re reckless just because you don’t wear one, nor will I laud you for setting a positive example to mankind if you do. I probably won’t notice one way or the other.
On the other hand, many of the arguments people take against helmets are naive at best and laughable at worst. It’s your own business if you don’t want to wear a helmet, but getting bogged down in rhetoric doesn’t make anyone any safer….
The Future?
The Invisible Helmet:
It’s been seven years in the making, but the world’s first “invisible” bike helmet is now available for purchase. The brainchild of Anna Haupt and Terese Alstin, two industrial designers from Sweden, the Hövding—Swedish for “chieftain”—is essentially a collar that deploys an airbag-like hood in case of an impact. Unlike regular hard-hat helmets, which the duo deride as “bulky, like a hard mushroom on your head,” the Hövding is designed to be unobtrusive. But the device is more than an expression of vanity. “An invisible bicycle helmet is a symbol of the ‘impossible,’” Haupt and Alstin say in the video. “If people say it’s impossible, we have to prove them wrong.”
The Regenerative Helmet:
In many countries, wearing a bike helmet while cycling in public places is compulsory because it is proven to have saved lives. However, anyone who has ever applied one of these helmets to their heads knows that are definitely not a one-size-fits-all piece of equipment. An ill-fitting helmet means less protection, but they can require much trial and error to adjust correctly. The Regenerative Helmet overcomes this with its hard outer shell and flexible segments that allow the helmet to contort to provide a better fit.
The liner uses dual density multi-impact foam to provide impact protection for both low and high speed accidents.
Skin Helmets:
There’s no doubt that wearing a motorcycle helmet is better than not wearing one, but various studies have shown that there’s one potentially-lethal injury that they don’t protect against – rotational injury, also known as intracerebral shearing. When a rider’s helmet hits the road, its rigid shell catches against the pavement and causes the helmet to very rapidly twist around. The rider’s head twists with the helmet, but does it so quickly that the brain doesn’t quite keep up, moving a few milliseconds after the skull it’s contained in.
The result is the shearing of nerves and blood vessels, resulting in disabilities or even death. Lazer Helmets is now offering something claimed to reduce the risk of this injury by almost 70% – helmets with skin….
Multiple Use Helmet:
It’s a fact of life that when you engage in certain sports you need to wear protective gear. Obviously, your head needs to be protected from any accidental impact and that’s where sports helmets come in. If you’re a keen sportsman, you’re likely to be frustrated by the fact that every sport requires a different helmet, which are not always comfortable or particularly cheap.
Worse, if you happen to come to grief on your bike, snowboard, or other thrill seeking conveyance, you’ll be forced to buy a new helmet every time it’s subjected to an impact. That could be about to change – Tatoo is a new sports helmet that is designed for comfort and can still be used even after multiple accidents….
ProActive Helmet:
June 9, 2008 A young industrial designer has created a new type of safety helmet for the construction industry that is a little smarter than most. The “ProActive” helmet features a flexible inner layer that remains soft and comfortable during normal use, but immediately becomes hard and shock-absorbent when subjected to impact.
The inside of the helmet is lined with soft, flexible material that has the ability to turn rock hard upon impact. “The material on the inside makes my helmet more comfortable in everyday use, and at the same time, safer than traditional models,” says Storholmen.
Storholmen’s innovative design was a recent winner at the Norwegian Design Council awards, ……
How effective are bicycle helmets?
In theory, helmets should absorb the shock from a crash. If your head strikes the ground or a vehicle, your brain could be seriously shaken by the sudden deceleration. With a helmet, the foam around your head forms a cushion.
They can also prevent head fractures by spreading the force of the impact. It’s like the difference between being hit on the head by a rock or a beach ball with the same weight.
It’s hard to tell how often helmets actually prevent head injuries, however. Experiments on people are unethical, so instead researchers collect hospital data on people involved in bicycle crashes.
Head injury data following helmet laws is more informative:
For this reason, time series from countries where helmet wearing increased dramatically because of helmet laws provide the most useful information about helmet wearing (Robinson, 1996). In every case, the large increases in helmet wearing resulted in no noticeable decreases in the percentages of injured cyclists with Head Injuries. Perhaps cyclists forced to wear helmets ride more dangerously, and so increase their risk of Head Injuries, perhaps helmets are worn incorrectly, or perhaps the benefits of helmets are too small to be detected.
Either way, it is incorrect to claim that helmets prevent 85% of head and 88% of brain injuries. If this were really true, the effect on %Head Injuries would have been noticeable when millions of cyclists were forced by law to wear helmets….
Read more: http://www.cyclehelmets.org/1131.html
Replacing Unsafe Helmets?
We’re told that we should replace our bike helmets every couple of years or so, because minuscule cracks can develop over time, rendering them structurally unsound. For the same reason, we’re supposed to replace a helmet that has withstood a direct impact immediately, no questions asked.
The problem is… it’s so hard to get yourself to throw away what looks like a perfectly good helmet, just because it might no longer be effective. New technology developed at the Fraunhofer Institute for Mechanics of Materials should eliminate this situation.
When your helmet is getting past its prime, it will start to smell. If it develops any large cracks… well, you’d better plug your nose….
Helmets and helmet laws are incredibly controversial and divisive. Navigating all the conflicting and sometimes untrustworthy studies on either side of the debate can drive you crazy.
Bells, Gremlins and Potholes
By Bandit |
Have you ever noticed those little silver, brass or chrome bells that often hang from motorcycles? Ever wondered why bikers would hang a small bell on their bike? They certainly are not going to be able to hear the tiny ringing of the bell over the rumble of the exhaust!
Have you ever experienced strange things happening to your bike? It won’t start, or your clutch suddenly needs adjusting, your timing is off, the gears are not shifting quite right, or loose wires keep appearing?
Let me introduce you to the Evil Road Spirits – they find motorcycles incredibly attractive and a wonderful place to hang around and cause trouble. These are small, tiny little gremlins who love to wreak havoc wherever they go and cause accidents.
These Road Spirits hate bells, they get trapped in the hollow of the bell, and the constant ringing drives them insane. They lose their grip on your bike and fall onto the roadway leaving an indentation in the road – and thus potholes are born. Haven’t you ever wondered how all those potholes were made?
Origin of Biker Bells
The true origin of the biker bell may never be known, but may have ties to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.
In the 1930’s the Jackpine Gypsies Motorcycle Club was formed in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The rally started as a half-mile dirt-track race, with a few racers and small group of about 200 onlookers.
It is said that a bell was given to entrants to pin on their shirt as a token of entry—much like a button or wrist band might be given today.
Commemorative Bell
Another traditional meaning for motorcycle bells is as a tribute to a fallen friend. A brass bell is often hung from the left side of the swing arm on the motorcycle. Each time you clean the bike, and bend down to polish the bell, you can remember your friend with fondness.
Legend of the Gremlin Bell
As the story goes, an old gray-beard was riding home from Mexico, with saddlebags loaded full of toys and trinkets for some kids in an orphanage near where he lived. It was a cold night in the high deserts just north of the border. As he rode he thought of rides past, epic journeys with long lost friends and the many nights just like this spent in the saddle.
Ahead in the small beam of his old headlamp he thought he saw something. As he rode on it appeared again, this time there were more of them. There were tiny little creatures that seemed to dart in and out of the beam as fast as the wind. They were dark little dodgy spirits, quick, and all but translucent in the moonlight—they were road gremlins. Before he could react they were on the bike. As he mashed on the brakes the front tire blew, and the old rear drum brake that had served him well for years locked up.
When he came to he was nearly ten yards from his bike. One saddle bag had been torn loose and was lying next to him in the cold, hard packed dirt. In the light of the moon he could see his bike, the little spirit like road gremlins dancing on top. He raised himself up to his elbows, where he could see them more clearly, and they caught a glimpse of him too. That’s when they began to approach. Slowly, almost curiously, they stalked towards him. As they advanced he picked up the only thing that was within reach, the saddle bag, and began to wave it at them trying to keep them at bay.
From inside the bag came a ringing noise.
He noticed that if he shook the bag the little gremlins would fall back, plugging their ears in retreat. He quickly unstrapped the bag and dug out two sleigh bells from a set of toy reindeer buried in the bag. As he knelt there shaking the bells the gremlins retreated off into the darkness.
As if attracted like a moth to a flame, two staggered lights approached from the distance, and came upon the lone rider in the darkness. To the lone rider they seemed like angels coming upon him with wings, guided by the sound of the bells. The two riders helped the old gray-beard brush himself off and gather his belongings. They set up camp and talked long into the night, about the old man’s brush with the road gremlins, and of many rides past. The old man offered to pay, but as-is biker tradition, the two men would not accept any form of repayment.
In the morning the men helped the gray-beard patch his tire and limp to a little service station in the next town. Again, as they prepared to go their separate ways, the men refused payment. The old man had suspected this, so in the early morning hours just before dawn, he had awakened and attached two bells, one to each of his angel rider’s bikes. As the old man watched his new friends roll out of the dusty service station driveway, he thought he could hear the ringing of bells over the low rumble of the bikes.
There are many variations on this Legend, and you will hear many tales told around campfires late at night with good friends, beer and bong. The tale started a long, long time ago, and has been handed down by word of mouth with embellishments along the way as each storyteller wove their own magic into the tale.
Just like any true biker, it doesn’t matter how they dress on the outside, the heart of the story remains the same. It’s a reminder of the generosity of friends or in random acts of brotherhood along the road. The spirit of comradeship and brotherhood between bikers is what the ride bell is really about.
Legend says that if you buy a bell for yourself, the magic will work its spell. However, if you have been given a bell by a friend as a gift, then the magic doubles in power and you will be well protected.
You can never have too much luck!
Trolling through the Internet I came across these places to buy Guardian Bells, I offer you a few ideas on what and where to go if you are interested in buying one of these sweet, little bells.
There are many choices, this is just one:
Celtic Cross Guardian Bell – 100% pewter, made in USA, $9.99
Part Number: 153-270
The chrome plated Gremlin Bells vary in size and shape from bell to bell. All bells come with a card that includes a version of the bell story and a 12″ piece of leather cord.
$5.00 or $15.00 for a bell in a wooden gift box.
Live To Ride Guardian Bell: Pewter bell with wrap around design. On the front is an American bald eagle with a banner that reads Ride To Live. Turn the bell around to see the rest of the banner reading Live To Ride. $9.95 Part #BEA1081
Includes a gift bag and the Legend of the Bell. FREE shipping in the USA.
They sell bells on every theme you can think of: Animals, bugs, Celtic, civil service, dogs, fantasy, flags, memorial, military – you get the idea!
Lady Biker Rose Bell – $18.00 SKU Bell Lady Biker FH
Many others to choose from.
Harley-Davidson Women’s Pink Label Ride Bell
Price: $16.99, Doc’s Sale Price: $13.59
Many more to choose from!
Bling Guardian Bell – the only Swarovski crystal Bling Guardian Angel Biker Bell. It comes in lots of different colors! $49.95
Australian company – every choice possible, there is a huge variety of quality bells available. $14.95
BIKES, BOAT WRECKS, AND BARBEQUES
By Bandit |
One of the strangest aspects of a drifter’s life is the fact that he has almost no permanent reality of his own. Most every man has his own reality; his job, woman, friends, family, home, dog, etc. The things he loves and the things he only tolerates in his world. In this way a man’s life is forged of the people and objects around him. Not so for the drifter; and in my case the only things that remain familiar are my bike and body. Everything around these two staples is in a state of almost constant change. Life became a perpetual visit into other people’s worlds.
By summer I often take employment at big motorcycle rallies around the country. This is an honest gig allowing a traveler to pull off the road, work a hard week, and then grab a pocket full of green freedom and be on his way again. He’s free to enjoy his travels until the next event in some distant state. At Sturgis, if you can fix bikes and want to work, then you’re golden. I did exceptionally well there in 2013. The funds my labor brought in lasted for many months. As usual there was no time schedule, no home to return to, and no real future destination. For a while the days ahead were filled only with riding and whatever manner of adventure the road might throw my way next. I’d not be kept waiting long…
It’s been said there’s more power in one female pubic hair than there is in a locomotive train. No man has ever argued this indisputable truth. So, it was the call of a woman, coupled with the wish to visit a few old friends in Utah, which motivated my wheels to spin so lazily in a westerly direction and across the tiny back roads of Wyoming.
Afternoon was fading to evening as the old Electra Glide pulled into the small town of Buffalo. Tomorrow’s highway would climb the 9,700 foot Powder River Pass then move on to Thermopolis and eventually into Utah while hopefully passing through some beautiful back country scenery along the way. Tonight however, I’d simply make camp.
After a local restaurant provided dinner, one abandoned dirt road led the Electra Glide into the seemingly forgotten woods residing along a small creek. The night was so warm and sky so bright, so I chose simply to leave the tent untouched and sleep beside my bike amid the tall trees and under cover of the star filled night. It was late morning when sleep finally left and I reached for the coffee thermos. After a bowl of cereal, I walked to the creek for a bath, changed into clean cloths, repacked the bike, and eventually made my way back to the pavement.
No motorcyclist could ever hope for a better ride than the one along the little highway-16. Although the mid August air started out warm, by the time the mountain pass faded from my mirrors it was downright hot.
The anomaly of Thermopolis came to pass. I spent over an hour grinning and shooting pictures of the bizarre spectacles peppering this strange geothermal place. Eventually—and now dressed in shorts, tank, and tennis shoes—the highway led onward.
Spectacular walls of tall rock outcroppings stood to either side of the tight canyon road as its twisty pavement crawled beside the river at my right. A small rest area came into view. Some 50 feet from the river’s edge a single picnic table sat atop a small concrete slab and below the small metal roof shading it from the pounding sun. Time was of no concern on this beautiful, yet exceedingly hot day, so I took a break.
Although the drive was gravel, my heavily loaded Electra Glide soon sat in the shade as I lay upon the table with my rolled up jacket as a pillow and a book in hand. A gentle breeze tugged my hair as the sound of moving river water filled my ears. The time passed comfortably.
I heard movement at the shore and looked lazily up to note that a man and his two female companions had docked their rubber boat at my shoreline. This seemed normal in a place like this so I returned to the novel.
It was only a small dirt covered hill separating me from the inflatable and I soon heard footsteps approaching. I looked up. Thin legs labored to carry the rather frail weight of a man in his later years in my direction, and I noted the slight limp as he walked.
“Hi. I’m Martin,” he pushed a thin hand in my direction and I took it. Both women arrived to flank him. “This is my wife Annie and daughter Janice.”
After more introductions Martin launched into his story. “As you can see, we came out for a little rafting today. Well, we parked my wife’s truck over there,” he pointed to the only vehicle in the lot, “then drove mine six miles up the river, locked it, and started down in the raft. Well, bunch of rank amateurs that we are, we hit a rock, flipped the boat, lost our cooler and everything else, and then barely got our shit back together without drowning!”
He was laughing now—they all were. I wasn’t sure if I should join in or not. “Problem is that Annie left her keys up in my truck and now we got no way of getting to it,” Martin was laughing some more, “I’ll give you $20 for a ride to my truck.”
Now how could I say no to that? “Well I was about ready to leave anyway Martin. I’ll take you. You don’t have to pay me though. That crazy story is wages enough.” But he insisted anyway.
As I moved to rearrange equipment and make room for a passenger Annie started talking, “Hey, where you staying tonight Scotty? We own a motel in Riverton about 35 miles up the road. It’s a nice place, how about a free room?”
I didn’t know what to say. Annie asked me for pen and paper, scribbled a note, then handed it back with a few words, “Give this to the girl at the desk and she’ll hook you up. Soon as I get my phone I’ll call and let her know you’re coming.”
Then the daughter chimed in, “Hey, we’re having a barbeque tonight. Wanna come? Free food and we’ve got a hot tub.” All smiles and bubbly, Janice was obviously one of those fun, extroverted, and possibly a little deviant, personality types. Again, how could I say no?
It was with some difficulty that Martin mounted my bike and we set off. After five miles had passed by the highway began to climb high upon the canyon wall and away from the river far below. Before long the reason became obvious: a huge dam blocked the canyon and the road had simply climbed the canyon wall to go over it. From the top I could see the large lake spreading out for quite some distance at its far side. At the other side a rough dirt road led steeply down to the dam’s base where Martin’s truck was parked. It was quite a distance. Martin offered to walk the rest of the way, but walking was no longer the old guy’s strong point and I refused to let him.
“Which way Martin?” I insisted. He pointed. The truck was just as he had said and I saw that the look of relief in the old dude’s eyes was genuine as he shook my hand and said goodbye.
With the old FL again packed for a solo rider my journey up the canyon continued.
Day faded to late afternoon as the small town of Riverton came into view. The motel was just as Annie had said and the counter girl soon handed me a key. It was a wonderful little place, all done up in natural colors and offering a little rout-iron table and chairs sitting outside my door. I unloaded the bike and settled in. Feeling hungry, I wondered whether to go out and eat or wait to see if Janice would call about the BBQ. After all, I didn’t know these people well enough to count on anything for sure. A little hunger never killed anybody, I thought, and simply settled in to wait.
The phone rang. It was Janice.
It was in a quaint middle class neighborhood in which the fine single-story American home waited for my arrival. A large fishing boat loomed from its place upon the trailer at the driveway’s left side and I pulled beside it then shut the noisy engine down. Martin appeared from the yard’s wooden gate, shook my hand, answered a few stupid questions I asked about his boat, then ushered me in through the gate. It was a tidy place, the BBQ already smoked and everybody, including grandma and grandpa, were present. After introductions, I took a seat, accepted a cup of coffee, and faded into the conversation.
Annie groaned during the motel transformation story. It undoubtedly brought more stress and financial drain than originally intended. They’d purchased the motel as a fixer upper then refurbished it into a fine establishment. Although thoroughly grateful for their kindness and this wonderful adventure. I was truly glad the motel was their burden and not mine.
Their daughter Janice left her husband at home in Arizona to come and stay. But it looked to me like she missed the dog almost as much as her folks.
The food was good and conversation jovial, as I tempered my language for the sake of this older crowd. As afternoon waned to evening then ultimately fell into night, the grand folks made their goodbyes and Martin—whose health was obviously not the best—went to bed soon after. Janice really was a bit of a firecracker and she promptly declared time to go hot tubing. Mom was in. I was too. So it was below that wide open Wyoming sky when the three of us melted into bubbling hot water as steam rose toward the heavens like some ghostly mist. It was 10:00pm when I finally rode home.
Morning brought slightly cooler weather, and as usual it was pushing noon by the time Betsy was again packed, and I started her engine. As the unknown future the open road spread out ahead, I relaxed farther into the old FL’s pilot’s seat. After all, for just this moment the bike was in fine running condition, the highway was beautiful, and the sunshine warm.
It was a good day to ride.
Scooter Tramp Scotty
Scotty Kerekes
El Cajon, Ca.
Located at the edge of Thermopolis, Hot Springs State Park was built around the world’s largest single mineral hot spring. Big Spring pours forth millions of gallons of mineral water every 24 hours at a constant temperature of 135 degrees Fahrenheit. The perpetual fountain forms a seething caldron from which some of the water is channeled into pools to be cooled and then piped into bathhouses for public use. From another stream, the water flows over enchanting Rainbow Terrace and then spills down into the Big Horn River.
Two swimming plunges and the State Bath House provide indoor and outdoor pools. Open year ‘round, the plunges offer mineral water swimming and all types of recreation equipment. A herd of buffalo roams the red hills behind the main portion of Hot Springs State Park.
Further Adventures of the Borderland Biker -Chapter 13
By Bandit |
Editor’s note: The following story is from the book, “The Further Adventures of The Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemeyer.
For Chapter 12 Click Here
“Hopefully we’ll be able to honor Larry and do right by what he would dig and have some fun while we’re at it…He loved to ride, we all love to ride…the motorcycle represented life to him not just a technique or life style but a philosophy.”
–Paul Cox of PAUL COX INDUSTRIES
The perimeter surrounding the park, with the exception of a small section of parking lot that included a three foot high round platform about eight feet in diameter, was made up of offices and shops. The bandstand was in the center, the hub, with pathways radiating out from it like spokes on a wheel.
“We’ll spend the night here,” said Larry. “There’s enough open space around the bandstand to see anything coming and we’re close enough to gather fuel from nearby buildings to last through the night…but we’ve gotta hurry.”
Larry and I quickly began to forage for anything that would burn. From the buildings we carried what we’d collected to within about a twenty five feet of the bandstand. What we couldn’t carry we dragged, what we couldn’t drag we left in a mound outside the buildings and within sight. We’d finished pushing a large set of panel doors onto the last pile when the sun set. The bandstand was now encircled by ten similar piles. Our final act was to move both bikes out next to the three foot high round platform. Our bikes wouldn’t be as close to us as I’d like but then neither would they be too close to the flames.
Dwindling twilight allowed us to watch the surrounding buildings blend into a line of shadow. When the sun set below the horizon the line had reached the bandstand so we lit the first pile of furniture on fire. We’d circled the bandstand with ten piles made up of anything we could find that would burn. Each pile was spaced far enough apart from the others so as to not ignite the ones nearest it.
Larry volunteered to take the first watch while I slept, which of course turned out to be impossible, so we both stayed awake. And as much as we stared into the growing darkness we could see nothing out of the ordinary, no opaque tentacle as described in Gary’s story reached out for us.
Gary’s story of when he and another Wheeler had ridden into the Old Places and how the other Wheeler had been turned to mush then sucked dry by something that had reached out from the shadows was a reminder to be watchful. Gary said it looked like a tentacle or feeler of some kind.
“Neither of us can sleep,” I said, “and you’ve yet to tell me the story of how you first came to the Borderlands.”
“Like you I entered the Borderlands quite by accident. And since you’ve accurately pointed out neither of us are going to get any sleep tonight you might as well let me tell you what led up to it.”
“My entrance,” Larry continued, “came about a few years before yours. It happened when Bobby and I, Bobby had been my partner in crime, agreed to investigate a mystery. We were serving time at a private minimum security prison in the Nevada desert for robbery and had been taken to the warden’s office. Warden Schaub had us brought there to offer us our freedom if we agreed to become guinea pigs; little did I know what becoming a guinea pig would get me into.”
(LARRY’S STORY as told by Larry) FADE IN: TO THE WARDEN’S OFFICE…
“Canaries were used to test the air in mines to see if it was safe to breathe,” Schaub spoke candidly. “You two can continue to serve your time here as jailbirds or become canaries and find out what’s outside this facility. We’ve not heard from the two we sent south towards Vegas so we’d like for you to go north towards Reno. Larry, or should I call you Lorenzo; your birth certificate says Lorenzo? It says you’re from Reno so maybe that’ll bring you luck?”
Schaub continued, “We’ve not been in communication with anyone since a nationwide alert warned us hundreds of EMP (electromagnetic pulse) devices hidden across the United States had been found, unfortunately too late, and were about to be detonated. Seconds later all communication from outside went dead.
“My theory is terrorists had been smuggling EMPs in pieces across our one, if we’re honest, open border, the Mexican border for years. Once assembled and hooked into our nation’s electrical grid they were then set off at the same time. The effect of their combined electrical pulse was exponential in power and fried most everything.
“The irony is that since the 1950s we’ve all been paying billions in taxes for a missile defense system. Our leaders must now have the same egg on their face as the French leaders that ordered the building of the Maginot Line.”
Schaub continued, “I won’t force you to go nor will I lie and say that you won’t be going as guinea pigs to find out what’s beyond the horizon. My end of the deal is I’ll log down that the two of you died here in an industrial fire and that your bodies were burned to ashes; I’ll erase your past.”
On Schaub’s desk were two death certificates with all the required signatures and stamps. My name was printed in bold letters on one, Bobby’s on the other.
“How do you know,” I said, “we won’t make a run for it?”
“I don’t,” said Schaub, “no more than you’ll ever know if I’ve really erased your records. What you do know is that in the time you’ve been here I’ve never lied to you.”
That much was true; since being transferred here from a maximum security prison in Arizona Schaub had always kept his word. A year ago the government in an attempt to bring down costs of incarceration started allowing private corporations to, for want of a better term, pay for the use of prisoners. Bobby and I along with three other prisoners had gotten lucky and were contracted out to this small solar energy facility in the central Nevada desert.
Our job during the day, we were now called trusties not prisoners, was to do maintenance work on solar panels; at night we were housed underground. We were underground when the EMPs went off; it was the ground that shielded our diesel generator from their effects. Everything electrical above ground including all our solar panels got fried.
It was the same diesel generator that was keeping alive the three other trusties caught in the cargo elevator when the failsafe systems on the elevator’s brakes were shorted. They were now hooked to the infirmary’s life support units that were in turn being powered by what was left of our diesel fuel. When that fuel ran out they were as good as dead.
Bobby had walked over to where a military style walkie-talkie was being charged, “You’ve tried all channels?”
“We’ve tried sending and receiving on all emergency bands, even air traffic;” answered Schaub, “there’s nothing.”
“You wouldn’t,” I asked, “have recorded the last message from the people you sent south towards Las Vegas?”
Schaub reached across his desk and flipped a switch. There was a moment of static then a voice said, “Schaub this is Hanover; it’s getting dark and Murphy hasn’t come back. I sent him to siphon gas from a car about a hundred yards below the overpass where we parked. I’d go looking for him but I’ve got to finish siphoning gas from this car if we’re to make it to Vegas. I need to finish before I lose the light and can’t see what I’m doing. We don’t need any injuries from stumbling around in the dark; our sickbay’s already stressed.”
The recording stopped then started, “I’ve finished fueling our van but have decided to stay the night. I’m climbing down from the overpass to get wood for a fire and look for Murphy. It’s freezing in the shadows. Maybe Murphy will see the fire? I’ll call as soon as I get back.”
Schaub reached across his desk and clicked off the recording, “Hanover never called.”
Bobby stared at the shadow created by his hand on the desk when he held it under the desk’s light, “There’s an Aleut Indian legend that says when the shadows freeze you’ll know it’s because the Devil’s left the door to Hell open and he’s waiting in the form of a giant trapdoor spider for the unwary.”
“Any other people injured besides the three trusties that were in the elevator;” I asked, “any others missing besides the two you sent south towards Las Vegas?”
“We did have another casualty. One of my staff, without telling anyone, went above ground to the loading docks that night. It’s where the trucks unload supplies so he must’ve thought there might be some diesel fuel. It was my fault I should’ve made a second head count. The next day we searched the grounds; it wasn’t until noon we found him.”
“What happened?”
“He was behind some boxes all puckered up, like a prune; shrunken like a bug that’s had its insides turned to mush and then sucked out. National Geographic could’ve used a picture of him in their feature on Egyptian mummies.”
I shouldn’t have asked, “Like that picture of King Tut?”
“Let’s just put it this way, Larry,” Schaub was still calling me Larry and not by my baptized name Lorenzo, “my days of eating beef jerky are over.”
“Any theories,” I’d walked across the office to look at an old ‘50s style AM radio and a Roy Rogers lunch box displayed on top of a bookcase, “as to what might’ve sucked all the fluids out of him? Maybe he accidentally got into some type of acid or industrial cleaner?”
“We’ve nothing toxic stored where he was found. The only thing unusual about that night was a thunderstorm that passed over us; it didn’t last but for five minutes. They’re not uncommon out here, just not for such short duration.”
Bobby had walked over and was standing beside me when he picked up the Roy Rogers lunch box, “I had one like this; it always smelled like peanut butter and jelly.”
He then put it down and picked up the AM radio, “Out of curiosity, did you try listening to any of the AM frequencies?”
“None of the government agencies broadcast on AM.”
Without waiting for permission Bobby plugged the old radio into a wall socket just below a picture of a kid in a Little League uniform that had Steve Schaub embroidered on his jersey. At first there was nothing but the smell of years of dust being burned off wires and vacuum tubes followed by different sounds of static as the dial was turned.
“As I told you, we’ve tried all frequencies,” Schaub said a little defensively, “I don’t see what purpose….”
“Quiet!”
Bobby twisted the dial back until we could hear what had made him tell us to be quiet.
“Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance and The Planotones was just ending.
Schaub shook his head, “It’s probably just an old pirate station the EMPs missed and that’s still broadcasting on automatic play. If it were live there’d be an announcer…”
“…and that loyal listeners was Kenny Vance and The Planotones and I’m Kate, your DJ, engineer, sometimes waitress, cook and bottle washer, aka the owner of KWOP and Spanky’s Café from where we broadcast. Speaking of broadcasts would a listener loyal or not please let me know if you’re hearing this? No one has called or even driven by this place in almost a week; I’m alone here at Spanky’s and I’ve tried calling…and…”
“Hey, what happened?” Schaub sounded surprised. “She was broadcasting, coming in loud and clear, then nothing.”
“That crackling sound we heard just before she got cut off,” Bobby was remembering back to another time in his life, “sounded a lot like the static we’d get in the mountains in Bosnia when we were on patrol. Our mikes would crackle like that just before a thunderstorm hit and the lightning would knock out our unit’s communications.”
“If we agree,” I asked, “to go north towards Reno,” Schaub already knew Bobby and I had accepted his deal but listened patiently, “will anyone else be coming with us?
“I’ve got to stay,” answered Schaub, “as does Doc Niven so I’m sending Talbot with you; he’s one of my best mechanics.
“Schaub then turned from me to Bobby, “your official records say your name is Branscombe not Bobby?”
“Bobby “interrupted Bobby, “let’s just keep it Bobby.”
“Tomato, tamato,” Schaub was smiling knowingly, “and I’m assuming you’ve accepted my offer and I really don’t care what names you two go by. But for the death certificates Larry’s will read Lorenzo and yours Branscombe. These certificates gotta look real. And since we’re on the subject of keeping everything real, it would be unreal to ask you two to go out there unarmed. I know I wouldn’t go out there unarmed and so I won’t expect it of you.”
Schaub didn’t wait for a response but walked over to a small wall safe. Some turns of the combination and it opened, “Talbot has a twelve gauge; these little items are for you.”
What appeared to be two Model 1911 Colt .45s with about ten boxes of ammo were stored inside; except that upon closer look the ammo turned out to be 10mm not .45 caliber.
“A Colt Delta,” said Schaub, “looks a lot like a Colt .45 Model 1911 automatic from the outside and will fool most anyone when first glanced at, but that’s where their similarity ends. Although based on the .45, the Delta’s insides were modernized in their design to handle the greater stress from the more powerful 10mm round, its alloys are stronger and its balance is better, especially if you shoot instinctually.”
Suddenly and with a movement so fast it appeared as a blur Schaub pulled one of the pistols out of the safe. It seemed to have a life of its own as it passed from his left hand to his right hand and there was a light in Schaub’s eyes and a smile I’d not seen before.
“The Delta will want to become part of you;” said Schaub but from far away, “it’ll think for you if you let it.”
Having said that, Schaub whirled, the pistol sweeping from Bobby then to me, tracking from one heart to the other, and then just as quickly it was reversed in a roadhouse twist and handed butt first to Bobby.
“They’re loaded;” Schaub said, having already turned away, “get the boxes of ammo then follow me. Oh, and in answer to the question you both want to ask; I wasn’t always a warden slash solar panel engineer.”
Two and a half rooms and a hallway later we were in an underground garage. Near the wall was a Ford van covered with dents that had dents. Behind the van was a chain link fenced in enclosure; within it were two motorcycles. Talbot, who I’d seen fixing about everything that was mechanical in the facility that needed fixing was there to meet us.
“Talbot, is the van good to go; I want the three of you on the road heading northwest at dawn?”
Talbot gave Schaub a big smile then finished wiping his hands, “Everything’s aboard, siphons, tools, walkie-talkies, first-aid kits; everything’s in here but the kitchen sink.”
I found myself, without consciously knowing I was going there, walking over to look at the two motorcycles. One was a maroon colored Indian Chief with the new 100ci motor; the other was a black Harley Davidson Dyna Wide Glide Twin Cam. The Chief was beautiful but my eyes kept coming back to the Wide Glide; it reminded me of my old Softail.
“If we run into abandoned cars,” I was making my pitch to Schaub for the motorcycles, “which we will, we’ll find a route around them a lot easier with motorcycles. Bobby and I could scout ahead. Hanover said he and Murphy were starting to run into abandoned vehicles the closer they got to Vegas. Talbot would avoid those problems if he had our eyes out in front.”
Talbot seconded my motion, “Larry’s right. If we do find a tanker truck filled with diesel I’ll be the one elected to drive it back here. Hanover said in his last transmission that he and Murphy weren’t able to go much further because of the clogged freeway. Having these two on motorcycles scout for the best path would help.”
“Hanover and Murphy are friends of mine;” continued Talbot, “these bikes belong to them. They would’ve wanted Larry and Bobby to take them if it meant finding some diesel fuel and saving the lives of the three on life-support. They would’ve wanted them used in that way.”
Schaub started to reply when the lights flickered out; they flickered back on a second later. “That flicker…means our diesel generator has just switched to its reserve tank, which means we now have about two days left of fuel. We’ve also only about four more hours until daybreak and the three of you leave. Get some sleep if you can.”
Bobby had walked behind the chain link fence and was standing beside the Indian Chief, “This model was Indian’s last; the 100ci engine was their latest and most powerful. If you don’t mind I’d prefer riding it.”
In my mind I’d already chosen the Dyna Wide Glide, “Go for it;” I said, “the Wide Glide’s closer to the ‘94 Softail I rode for quite a few years.”
I fell asleep knowing I was doing something besides just time in a cell to make up for the robberies I’d committed. Bobby and I were going from being jailbirds to being canaries; we’d volunteered to become canaries on a mercy run to find others and if possible bring back diesel fuel. We’d be on the road again, but was it safe; considering the fact something had obviously happened to the two sent south to Las Vegas?
In what seemed like minutes not hours later Talbot was shouting from the doorway, “Larry, Bobby, breakfast’s ready; meet me in the garage.”
After getting dressed, Bobby and I followed Talbot to the garage. Breakfast turned out to be cold toast and an almost as cold cup of coffee.
Schaub was drinking a cup of the same almost as cold coffee and standing beside a garage door leading to the outside, “Hey, what can I say, it’s the cook’s day off. Your bikes are gassed and the van’s loaded. I figured on the two of you scouting ahead. Use your walkie-talkies to let Talbot know what’s in front of him. No goodbyes; be safe and may the, and I’ve always wanted to say this, force be with you.”
The garage door was the beginning of a narrow driveway leading up from underground and out of the facility; a mile away it intersected with a two lane road. Talbot led, Bobby and I followed. We’d lead once we were underway. Making the turn onto the road made the van bottom out at the intersection; maybe Talbot did find room for the kitchen sink. A hundred yards later Bobby twisted the throttle on the big Indian and passed the van. I followed on the Wide Glide staying a bit behind and to the right. For the next hundred miles we headed north passing through all kinds, depending on the elevation, of different climate zones; the number of abandoned vehicles increased when we turned northwest. The two lane road had now become a wider two lane road.
Once on the wider road and still heading in a northwest direction we came upon even more derelict trucks, buses and cars. We’d radio back to Talbot the best route around them. He was about a mile behind us when we radioed we’d spotted a jackknifed tanker.
“If it’s filled with diesel fuel and if I can get it running, I’ll drive it back,” said Talbot when he pulled up in the van. “The plan is for you two to continue on and for me to bring back diesel fuel. Spanky’s Café isn’t that far off the road to Reno. Schaub’s pretty sure it’s located northwest of Bridgeport; he triangulated its position using the signal’s strength. It’s marked on this map.”
Talbot had climbed up on the trailer and looked inside the tank, “It’s diesel; we’re in luck.”
I was already checking for bent rims, flats and brake line leaks, “It’s eleven o’clock; if you can’t get the truck running by noon I vote you head back to the facility then return with some help and something you can transfer the diesel fuel into. If you wait any longer you’ll not make it back before dark. Speaking of which, Bobby and I will also be cutting it close getting to where the radio station’s located before sunset.”
“I tuned my walkie-talkie before we left,” Bobby said, holding his walkie-talkie up so we could see it, “to automatically switch on if it receives any KWOP transmissions. So far Kate’s not broadcast since we heard her signal cut off last night.”
Bobby and I then went to work making sure all the tanker’s hydraulic hoses were tight and its hitch hadn’t been damaged when it jackknifed. Talbot literally plunged head first under the hood to get the big diesel engine running.
“I’m glad I checked the fuel injectors;” said Talbot after surfacing nearly an hour later, “some of injectors were still clogged with sludge. Temperatures cold enough to do that to diesel fuel had to have been quite a bit below zero. Temperatures around here rarely get that low and never this time of the year.
“Back in 1978 when I was in the military and stationed in Alaska we’d see this kind of sludge inside the injector tubes of the tractors we used in construction especially in the morning but it was expected; our base was near the Arctic Circle. The good news is our tanker driver carried a bottle of vodka under his seat. With some luck and a little bit of flame from some burning vodka under the tubes and voila, no more sludge.”
Aided by a jumpstart from our bikes, Talbot lit the vodka, hit the starter and said voila again. A grinding sound followed by the deep roar of the truck’s diesel coming to life made us smile; our smiles became bigger when we looked at the time. We’d checked out the mechanical things that needed checking and gotten the tanker truck running and we’d done it all before the deadline. It was five minutes till noon.
“I’m taking this fuel back to Schaub;” Talbot shouted from the cab after having turned the truck around and pointed it southwards back down the road, “have you heard anything from that AM station?”
“Bobby was smiling and holding up his walkie-talkie, “While you were turning the truck around “Da Doo Ron Ron” by The Crystals came in over KWOP. Kate’s broadcasting again and from the sound of it she’s a Doo Wop fan.”
After giving us a thumbs-up as much for Kate’s choice in music as for our success in catching her broadcast, Talbot headed back towards the facility.
He was almost a minute down the road when I said, “We’ll top-off our bikes later. We’ve taken what we can carry from the van and we’ve quite a few miles left in our tanks.”
I’d climbed aboard my bike when I added, “If we’re forced, I wonder if we’ll be able to ride after sunset or will we end up like that freeze dried guy Schaub found? It makes you wonder if there’s anything to your Aleut Indian legend.”
Bobby had ridden his bike around to where it was pointed north, “It’s just a legend, but I vote we ‘don’t’ hang around until nighttime to find out if it’s true. I vote we get started for that radio station.”
(FADE OUT of PART 1 of Larry’s to be continued Story)
Larry’s story of how he’d made a deal with Warden Schaub was fascinating, and I wanted to hear the rest, but in the faint early morning light some movement out by the round platform where we’d parked our bikes distracted me.
“I hate to interrupt,” I said pointing towards the platform, “but there’s something on top of the round platform next to where we parked our bikes and it’s moving.”
“Amend that,” said Larry, “to something the size of a Volkswagen and bike ‘not’ bikes…your M90’s gone.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN coming soon
“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”__Benjamin Franklin
I SEE THE LIGHT!
By Bandit |
BRIGHTEN UP YOUR NIGHT RIDE!
by Buck Lovell photos by Buck Lovell
With technology advancing at the current rate, it’s surprising that an all LED headlight isn’t as common as it should be. The advantage is obvious. Brighter, better lighting for night riding makes any night ride safer and more enjoyable. With the Rivera Primo halogen/LED combo a rider can see better at night and be seen better by other riders and drivers. The easy plug and go installation mean virtually anybody can install and adjust the Rivera Primo headlight using common hand tools. The headlight is manufactured froma shock resistant glass compound and will fit virtually any 7 inch in diameter headlight application. Optimal illumination in front of the motorcycle vastly improves the night time visibility for the rider, and improves daytime awareness off the motorcycle for other vehicles. Channeled reflector technology directs the LED headlight beam onto the road surface. LED technology means reduced heat generation and lower current draw than a conventional incandescent head. The CRT (directed reflector Technology also reduced glare for oncoming drivers.
Fitment Note: Installing this high tech headlight requires the use of a style mounting ring OEM part # 67732-08.
Rivera Primo’s channeled reflector technology as implemented in their headlamp for Harley-Davidson is put to good use for safe night ridding.
Installation requires the removal of the three screws holding the headlight ring in place, and removal of the ring itself.
Loosen and remove the three stock headlamp bulb retainer screws as shown. Then remove the OEM headlamp. Unplug the lamp from the wiring g harness.
Thread the black turn signal wires from the Rivera Primo LED headlamp into to fairing and plug the lamp into the wiring harness.
Install the Rivera Primo headlamp into position and use the three OE screws to hold it in position.
Loosen and remove the hardware attaching the out fairing to the inner fairing, then dismount the outer fairing for access to the turn signal wiring. Unplug the headlamp again.
Unplug the OEM wire leads to the stock turn signal system. Loosen the hardware and dismount the turn signal bracket and lights.
The stock turn signal plugs were rewired to accept the Rivera Primo turn signal wires and then plugged into the wiring harness. The headlamp is then plugged back into the hardness.
The outer fairing is now re-installed along with the windshield and related hardware.
Last but not least install the beauty ring over the new Rivera Primo LED headlamp using the three stock screws to hold it in place.
The adjustment screw locations are as pictured. Typically the headlight will be coorectly aligned if the original was correctly aligned. Only a short night time ride will tell.
Low beam is on top, high beam is on the bottom. This is Channeled Reflector Technology at work for your safety.
For all further information or to order your very own Rivera Primo LED headlamp with Channeled Reflector Technology see your local dear or contact Rivera Primo direct at www.riveraprimo.com (562) 906 2600
Please Tell Me SOA Is A TV Show?
By Bandit |
That’s it, that’s it, and that’s it, I guess that’s it.
I have had it up to my ears with S.O.A. and the way people think it is real. People it is a show, on TV, for TV, what part of this do you not get? I can see if you like the show, but to think it is ANYTHING like what bikers do is nuts! This show was created for entertainment. I have had too many people and things happen to not open my font and type my piece.
Even my bike catalogs have S.O.A. parts and stuff. Ebay is the same, slap S.O.A. -Style in the description and a higher price on it then sit back and rake in the dough. I get that part of it. But when I see people wearing S.O.A. ”Colors” and thinking they are part of something that they will never truly understand, it slays me.
It was about this time of year three years ago when a friend ( Ol Jolly ) and I were going somewhere downtown and seen two guys with colors on parked in front of a business. Both of us being “blind as bats”, we whipped around the block for a closer look. Jolly gets out and these Cats are wearing hard “three- piece patches” of the S.O.A. TV Show variety. No shit people, Hard Patches! Jolly says to them, “What’s up, Bro?” (Bend Right Over).
One Cat tells Ol’ Jolly that he is the Prez. of the Washington Chapter of the S.O.A. Motorcycle Club. Right about now, I am starting to wonder how much the stuff they’re on is per Gram! I was all slack jawed. THE PRESIDENT OF THE WASHINGTON CHAPTER OF S.O.A. I just let that sink in for a moment. Right here, on a downtown street, in front of everyone stood the Prez. himself. I have to tell ya, it was hard to keep a straight face. Ol’ Jolly then got to meet the Vice Prez, too. Yup, you guessed it, standing in front of us were the two “top cheeses”.
Now the weather was bad, cold and snowing. They were outside a bike shop, and they had their “color”s on. It was broad daylight and we were NOT drinking yet. What they said made no sense at all. Big Ol’ Jolly informed them that there was NO Washington chapter of S.O.A. or ANY chapter of S.O.A., for that matter. It was only a TV Show. These two Cats got hot, I mean ready to blow up! They were way into this whole thing, I mean THEY actually seemed to believe it.
It was all I could do not to laugh myself sick and just when I thought it couldn’t get any stranger; this guy tells us he is going to put in a call to Charming to prove it. Seriously? And, he said it with a completely straight face. Ol’ Jolly says “You do know that there is no Charming, California, right?” This Cat tried his level best to make believers out of us. He just would not let it go. I have no clue where these Cats got their “colors” but then this entire exchange was beyond me.
I have to say that this also grates on me. Just what the hell are they doing out here in public? I have seen a lot over the years. There is always a bunch of Sidewalk Commandos, Posers, whatever you want to call them walking around trying to make people think they’re tough. They would dress like a biker and try to look like one. They have been around in one stinking form or another ever since I can remember. But, never in my born days, have I seen anything like this. The posers back in the day knew that they were posers, and never tried to fool a real biker. They were happy trying to fool the citizens.
This TV Show has spawned a new type of poser, wannabe biker, fake ass club member, W.T.F. Ever! It is a TV Show right? Please tell me it is just a TV Show? I mean we thought for a fleeting second we had walked onto a movie set by accident. Or maybe, we had just traveled through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are the imagination?
That’s the signpost up ahead — your next stop, the Twilight Zone!
Editors Note: the following is taken from Wikipedia
The Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club (SoA), is a fictional outlaw motorcycle club and organized crime syndicate at the center of the FX television series Sons of Anarchy. The club was formed by John Teller and Piermont “Piney” Winston, two Vietnam War veterans, in 1967 in Charming, California. Six of the original nine members were war veterans. Their logo is a Grim Reaper wielding an M-16 rifle with scythe blade in one hand, and holding a crystal ball in the other. The club’s mottos include “Fear the Reaper” and “Ride Free or Die”, their colors are blue and white. The club has 29 charters worldwide. In North America, these are located in Alaska, Arizona, California, Florida, Illinois, New England, Nevada, New York, New Jersey, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Texas, Utah, Washington in the United States, and Alberta and Manitoba in Canada. There are also a number of charters in the UK, Australia, and Sweden. The club’s signature weapon is a knife carried on their waistbands.
Read More:
Gypsy on the Sons
A Real Brother Talks about TV Fiction, By Gypsy Raoul
This article was posted on Bikernet in 2010…….
Click on picture below to read.
Lowbrow Artist, Atomic Bob, Blowing up the Motorcycle Awards
By Bandit |
Atomic Bob of Atomic Dice Studio Arts is the Pied Piper of Lowbrow Art. He takes his brushes and paint on the road and mixes styles from underground comix, punk music, and hot-rod culture on just about anything placed in front of him.
We first met up with Atomic Bob at the International Motorcycle Show in NYC while he pinstriped Bell Custom 500 lids for Soul Customs, (soulcustoms.com) a motorcycle lifestyle company, out of Michigan.
The use of pinstriping on motorcycles as it is commonly seen today was pioneered by artists Kenny Howard, (aka Von Dutch), Dean Jeffries, Dennis “Gibb” Gibbish, and Ed “Big Daddy” Roth. These artists are considered pioneers of the Kustom Kulture lifestyle, who burst on the wild flamed scene in the early ‘50s. They are widely recognized as the originators of modern pinstriping.
Bob is an interesting cat. His brushes are made from long squirrel hair and look like tiny swords with the brush flairing out and then tapering to and very narrow end.
We caught up with him after he completed 18 award helmets for the Harley-Davidson Custom Bike Ride-In Show for Daytona Bike Week. Bob striped trophies for the eight class winners, runner-up winners and two special awards, including the best of show and the Willie G Award. The ride-in custom show and the entire Harley-Davidson experience was located at the east end of the Daytona International Speedway. The competition bikes were on display during the show until 4:00 p.m.
We asked him a few pointed questions about his craft.
BN: How did you get started?
Atomic Bob: I started my business in 2009. After art school there was no company to work for, so I decided to go freelance.
BN: Talk about Lowbrow art?
Atomic Bob: For me it is monsters and weird stuff, pin striping and illustration. It’s an underground visual art movement that arose in the Los Angeles, California, area in the late 1970s.
BN: How did you put together the Harley gig?
Atomic Bob: I was working with Biker Pros on a Bell Custom 500 award at the Smoke Out 15. Jeff Najar of Biker Pros brought this project to me and I was excited to provide the Willie G award, a real honor!
BN: How do you define good pin striping?
Atomic Bob: When you draw a line you need to make sure there isn’t any tearing on the edge. The lines need to be symmetric and clean. You can see bad pin striping when the line width gets thin and the artists doesn’t go back over it to keep it consistent.
BN: Do you approach a particular style when pin striping?
Atomic Bob: I’m considered a traditional pin striper, meaning that I don’t block out the design in advance. It all flows from the inspiration of the piece. I’ll normally start with dark colors on the bottom and add lighter colors as I move North. I’ll also place an accent color next to the line; a light purple next to a dark purple. I like to lay on a complementary line.
BN: How did you come up with the Willie G Award?
Atomic Bob: Well, I was thinking about his signature look of beret and sunglasses. And I also thought about him being one of the top guys at Harley-Davidson. So I sketched Willie G and created the Top HOG award.
BN: How long does it take to pinstripe a lid?
Atomic Bob: The pinstripe with lettering required 2 – 4 hours and the Willie G helmet required about 20 hours.
BN: Where can people find your art?
Atomic Bob: I’m on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/atomicdicestudioarts.
BN: How much does a custom lid run?
Atomic Bob: Hmm, from $150 to $600. A lot of people send me their stuff and we get it turned around pretty quickly.
BELT DRIVES LIMITED ACQUIRES BLOWER DRIVE SERVICE
By Bandit |
In an unprecedented expansion move that is sure to have a resounding and positive impact on Hot Rod and other automotive enthusiasts worldwide Belt Drives Limited (BDL) in Anaheim California has announced the purchase of Blower Drive Service (BDS).
The purchase is a natural extension of the BDL family of companies as Steve Yetzke, BDL President and CEO has a long history with supercharger drive units. Back in early ‘70s working at his father’s company Pacific Broach, Steve was involved with the design and manufacturing of blower drive gears for many of the historic blower manufacturers including Cragar.
Additionally Steve, founder of Belt Drives Limited, has driven the BDL brand up to the level of a household name among the motorcycling community, as the premier manufacturer of custom and replacement belt drive units and components for Harley-Davidson and similar V-Twin drivelines.
Founded by the Railsback family in 1969, Blower Drive Service (BDS) prospered due to the family’s dedication and hands on involvement in motorsports of all types. With foresight and constant input from their clients BDS became well known for exceptional quality, performance, and reliability. That position will be enhanced many fold by the merger with BDL.
Blower Drive Service Co. started in 1969 in a one-car garage located in Southern California and has evolved into one of the foremost leaders in supercharging today. BDS has sold thousands of blower systems all over the world for all types of applications. The 10,000 square foot modern warehouse facility is the largest in the world devoted strictly to supercharging. BDS utilizes aircraft quality materials and electronic digital machines to manufacture the highest quality blower components available.
The quality of BDS products is second only to the service that backs them up. Service has always been a key ingredient in the success of Blower Drive Service. Knowledgeable, trained personnel are available at a variety of car shows and racing events across the country to help people solve their supercharging problems on the spot.
Street rods, street machines, monster trucks, mud boggers, drag racers, boat racers, truck pullers, tractor pullers, specialty and custom vehicles have all chosen BDS equipment to give them the winning edge. Whether its cutting that E.T. on the track or outshining the best at a car show, BDS equipped vehicles consistently come out on top.
BDS also offers a complete line of competition blower components for both professional and sportsman racing. Pulleys, snouts, steel crank hubs, fuel injection, manifolds, and blowers of all sizes are available from BDS. Whether you are running racing gas or alcohol with a big load of nitro, our competition blower components get the job done.
Repair or manufacture an old blower and save yourself money. BDS has complete blower repair facilities to accommodate all types of superchargers. Street blowers to competition blowers have a home at BDS. Our in house blower technician draws on over 39 years of experience to bring the art of blower manufacturing to its highest degree.
WE DELIVER HORSEPOWER!
Some insight into Yetzke’s total personal involvement and successful business practice is evident in the fact that the entire staff at BDS will remain in place including Norma Iskendarian as GM and Craig Railsback in special projects.
Yetzke’s immediate goal is to take BDS to the next level by increasing manufacturing inventory significantly and manufacturing each and every component new and in the USA. Many blower manufacturers put Used Parts such as Rotors and Gears and even Bearing Plates into new Blower Cases.
The increase in manufacturing output will insure that customers will be able to walk through the door at BDS, purchase a complete blower drive assembly or replacement parts right off the shelf. As one of his first actions orders to the foundry exploded from 30 blower cases to 200 cases. Also there will be thousands of related pulleys and belts in stock.
In 2010, Yetzke purchased a new 50,000 sq ft building in Anaheim. The building was virtually stripped and rebuilt using state-of-the-art fittings, electrical, and computer resources . The BDL shop contains no less than 50 CNC machines which work in conjunction with an army of Gear cutting and Broaching machinery, in a spotless, worker friendly environment.
This location will assume select machine duties while the original BDS facility in Whittier, just 19 miles from BDL, will remain the company’s premier facility for assembly, sales, and service.
The assimilation of BDS will provide BDL with a growing footprint in the Los Angeles market for all of its companies including: Belt Drives LTD, Blower Drive Service, JAMAR, and GMA.
With the purchase of the JAMAR brand five years ago, BDL manufactures a full line of high performance disc brake assemblies, billet pedal packages, remote and fixed brake reservoirs, sealed high performance shifters, steering brakes and much more for performance cars.
While developed for serious off road sport and racing machines where only the strongest survive many of the JAMAR components enjoy obvious crossover application for a wide variety of competition and street applications. In fact JAMAR is set to unveil a unique line of custom disc brake kits dedicated for use on Hot Rods, Muscle cars and custom applications.
Their Drag Rear Disc Brake kits made of the highest quality billet to out perform standard use in the Drag, Sand or Off-Road sector. Made to specifications and modified to fit applications where the abuse from the rigors of hard running dirt, sand and torque all play important factors in damaging stock components.
Their BP5000X pedal assembly with a slim line Master Cylinder for 4 Wheel Disc Brakes is a sleek high endurance and can take the off-road, sand and drag abuse pedal assembly. Jamar offers a wide range of pedal assortments and variety to suit many flavors in the sand, off-road and drag community along with providing excellent durability and great looks makes Jamar pedal assembly a hit in the community and known for a quality product.
Looking for quality shifter replacements or upgrades? Jamar Performance carries a large selection to fit most Sand, Drag and Off-Road applications while still boasting the quality of our billet products and outstanding specifications for endurance. These can be purchased for Sand Buggies that require side shifters or mounted center utilizing various transaxle and transmission configurations. All quality tested to insure you’re getting a product that will keep you in the fun zone while you blast through the dunes or drag in competition or run in the Off-Road rallies.
Jamar’s superior steering products lend a hand at making them a strong leader in providing a variety of high endurance Sand, Off Road and Drag competition products. We have high quality steering brakes for making those cool turns as well as a “Quick Release” adapter for your Formula France steering wheels. We even went as far a making a high polished finish steering gear box cover to add that custom and shine to your buggy or sand rail.
Make no mistake that you will find we have the best quality and looking Towered beams to fit most applications to take the punishment of the Sand, Drag or Off Road abuse. High polished to gleam and ready to bolt up.
The BDL family of businesses took on GMA seven years ago. GMA is a highly sought after collection of unique billet brakes, forward controls and handle bar controls and levers for Harley-Davidson and Custom motorcycle applications.
Yetzke is very much a hands-on owner who enjoys spending time with his design and development crew, craftsmen in the shop and of course customers. He’s involved with every aspect of his company business and is focused 100% on increasing productivity and production while retaining and where possible, enhancing quality and product applications of all his company lines. All of this with products proudly “Made in the U.S.A.”
Blower Drive Service:
12140 E. Washington Blvd.
Whittier, CA 90606 USA
Tel: (562) 693-4302
FAX: (562) 696-7091
Email: info@blowerdriveservice.com
Tech info is available by calling our technical support line Monday through Friday from 8:00am-12:00pm and 1:00pm -4:00pm PST.
Belt Drives LTD.
5500 E. La Palma Ave.
Anaheim, CA 92807
Tel: (714)-693-1313
FAX: (714)-693-1616
Nino925 – Custom Biker Jewelry with A Rock “N” Roll Attitude!
By Bandit |
Frank Zubieta is the owner and designer of Nino925, his specialty is handmade, quality biker and rocker jewelry crafted from sterling silver, yellow gold, white gold and platinum. He uses 0.925 sterling silver which is the best quality available and hence the name.
Nino925 was established in 2003 and Frank designs and crafts each piece by hand, from his studio in Los Angeles. If you believe in Made in USA, then this is absolutely for you.
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Frank attends as many of the big Biker Rallies as possible, setting up a booth with his collection of jewelry, that includes earrings, motorcycle link bracelets, pendants, skull rings, skull bracelets, skull necklaces and skull wallet chains for men and women.
Nino925 also offers accessories like key chains, money clips, wallet chains, wallets and much more. Popular styles include crosses in both simple and intricate designs, Fleur de Lis, a Lucky 13 Ring and more.
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If you don’t find exactly what you want, do talk to him about a special order, he loves to design pieces specifically for an individual – a one of a kind masterpiece.
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Nino’s products are worn by celebrities, musicians, celebrity bike builders, US Military and bikers across the nation. The Nino925 brand has become a fixture at biker events across the country. Nino’s has also been featured on the Speed Channel’s American Thunder and Chopper Nation programs.
All Nino925 pieces are designed to last for many years and come with a satisfaction guarantee. You are sure to find something you like whether it is “understated” or “big and bold”! There is an easy to use website to purchase from at: www.nino925.com
You can keep up to date with the latest designs, special offers, sale items, and event information at their Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/nino925.customlifestylejewelry
Stay tuned to Bikernet’s Thursday News for special offers only for Bikernet readers!!
Samson Builds for Indian in Sturgis
By Bandit |
Samson builds the first fishtip mufflers for Polaris Indians. Just recently we received a flash announcement from the new Samson factory in Sturgis, South Dakota. Here are the specs, and the story behind the R&D effort:
These puppies are 4×34 ½-inch Longtail mufflers with baffles. They Fit 2014 Indian Chief Classic, Indian Chief Vintage.
“As of right now we only have fitment on the Indian Muffler for the Chief Classic and the Chief Vintage,” said Brian White, Samson Production Manager. “Polaris threw a curve ball with the Chieftain, as it contains a series of clips for the hard bags clip-in installation. Once I can get my hands on a model example we will have product for all three models.
It’s a 4-inch in diameter muffler body with a performance baffle. It is 34 ½ inches from inlet to the bottom of the tail. “On the test rides we did on Lee’s bike there was a significantly noticeable improvement in torque and horsepower,” said Brian, “although we didn’t do any dyno runs to get actual numbers. Lee was in quite a hurry. Another Badlands snow storm was headed our way, so I only had about three days to handle the R&D and get something solid into production, but I think we did well.”
Samson moved their production headquarters to Sturgis South Dakota recently, although his daughter, Rachel bitched about it. “I want to stay close to Disneyland,” she said.
Samson Exhaust announced the relocation of its production plant from Brea, Calif., to Sturgis, S.D. a couple of years ago. The new 45,000 square foot plant was built from the ground up at 1151 Industry Road, Sturgis, SD 57785.
“When you have built up a company for so many years, packing up and moving your entire operation over 1,500 miles is quite an ordeal but we have managed to get it done,” Kenny Price or Mr. Samson said. Sturgis gave them a warm, supportive welcome. Samson is no stranger as they attended the rally since the company started. “We are excited to be able to contribute to the Sturgis community’s economic growth as well as the surrounding areas.”
“Over eight years ago, I had my first conversations with Sturgis area leaders about moving our manufacturing business to the Black Hills,” said Kenny. It was a long road with many people working to make it happen. “This was a giant step for Samson Exhaust to continue to be a world-class provider of quality products to the motorcycle community, and where better should we be but in Sturgis – the world renowned ‘City of Riders.'”
This massive facility will bring jobs and more economic growth to the badlands. Kenny owns several properties downtown on Lazelle and makes them available for vendors during the rally, but he is also offering free spaces in front of the new building during the 2014 Black Hills Rally. He will also host tours of his factory on a daily basis and offer free barbecue lunches.
“I finished editing the Indian Muffler video with the drive by shots, so thought I’d share the link,” said Brian. “Indian has that ECM figured out because you can see on the deceleration, we aren’t getting any popping at all.”
There’s one more thing on the agenda. Kenny is looking for a partner in a Sturgis chroming facility. Almost next door to the new Samson manufacturing plant is space owned by the city for additional industry. Kenny will help someone build a chroming, ceramic, and powder-coating plant. And he will run all of his business through these doors to insure sales. Plus, the city will help with the facilities and tax incentives. Could be a helluva opportunity.
FAMILY OWNED AND AMERICAN MADE PRODUCTS
