Killing Machine Choppers – The Good Ol Days Chapter 3
By Bandit |
Killing Machine Choppers – The Good Ol Days Chapter 2
After the Redwood Run, I invited Hun to Southern California to see the shop and meet the crew at Killing Machine. Everyone liked her and even after my son Breeze and his closest friend “Lippie” tried unsuccessfully to scare her off, it was decided that she was alright. We did have to cut her visit short after it came to my attention that there were internal issues at the shop.
The result of the problems was that Sharki (the “Loser Yank”) and I decided to dissolve our partnership with the other partners. After taking a short break in Port Costa, California with Sharki, she and I decided it might be a good idea for me to cut my losses and flee to the Northwest (Home of the Hardtail Harlot). Hun said she’d be glad to help any way she could so I boarded a train in mid-July and headed for God’s Country.
Once I got settled in, Hun and I looked all over Spokane for suitable (translation: affordable) locations for a 1960s style chopper shop. Affordable space in high traffic areas in Spokane were all but nonexistent so we set out north, south, east, and west of Spokane and looked at available commercial property. We made dozens of phone calls and left dozens of messages. The first one to call us back owned a property on Highway 2 in Diamond Lake about 30 miles northeast of Spokane. There is a lot of summer traffic on this highway so it seemed ideal. We made several trips to California over the next couple of weeks to move the shop to Diamond Lake, the new home of Killing Machine Choppers NW. Once the move was completed, Hun went to work opening bank accounts and parts accounts. We planned to be open once the snow melted the following spring.
Speaking of snow, the few people that came in to check us out that fall told us that we wouldn’t make it through the first winter up here. They figured that I was from Lake Elsinore and that I would fold by January. Little did they know that I am originally from Rockford, Illinois and that Hun (also a California transplant) had lived in Spokane for 17 years. We had them all fooled. We dug and toughed out our first winter together at the new shop. We were so broke from the move and getting the new shop ready that Hun kept her job as a bartender until spring. I’ll tell you how scarce money was that first winter: Hun (being practical) bought me a ShopVac to replace the one that I left behind when I left California and I wrapped up some parts that I thought she would need to build her first chopper. It didn’t look like much under the tree so I grabbed her helmet off the shelf and wrapped that too! She told me it was the best Christmas she ever had but I think she was just being nice.
When winter didn’t succeed in scaring us off, the nay-sayers began spreading rumors. First, we were Feds. Really? I am pretty sure my past precludes me from being a federal agent. When that didn’t work, another rumor started about me being a white-slaver. The claim was that there was a girl being held against her will at the shop. Hun was the only girl in the shop and I don’t know anyone that could make her do anything against her will.
I have always had a chopper shop. I was never real good at the business end of it but I have always held a strong belief that if a guy rolls in with a busted clutch and he’s broke, he shouldn’t be turned away. He would leave my shop with his bike fixed, his stomach fed, his gas tank full and his oil checked. That’s how the old bikers taught me where I came up. It never hit me how much times had changed until a guy had rolled into my shop down in Lake Elsinore on a bike that was missing real bad and asked to speak to the service manager so that he could make an appointment to get an estimate of what it would cost to find out what was wrong with his bike.
HUH? I told him that I didn’t have a service manager and that I could tell him what was wrong for free. “Your bike is missing bad.” He looked at me a little funny until I told him to roll it in, then he just looked surprised. The problem was simple: one of his plug wires had rubbed through on his coil cover. I made him a new set of wires to fit and told him his bill was $35 for parts and labor. He stated that he had EXACTLY $35 and that he was hoping to stop for a cold one on the way home so we split what he had in his pocket and I told him to stop in the next time he was riding by to pay the rest. He did and wrote a hell of a review about his experience with KILLER CHOPPERS. Well, the name was wrong but his heart was in it and the sentiment wasn’t wasted on this old biker.
Whatever happened to the chopper shops of old? Shops where BRO didn’t stand for Bend Right Over? I never got rich fixing or building bikes. In fact, Hun and I would sometimes argue about the fact that I was giving the place away! I do my best to treat others the way I would want to be treated if I was stranded in a strange place with a broken down bike. The old code of “no biker left behind” still lives here at the Machine. I don’t leave another biker stranded on the side of the road…EVER! If I can find a way to help, I will.
When we first opened the shop in Washington, a young guy stopped in at the shop. He said, “Hey Algie….how the hell are you?” I asked him where I knew him from and he answered that while he was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California, he broke down on his way to the Marine Corps Ball in Las Vegas. I had pulled over to help and he explained that his clutch had gone out. Here was this Marine in dress blues standing on the side of the road with bike problems sizing up this crazy looking biker wondering how quickly this was going to turn bad. He had no idea what to expect. I pulled off his derby cover, cleaned off the clutch plates, ground them on the curb and replaced them. It gave the plates enough grip to get the young Marine on his way. What a small world! It turns out that his family lives up here! He explained to me that, not only did he make it to Vegas, but put many more miles on my roadside fix.
Money can’t buy the feeling you get when you find out that something you did for someone on the side of the road saved the day. I believe in Karma…and it has paid off more than once when I have needed help on the side of the road.
When I opened the shop up here in Washington State, I wanted to model it after those shops I remember from my younger years. Hun and I sat down and discussed my vision and she loved it. She worked side by side with me to build my dream shop. There are times she has to remind me that it is still a business but we always keep our overhead low so that we could keep our prices and labor rates low. Despite the rumors, hard winters, health problems, and changes in location, we are still going strong after seven years.
Algie Pirrello
Editors note: Stay tuned for further episodes to come
Further Adventures of the Borderland Biker – Chapter 9
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 Whitemyer.
Riding off the ramp and onto the dome’s roof gave me permission to breathe; I don’t think I’d taken a breath since leaving the tunnel. Glancing upward I could see where the ramp entered a small cloud innocently surrounded by other small clouds. Glancing to my right I saw as was expected, and heading directly for us, what had been described as Wheelers. Clark said to expect them and that they would arrive as soon as we left the ramp; we weren’t disappointed. There were three of them and I made a point of trying to remember where they’d first ridden onto the dome.
“Ride towards them, but don’t hit them; we’re not playing chicken,” said Larry as he pointed his bike at the three approaching Wheelers. “Make no abrupt stops or accelerations, no abrupt changes in speed. The way they came onto the dome will be the way we’ll leave. Remember, they’ll try to provoke you into acting suddenly.”
For the first time since leaving the tunnel leading from Gilroy Motorcycle Center I was able to listen to what Larry was saying over my hearing aid size radio; “Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance was playing in the background.
Coming straight for us were three sportbikes; the two on each side were damaged, the one in the middle not so much. All three riders were joined at the base of their spines to a small cylinder at the rear of their seat. Each cylinder had wires coming out of it and looked to be made of solar panel material. The riders’ butts and feet were fused to their bikes. The two flanking the one in the middle had bodies that were as battered as their bikes; the one in the middle and about ten feet ahead of the other two was in better shape. How they were able to live as cyborgs was a mystery.
“There must be some type of gyro connected to their nerves, connected to servos, connected to wireless controls inside those solar powered cylinders that connects everything together; they ride like one unit,” said Larry, watching the three Wheelers make a tight precision loop around behind us with the two most damaged flanking us on either side.
“The least damaged one seems to be the leader. Look, I was right about the servos; there’s a thin cluster of wires coming out of the cylinders that connects at the base of their spine. I can’t imagine how it works and frankly I don’t really want to know…and…Geez, I know him…STOP!”
Larry and I skidded to a stop causing the Wheelers on either side to instantly cut in front and make a barrier by touching their front tires. Before we could react the leader had blocked any retreat. Hot engine smells mixed in with the smell of barbeque smacked our noses. The Wheeler to our left was trying to say something except that what remained of what’d once been his jaw was wired together. The Wheeler on the right had yellow smoke rising from his cylinder and just stared. Tiny gyros inside the cylinders behind their backs continued clicking on and off making constant adjustments in their weight. As their feet couldn’t touch the ground the gyros kept them balanced.
“I know you,” shouted Larry, “you’re Gary; you raced motorcycles at Laguna Seca.”
“Laguna Seca was my favorite track;” answered Gary, “and you two broke the law and I gotta take you in. The law says visitors shall not make any sudden stops or starts. Unscheduled or sudden stops and starts interrupt our harmony.”
“We’re not here to cause any trouble;” I said, “we’re here only to help some friends.”
“A while back a guy came here on your bike,” continued Gary, nodding at Larry’s Raider, “and tried to outrun us; we eventually caught him. We should’ve brought him back into the dome to be made into a Wheeler like one of us, but because he repaired a few of my friends we let him go.”
“Big guy,” I asked, “always smiling, had Clark stenciled on his coveralls?”
“Yup; the guy’s a master mechanic. Fact is some of us wanted to keep him here anyway for our personal mechanic, keep him as a prisoner inside our pod. As you can see we’re all in need of some kind of repair. But a deal’s a deal.”
At the same time Gary was answering my question a gust of wind tipped him to the side.
“Damn gyros,” Gary grimaced through clinched teeth, “have been acting up; it’s getting harder to keep my balance when I’m not moving. If I stay still much longer the wind will knock me over, and if a Wheeler gets knocked over that’s pretty much the end of them. When you’re knocked over you’re stranded then the bosses have your machine parts scavenged. After they’ve finished there’s nothing left but what was once your own body. We gotta get back inside the dome, out of this wind. The bosses will want to see you.”
As Gary was talking Larry had gotten off his bike and walked to within a foot of him. At the same time he started walking thin metal wires shot out from the two other Wheelers to within a foot of his face. The wires uncoiled like tentacles from the cylinders behind their backs and moved incredibly fast; but why not, they were cyborgs with enhanced strength and speed. Electric arcs danced at the end of the wires warning Larry of a high voltage shock if he even thought of making a threatening move towards their leader.
“Look, Gary, I’m calling you Gary as I believe you’re still more Gary than machine. The wind’s about to blow you over, you’ve got a friend with his jaw about to fall off and your other friend, the one with smoke coming from his cylinder, is close to short-circuiting. What say we make you the same deal Clark made with the Wheelers he repaired?”
Gary looked tired and in spite of most of the flesh missing from the lower part of what had once been a human face, genuinely sad, “If it were up to me, and I think I can speak for all of us,” and suddenly the coils of high voltage wire were withdrawn, “I’d say you got yourself a deal. The problem is your sudden stop triggered an alarm in the dome; it’s sorta like when a fly touches a spider web. If we don’t show up with you guys the bosses will send up the hardcore Wheelers. We may be ugly half human half machine cyborgs but those dudes make us look like Girl Scouts.”
[page break]
I had to ask even though I didn’t really want to know, “Hardcore? Don’t think I’ve heard of hardcore Wheelers. Clark never mentioned anything about meeting something called the hardcore. What are they?”
“Picture us but uglier, if that’s possible, and on steroids.
Larry cut short any further description of the hardcore that might have been coming, “Hey, we’ll make the repairs; at least we’ll have done some good while we’re here. The three of you aren’t going to last much longer if we don’t.”
The wind had increased twofold when a gust more powerful than any that had come before suddenly slammed into us. Gary’s gyros whined in protest but it wasn’t enough. Larry caught him before he fell.
“Thanks,” said Gary. “We gotta get inside before the wind gets any stronger. We can’t do anything here and our solar panels limit us to daylight hours outside the dome. Our pod has tools; we’ll go there. The bosses never did me any favors; they can wait a little while longer, read a magazine.”
Yamaha Raiders are big bikes, not as heavy as you’d think because of their aluminum frame, but still big bikes. By the time we’d been escorted by the three Wheelers down to a catwalk leading into the dome I’d nearly been blown over twice. How the Wheelers on their lighter sportbikes managed to keep from being swept over the edge by the wind was a mystery. The catwalk began at a point where had we ridden any further down the side of the dome the angle would’ve become so steep we would’ve slipped off; if it’d been raining there’s no doubt we would have.
Rolltop desks have a lattice of corrugated segments that roll themselves up inside each other; the door into the dome looked like a giant metal version of a rolltop desk. Bringing up the rear I was unable to see how it opened; hopefully Larry who was right behind Gary was more observant. When it closed behind us the silence was overwhelming; the increasingly high winds outside had been completely shut out as was the music in my ear radio.
At the same time Larry and I were parking our bikes the three Wheelers had ridden into stalls in the opposite wall. Immediately their heads slumped forward. One second later greenish blue lights in the wall blinked on, their engines switched off and their eyes closed.
Their pod was narrower at the other end. The narrow end had a smaller version of the corrugated door but leading into the dome. There were no windows or vents I could see although the light feel of forced air was on my face.
Tools, recognizable metal working tools, were on benches. Robotic tools far in advance of anything I’d ever seen were on the opposite wall. Tracks in the floor led from the robotic tools to each Wheeler’s stall. There were two other stalls. The nearest was empty. The farthest away harbored a small cot and some cooking utensils; stretched across it was an electrical cord, hanging across the cord was a gray blanket.
The blanket had been hung, as if trying to shield it from sight, the body of a woman. Curled up on a cot, her face was hidden. Her breathing was shallow and she appeared sleeping. Wearing worn jeans, a prairie-print cotton shirt, tennis shoes and a bandana as a cap, she could’ve passed for a 1960s era hippy out of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury.
“She was,” said Gary who’d just opened his eyes and was also looking at the woman, “brought here about a week after I’d been ordered to search for an escaped biker down in the Old Places. Yesterday the bosses question her hard; when she returned she collapsed where you see her.
“I once asked her why she hadn’t been turned into a Wheeler like the rest of us and she said the bosses tried but that the process wouldn’t work on her. She said she’d taken something; however giving it to me wouldn’t reverse the process. She said it only prevented the change not reversed it. She was told it angered the boss of bosses that she couldn’t be changed and that he’d given orders to keep her here until he could find out why. I’ve never met this boss of bosses myself; I just know of him from what I’ve heard.”
Larry picked up a worn leather jacket he found on a workbench and covered the woman’s shoulders, “Bikers turned into Wheelers or made into slaves to care for Wheelers; this dome doesn’t seem very hospitable.”
Gary seemed more animated, like he’d been given a stimulant, “Making Wheelers, that’s what this dome was built to do. It was designed to join people with machines, to create cyborgs; not just Wheelers but all kinds of cyborgs. Clark was supposed to have been made into a Wheeler but before the hardcore could come and get him he repaired two of my friends. To return the favor my newly repaired friends helped him escape back up the ramp.”
Gary looked over at two empty stalls, “The bosses found out, were furious that my friends helped him escape and I haven’t seen either of them since. Clark must’ve later learned that the secret to avoiding capture is to move at a steady pace because he visited the dome a couple more times.”
Gary then nodded at my bike, “The last time I saw Clark was on that bike. We’d been ordered by the bosses to provoke him into making a sudden move but Clark would always stay cool. He’d calmly ride down to and around the dome, even out to the City; the guy must’ve had ice for nerves.
“There was nothing the bosses could do. Wheelers are programmed only to react to panic and we couldn’t get Clark to panic. A couple of times a pack of about five of us were sent out to harass him from the dome to the City’s limits, then to harass him all the way back. He’d always ignore us, stay for awhile, write something in a notebook, and then return. He never left the elevated highway, nor did we ever see him take any of the side roads down into the Old Places.”
“Old Places,” I interrupted, “that’s the second time you’ve mentioned them?”
“Make no mistake, the Old Places,” continued Gary, “are dangerous; you don’t want to go there if you don’t have to. I went down there awhile back but only because I’d been ordered to look for an escaped biker.
“None of us go there by choice, not even the hardcore. The Old Places are home to what’s left and the cast off; they’re home to what came before the dome and the City. Riders like me that take a wrong turn and became lost in them and end up near the dome are captured and made into Wheelers.
“From what I’ve been told everything in the Old Places is connected by a labyrinth of roads littered with vehicles going back to WWI and that this maze of roads branch out to beyond the horizon and pass through abandoned towns. Luckily, as we’re limited to daylight rides, I didn’t have to ride very far; I found the bike but not its rider. The rider had escaped.”
“Escaped;” laughed Larry, “I would’ve thought escaping the Wheelers impossible.”
“Gary laughed in return then nodded over at woman, “She even said she knew how to escape into the Old Places and that she was just waiting for the right time. It was right after she said that the bosses, they had to have been eavesdropping, worked her over. I often wondered if I would’ve been able to survive in the Old Places. Could I have found freedom, a way back to where I came back from?”
“If the Old Places are so dangerous, why do you think,” Larry asked, “the rider would’ve fled into them?”
“It’s the perfect place to escape Wheelers. Our solar panels have virtually no storage so we have to stay near the dome. If we go too far into the Old Places we risk getting stranded there after the sun sets. There are also certain nighttime shadows that act as a web and are able to ensnare you.”
“Can you tell me more about these nighttime shadows that ensnare you?” I interrupted.
“Wheelers shouldn’t be out at night anyway. Nighttime shadows inside the dome or even on the elevated highway,” continued Gary, “don’t carry this web neither do daytime shadows anywhere. It’s only certain nighttime shadows in the Old Places that have the ability to snare you. Once you’ve ridden into the Old Places you better make a point of being back where it’s safe before the sun has set.”
“What about the shadows,” asked Larry, “inside the City?”
“I’ve never been inside the City, so I can’t really say with certainty. I’ve a feeling neither have the bosses nor hardcore Wheelers been inside either, but then again they don’t tell us grunts anything unless it’s to give orders.
“When they sent me back the second time, this time with one of the hardcore, to look for the escaped rider it was in the morning of the next day. It is only when the sun goes down that this web, it either hides in or is part of certain shadows, ensnares people. I once watched one of the hardcore get caught; it wasn’t a pleasant sight. He made the mistake of staying too long.”
“Describe what actually happened to him if you can remember,” said Larry.
“It happened when they sent me back the second time to look for the rider. I’d found his bike on my first patrol but had been ordered to return the next day with one of the hardcore. He had me stand guard outside the gate of an old shopping mall next to the intersecting road we’d come down on from the elevated highway while he searched inside. I was never told why; information was on a need to know basis.
“I remember him riding through the shopping mall gate and then spending the morning and afternoon inside the mall searching all the halls and shops. It wasn’t until the end of the day when he was trying to leave that he found the wind had blown the mall’s gate shut. I watched as he raced around looking for an exit. There was nothing I could do. The sun was setting and I had to leave for the elevated highway or I’d be trapped down in the Old Places too.”
“Larry laughed, “I bet it was you that shut the gate?”
Gary started to deny it then smiled. “Yes, I shut the gate. He was one of the hardcore that had originally captured me and then took me to the dome bosses to be made into a Wheeler; he deserved what he got. Hardcore Wheelers are different from us; they’re incredibly strong. Try to avoid them at all costs.”
“So what happened after he was trapped?”
“He rode to the highest level of the mall. Hardcore solar panels have no storage either and it bought him a few more minutes of sunlight. He must’ve known I’d shut the gate; he was looking at me when he rode over the edge.
“The fall killed him instantly. At once strands, they’re opaque, from certain shadows reached out and wrapped around him. His fleshy parts were gone in seconds.”
“How would you,” I had to ask, “describe it?”
Gary continued, “As the sun’s setting the bigger shadows absorb the littler ones until there’s nothing left but one shadow. Jack London’s character Wolf Larson described it best, the way bits of yeast behave with each other.”
Wolf Larson was a character in Jack London’s book “The Sea Wolf” and captain of the sailing ship Ghost. Larson said the natural behavior between men could be compared to the natural behavior between pieces of yeast; the bigger pieces eating, absorbing, the smaller pieces. “The big eat the little,” said Larson, “that they may continue to move; the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength.” Wolf Larson could’ve been describing the way Corporate America was eating up the Middle Class.
“I figured maybe,” said Gary, “the escaped rider didn’t know about the webs within the nighttime shadows.”
“Or just maybe,” said Larry, “he knew of a way of protecting himself from them?”
“Gary seemed skeptical, “Maybe?”
“So they never,” I asked, “did find the missing rider?”
“No, and if he’d been ensnared by the webs there wouldn’t have been anything to find. What I’ve learned from the Wheelers that chased him was that he was on the elevated highway leading to the City when he started speeding. But because there’s no way of vectoring onto the elevated highway the Wheelers couldn’t get ahead of him. And because they couldn’t get ahead of him he was able to escape down into the Old Places. Like I said, I was sent to look for him but found only his bike. It’s still there. Speaking of which, his bike looked somewhat like your bikes, but shorter, more compact.”
“It sounds like you’re describing,” I interrupted, “the Road Warrior. It’s similar in some ways to these Raiders.”
“It had,” continued Gary, “those same neon green tennis balls bungeed to its back seat. Later when I asked the bosses if they ever found the rider I was told to not to think so much and to mind my own business. It wasn’t but a few days later this woman was captured trying to climb up the ramp you two came down on. She’s been held captive in this pod ever since.”
“Specifically where in the Old Places,” asked Larry, “did you actually find the bike that had neon green tennis balls like the ones on our bikes?”
“It’s on the second left road leaving the dome that comes up out of the Old Places to intersect with the elevated highway. It’s parked next to an old truck.”
Larry was pointing at the sleeping woman when he asked, “How old of a truck and how far; and what did you mean when you said the bosses worked her over?”
“About a half a mile down the road,” answered Gary, “and really old, like an old dump truck I once saw in a history book about the building of the Hoover Dam. In answer to your second question, the bosses may’ve drugged her to find out how she resisted the change. The bosses were obsessed with breaking down her resistance. Speakin’ of breaking down, the three of us have a lot that’s broken down or in the process of breaking down. You have your work cut out if you’re going to repair us before the hardcore start pounding on our pod door.”
Before becoming a studio musician I’d acquired a basic knowledge of electronics by setting up circuit boards for concerts and stage plays. None of those experiences prepared me for what I encountered trying to fix the three cyborgs.
Beginning with the Wheeler who called himself John, the one that had smoke coming from behind his back, Larry and I set to work. High impact blows coming from each side, possibly at the same time, had struck him, snapping wires and breaking off pieces of fairing, some of which had wedged inside his frame. Cords were starting to show where his rear tire was wearing away from rubbing against those pieces.
What could’ve done this to him? Coolant needed to be added to his leaking radiator, which first needed to be repaired so it could hold the coolant. Snapped wires exited from the base of his spine; their broken counterparts exited out the top of the mystery cylinder. I needed to match their colors and sizes and solder them back together. Twenty minutes later Larry had repaired the crack in the radiator and was in the process of replacing the rear tire when I finished soldering all the broken wires together. Amend that to all the wires except for the red one joining the back of his spine to the cylinder.
“At last,” said a voice that sounded as grateful as the Tin Man’s after he was rescued from a prison of rust in the movie WIZARD OF OZ, “I thought I’d never talk again, let alone be able to turn my head. My name’s John and I can’t thank you enough. I’d dance a jig, but I’m part of my bike. I would’ve been scavenged for parts had I broken down, which could’ve been at any time. Actually I’m surprised I even made it back here from the top of the dome with those winds.
“The bosses promise they’ll keep you in repair, but they lie. Not only do they lie, but I’ve seen parts of my friends attached to the hardcore. The hardcore scavenge the best from us then leave what’s left. A buddy of mine went in for a scheduled repair and never returned; I later saw his blue fender on one of the hardcore. I figured they must’ve lured him into the maintenance shop then chopped him up for spare parts.”
Larry and I worked as quickly as we could trying to decide what had to be done then doing what we could to repair the three Wheelers; Gary required the least work. We learned the third Wheeler’s name was Dane, and that even after we’d fixed his jaw he still talked with a lisp. What we couldn’t repair we replaced; what we couldn’t replace we jury-rigged with anything we could find in the shop. Larry and I agreed ‘not’ to reattach the red wires leading from the cylinders at the back of their seats to the base of their spines. We guessed the red wires connected them to something that could override their minds.
I found myself looking at the woman and wondering what had happened to her. Gary said she’d not awakened since the bosses had taken her away for questioning. If the bosses had given her something to break down her resistance to being made into a Wheeler how could we help her, and if she knew of some type of antidote that prevented the process that joined riders with their motorcycles would she share it? Hopefully she’d awaken and we could ask her. If Larry and I could find and take that same antidote or at least learn what ingredients went into making it we too might be able to resist being made into cyborgs, into Wheelers?
I was still trying to guess what the bosses did to her when Larry walked to her side, bent down and rolled her over.
“I think I may have,” Larry said looking back at us, “just found the rider that escaped into the Old Places. You’ve assumed all along it was a man and have been looking everywhere but under your nose. Your missing rider is this woman. When I rolled her over she coughed up a Yamaha Road Warrior key like it was a fur ball. Jax and I know her.”
I’d first met Elisa at an outdoor café in the Borderlands and then again when she wove a dreamcatcher inside my Wide Glide’s sissy bar. Why she’d ridden into the Old Places and got captured trying to escape up the ramp were questions only she could answer.
“Larry and Jax,” said a groggy and not very steady Elisa, “I never thought I’d see you here. You’ve both looked better.”
“You’ve looked better yourself,” laughed Larry as he helped Elisa to her feet. “How’d you get…?”
“No time, I’ll tell you later. We need,” interrupted Elisa as she tried to stand on her own, “to get outta here; we need to leave before the bosses come back and before the sun sets. The Wheelers, even the hardcore ones, won’t pursue us into the Old Places after the sun sets and if my watch is correct we’ve less than an hour before it sets.”
Rushing to grab her other arm, I said, “Our plan is to enter the City not go into the Old places and you’re not going anywhere but up the ramp and through the portal.”
“I’ll take her on the back of my biker” interjected John. “If you two leave for the City just before us it’ll create enough of a diversion for me to get her up the ramp and through the portal. The Wheelers will focus on capturing the two of you. She’s in no condition to do anything but get some help.”
Larry had taken the tennis balls from the back of his Raider and fastened them on the back of John’s bike, “You’ll need these to go through the portal. I believe they’ll work on any bike that’s returning. Furthermore I believe the fusion of your body to your bike will reverse once you’re in the tunnel.”
Elisa motioned for me to bring her a dented five gallon paint bucket that was nearly hidden in the corner.
“Bring me that paint bucket; hurry.”
With dried paint coloring its rusty sides, the bucket Elisa was pointing at first appeared filled with nothing but garbage. On second look I could see something hidden under the first layer of debris. It was a canvas backpack identical to ours; in the backpack was a gallon thermos also identical to ours.
“Hand me the thermos. Don’t spill it; that coffee’s kept me from being made into a Wheeler and is our ticket out of here. My sister Kate and I were given the recipe for that coffee blend by our grandmother. My grandfather used to say my grandmother was half Kahuna and half Bruja.”
“Was your grandmother a good witch,” laughed Larry, “or a bad witch and does your sister happen to work OD’s?”
“She was good to us,” said Elisa as she filled four plastic quart bottles from the thermos then handed three of them to Larry, “when we were growing up. Although I once remember her telling a neighbor if his pit bull didn’t stop threatening the local children it might attract a predator. The neighbor told her to mind her own business and that his pit bull could take care of any animal that came its way. Two nights later the dog was found torn to pieces by what the Sheriff called, judging by the tracks found around the house, a huge wolf. And how did you know my sister works at OD’s restaurant in Gilroy?”
Larry laughed again, “Except for your red hair your sister looks like you and it sounds like your grandmother’s a good witch. After trying to be reasonable with a not very neighborly neighbor, she lost her patience, changed into a werewolf and ate the neighbor’s dog…threat and snack problem solved. Hey, the neighbor’s lucky he wasn’t dessert. So what’s up with this special blend of coffee?”
Elisa looked directly at me, “Do you remember the dreamcatcher I wove onto your bike so you could overpower Raggedy Man? Well this coffee blend is my grandmother’s recipe and has that kind of power but in other ways.”
“You wouldn’t,” asked Larry, “have one of your grandmother’s dreamcatchers in that backpack?”
Elisa smiled but before she could answer a terrible banging started on the small door leading into the dome. Cracks in the metal began to appear. It wouldn’t be long before the door was breached. I could only assume the Wheelers wanting to gain entry were the powerful hardcore Wheelers.
Dane quickly grabbed a floor lamp, accelerated over to the small door and was in the process of wedging its base underneath the bottom of the door when he suddenly stiffened and went ridged. Blue electric arcs were dancing around his already glazed face when he toppled over and was still.
“Don’t,” yelled Gary, “touch him; he’s gone. They’re counting on us going to his aid so they can send another lethal charge through the door. They’ll use him as a conductor to electrocute any of us that make contact with him.”
“Two,” said Larry as he filled the now empty paint bucket with water, “can play the electrocution game. Everyone get back. Whatever you do, do not step in the water.”
Larry ran to the door’s threshold then emptied the bucket of water under it. At the same time, being careful not to step into the liquid, he tapped the door with a broom handle. What happened next was more than we expected. The water, once it touched the wires leading to the hardcore Wheelers on the other side, short-circuited the power they were sending to electrocute us back into their own bodies. The result was they ended up electrocuting themselves and any other Wheeler that may have been in contact with them or the water. The smell of things left on a grill too long drifted into the pod.
“That,” I nervously laughed, “should hold them for…”
BANG…with more intensity than before…
“Hey,” I wasn’t laughing any longer, “I thought your, what goes around comes around electrocution got rid of them?”
“It did get rid of them but that didn’t sound like any Wheeler.” Nor was Larry laughing when he turned to Gary, “What just banged on the outside door?”
Gary seemed in shock, “If it’s what I think it is, it shouldn’t even be here; it’s the Sentinel that stands guard outside the dome. I thought it was immobile.”
“Take this,” said Elisa handing her key to Larry as she struggled to climb onto the back of John’s bike, “it’s the key to my Road Warrior…just in case. You never know what’ll happen once we’ve set our escape into motion. If John and I don’t make it through the portal I won’t need it anyway. Which reminds me; we need to leave…”
CRASH…the door to the back of the pod buckled inward.
“We’re too late;” shouted Gary, “one more battering and the Sentinel will be inside.”
“Maybe not,” Larry shouted back. “Does this Sentinel have any human parts?”
“Just a head or what’s left of a human head,” answered John at the same time he opened the door leading to the catwalk, “and it’s enclosed on three sides by metal; only the face is exposed.”
The hardcore Wheeler waiting outside on the catwalk to ambush us made the mistake of thinking John, a subordinate, still had his red wire connected and would be submissive. When John’s electrical wires shot out and wrapped around the ambusher’s neck its electrocution came quickly.
“That was the only one,” shouted John. “It’s clear to the ramp at the top of the dome and also to the elevated highway leading into the City; but we’ve got to leave now.”
“Everyone get out of the pod; I’ll follow. I’m going to give this Sentinel a greeting he’s not expecting.” said Larry at the same time he started pushing his Raider towards the door where the pounding was coming from. “He wants a warm welcome and I plan to oblige him.”
Larry didn’t have to wait; seconds later the Sentinel introduced itself by breaking down the door. Picture a forklift on steroids with huge claws and a once human head hidden behind metal, a face so covered with machine enhancements it had lost almost all of its human qualities.
“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”__Benjamin Franklin
Introducing Marilyn Stemp
By Bandit |
Who is Marilyn Stemp? Everyone knows she is the heart of Ironworks Magazine, the Editor of the magazine, which she started with her husband Dennis in 1989. With her journalism degree from Penn State University and passion for organization mixed together with her husband’s passion for motorcycles and his amazing creativity they made the perfect team. Unfortunately Dennis passed away in 2001, leaving Marilyn to raise two kids and run the magazine. Recently her 24 year old son Vincent joined the magazine as Tech and Trends Editor, a proud moment for her.
You will see her byline and photographs throughout the magazine. She is passionate about encouraging other people, women, men and especially the next generation to “Just ride, ride as much as you can!” She encourages everyone to ride a motorcycle, whether you commute to work, squeeze some riding time into your weekend, or on long trips across this beautiful nation, it is all a good thing.
Others will know her from the Biker Belles Ride, owner of Dennis Stemp Publishing, Inc., a freelance writer, photographer and is well known throughout the motorcycling industry and personally well known as a friend to many. She is a member of AMAC, AMA and HOG. She is very hard working, and held the position of Managing Editor for 20 some years. She stepped into the Editor position in 2011.
I have never met Marilyn, and was introduced by Bandit through email. Since we live on different sides of the country it would be rather difficult, but not impossible to have met somewhere to talk. However, in this modern day world of electronic communication, talking over the phone was the next best option. For me, it was a little daunting the idea that I was going to be “interviewing” Marilyn over the phone! Men and women definitely speak different languages, and I was grateful to be talking to a fellow woman. Her voice was soft and gentle and very friendly, which left me relaxed and at ease, making the conversation so much easier.
Marilyn has supported the Biker Belles Ride for 3 years and looks forward to participating in the special day for women, and ride through the sweeps and curves of the Black Hills. She also helps Toni Woodruff (Sturgis Buffalo Chip) gather items for the auction and believes the Symposium is a great addition.
This was the second year the Symposium has been held, and each time it is very successful. The auction has also been very successful, as each year they increase dramatically the amount of money made. 100% of all money made from the auction and donations goes to the two charities the Biker Belles support, which are: Helping With Horsepower and The Sturgis Motorcycle Museum and Hall of Fame.
Women have been riding motorcycles for a long time, and many ride their own bikes. There are far more women who ride on the back, behind their husband, partner, or boyfriend. They are often forgotten, but they too are riders. They are just as vulnerable. There are other women who long to ride, whether on their own motorcycle, or on the back, they dream of long winding roads, wind in their hair and the camaraderie fellow bikers bring. But due to circumstances they are unable to move ahead to see their dream completed.
Motorcycling has been historically a male dominated field, where women were not expected or allowed to ride a motorcycle. We were not big enough, or strong enough, and prone to monthly vapors! Slowly over time, women prevailed, and more and more women chose to ride their own bikes proving they were strong enough and could handle the bike as well as the men. Many husbands and partners were proud to ride side by side with their girls.
Over the last 10 years there has been a subtle, slow change winding its way through the motorcycle industry and biking community. With the economy going downwards, and bike sales drooping, manufacturers, and businesses decided to target women as potential customers, and started designing women specific products. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to wear clothes with the curves in the right places? Instead we tried to fit our boobs and curves into a large men’s size. Or that dreaded one size fits all; did they forget men and women have different shaped bodies?
Our center of gravity is lower than a man’s. Our arms and legs are usually shorter, and we don’t have the same upper body strength. You don’t really want to be balanced only on your tiptoes at a red light, holding 900 pounds of motorcycle between your legs, ready to launch once there is a glimmer of green. It can be a little uncomfortable if you have to reach a little further to grip the throttle. Then to tug and adjust your jacket, shirt or chaps to get comfortable, sure can take away some of the pleasure of the ride!
Marilyn believes it is time to bring everyone in, to encourage women everywhere to join together to share and help each other, to ride and enjoy the sheer joy riding can bring. Sharing stories brings everyone together; women tend to have empathy for others with similar tales. Women can help and support each other as they are learning to ride, or by giving encouragement to those who falter.
[page break]
Women teaching other woman is an important aspect and Jessi Combs is doing just this with the Velocity TV show “All Girls Garage” which features women mechanics. Most fabricators are men, making it tough for a woman to be recognized, but Jessi has fought her way to making female recognition a reality.
Jessi took on the challenge of customizing the bike for the Biker Belles Auction. Shelly Rossmeyer from Rossmeyer’s Destination Daytona generously donated a Softail Slim Harley-Davidson. The 2013 Softtail Slim Harley-Davidson has a low seat height, beefy front end and a 103 inch motor which makes it a perfect ride for women.
The story of this bike virtually wrote itself, and turned out perfectly! Jessi put a feminine touch to the bike, but nothing too girly, girly. It is powerful, gorgeous and will be a testament to all women riders, solo or backseat! It is a bike any woman would be proud to own and ride.
———————————————
Ironworks Magazine will be doing a full Feature Article on this special bike, so keep your eyes peeled for the full story. Bikernet is very lucky to be able to share a few photos of the finished bike. The photos were taken by Marilyn Stemp. Thank you!
Stay tuned, watch Ironworks Magazine for the full unveiling of the bike from beginning to the wonderful ending!
———————————————-
I wondered how difficult it had been or still is to work as a woman in a dominantly male, often chauvinistic, testosterone laden environment. Her answer was surprising. She has never had problems, in fact, she said Bandit and the Hamsters took her under their wing and helped guide her. She has never noticed any gender issues. Bikers are extremely loyal and will always go that extra mile to help another biker.
I asked her if she was
a) Grab a change of clothes and sleeping bag, jump on the bike and go. Or
b) Plan it all ahead carefully, making lists of everything to take.
She laughed and said that she plans everything well ahead of time and half of the items she takes with her, come back unused. She pointed out that nowadays it is much harder to just grab a change of clothes and jump on the bike. There is the charger for the smart phone, charger for the tablet, charger for the laptop, headset for talking on Skype, or listening to i-Tunes, camera for photographing bikes, models and people, well you get the picture.
All, in all she is an amazing person, warm, friendly, inspirational, helpful and hard working with a passion for all things motorcycling and tireless devotion to Ironworks Magazine. She believes it is truly an honor to work in the motorcycle industry, alongside other hardworking and devoted people. The passion and emotion in her voice when she speaks of everything encompassing motorcycles and riding, shows just how dedicated she is. She said “Just ride, ride as much as you can!” So, do as she advises……Just get out there and RIDE!!
Editors Note: It was an honor and privilege to talk to Marilyn, and I look forward to meeting her in person in the future!
Bikernet has just opened a NEW section, to CELEBRATE WOMEN, and we are looking for women with stories to share. Riding, motorcycles, how you started riding, or did you build your own bike? If you do, or know someone who does, and would be interested in sharing your story, please email us here at Bikernet Headquarters. You may find your story as an article in the magazine!
Email: mistress@bikernet.com
Four CORNERS BIKE RALLY, IGNACIO, COLORADO
By Bandit |
Now we’re talking Old Skool biker rally. The Four Corners Rally got it right this year. Moving back to its original venue and bringing back the original promoters has made this into a destination for years to come.
The rally started 21 years ago when Senator Ben Night-Horse Campbell and Mike Lovato started talking. Back then there was nothing in Colorado for the biker community. These two along with a host of others put together the first rally. But this was not just about bikers, this brought the biker community to the west with the addition of bull riding. Now, that must have been something to see.
Back then this rally was a destination for many of the 1% clubs and one of the stories from the early days involved a prospect for one of the clubs. It seems this prospect was handicapped, not sure of the ailment but needless to say he was not one hundred percent. The brothers from the club convinced him that the only way to patch in was to ride a bull. That prospect had the heart and soul of twenty good men and signed up immediately, and was sitting on the bull when the brothers pulled him off just before the shoot opened. Needless to say they patched him in right then and there knowing that he would give his life for the club, no questions asked.
This year they brought back the bull riding and it was good to see the bikers joining in the fun. They had a mechanical bull for those that wanted to test their skills before taking on a live bull. Some ladies gave it a try too.
The Iron Order of New Mexico was in charge of the motorcycle games which were sponsored by Zebra Sports Bar in Durango. The brothers did an excellent job of coordinating the games with challenges such as egg-pickup slalom, passenger hot dog eating contest, slow drag race, ride the plank, drag race, and many more.
The final game that decided the winner: ‘Shit the old mans home’. Two pretty bikini clad girls held down the biker in bed as the old man broke down the front door. The biker had to get away from the girls, put on his boots and shirt, get past the old man and out the window to his bike. Then he had to start the bike and race away. Well them girls were not done playing and it was not too easy to get away from them, (not sure I would want to) but with the old man on their tails the bikers made a run for it.
There were a couple of poker runs with prizes for best and worst hands. Imagine a ride from Ignacio, through Durango, up to Silverton and across the million dollar highway to Ouray. What a spectacular ride. Colorado has some of the best scenery in the country. With 11 breath taking rides available in the Four Corners area there is plenty of riding to keep even the most diehard biker in the saddle.
Looking for a short morning run and a bite of breakfast? Just a short ride from the Fair ground you will find the B Diner in Bayfield. Stop in and ask for a “Little Bite of Heaven” and a hot cup of coffee. You will get the real taste of the Four Corners area.
With rally central in Ignacio at the Fair grounds it was an easy party. You could party, then camp out for no extra charge. Live music all day with excellent local bands, the beer tents were pouring ice cold brews and the food was all good. The vendors sold their wares and I found some of the best prices right at the fair grounds. The Ute Indian casino is just up the road so if you wanted to cool off and play some games of chance the bus would pick you up or you could just jump on your bike. Durango is close by and a great place to go for a good dinner. They had a live band downtown one night along with other events for the rally.
If you’re looking for something different at a motorcycle rally ? How about Roller Derby!
The Cortez Roller Derby girls held a bout Saturday evening and as Cortez is just a short jaunt from Ignacio it was the place to go. Blondie’s Bar had a bikini bike wash and cold brews, then it was on to the Roller Derby. Let me tell you those girls are tough and pretty good looking to boot. Once again we’re talking Old Skool….
Every night at Rally Central the party was hot with rocking bands, hot girls, bomb-fires and plenty of cold drinks. This was the place to be. There were multiple contests to keep the crowd going: Pin-Up Girl, best Tattoo, men’s hot buns, fake orgasm (in which a couple were almost real), best chest in the west wet t-shirt (t-shirts were optional) and oil wrestling. All in all it was a real party.
I am not going to say this was the best and biggest motorcycle rally. But for the first year in a rebuilding phase it was pretty dam good. This was a party and the goal was to keep everyone safe and have a good time. The goal was accomplished. If you are looking for a rally to attend next labor day, make it this one. You will not be disappointed.
Until Next time
David Campbell
Historic Porterville Attack
By Bandit |
It has become something of lore, something to talk about, something that still today is remembered by many. It was the day the Hells Angels came to Porterville.
But, it is not that the Hells Angels converged on the town of only 8,000 residents at the time. It is that Porterville stood up to the notorious motorcycle riders and ran them out of town.
It was Aug. 31, 1963, the outlaw bikers began arriving in town, and on Sept. 3, 1963, the headline in the Porterville Evening Recorder read: “200 Motorcycles Converge On City.”
The story that day, with a subhead of “Rowdy Riders Rousted By Police, Dogs, Fire Hose,” told of the riders coming into town and with every passing hour becoming more of a problem until police and city officials took action.
Hunter S. Thompson, one of the more infamous writers of our time, discussed details of that day in his book on the Angels. Sonny Barger, the famous leader of the Hells Angels, devoted part of his book “Hell’s Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barker and the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club” to the day, calling it the “first really big semi-organized outlaw motorcycle get-togethers in California.”
The standoff made most major newspapers, was covered by Newsweek and made more famous by Thompson in his book.
Many have liked to tell the story of that day, and over the years the story changed a bit, became a little more embellished. However, even today it is still talked about. The late Bill Rodgers, who was mayor at the time, loved to tell the story of how he and police chief of the time, Fran Torigian, stared down the notorious bikers and ran them out of town.
The lure of free beer
One story of that day 50 years ago said the biker gangs — there were others besides Hells Angels — were attracted to Porterville because of a rumor free beer was going to be offered on Labor Day. In his book, Barger said it was simply a gathering and a meeting of bike clubs from Northern and Southern California. Barger said other gangs represented include the Satan’s Slaves, Gallopin’ Gooses and the Cavaliers.
“In fact, anyone in the motorcycle world came to Porterville,” Barger wrote.
Accompanying the bikers were several car loads of women and children.
The bikers began to showing up on Saturday, and as Porterville police had knowledge they might be arriving “all available men were called in.” Thompson wrote: “By late afternoon there were riders beginning to congregate at Main and Olive, with the Eagle Club as their drinking center. A few riders were in Murry Park.”
At that time, Main Street was also Highway 65 through town.
By that evening, things began to get rowdy, with as many as 200 of the club members, including women, becoming boisterous and unruly.
Barger wrote in his book what Newsweek wrote in March of 1965 of the standoff in Porterville: “… They rampaged through local bars shouting obscenities. They halted cars, opening their doors, trying to paw female passengers. Some of their booted girlfriends lay down in the middle of the streets and undulated suggestively.”
Of course, Barger saw it differently, writing that a fight involving a resident inside a tavern on East Date started the events that led police to action.
The Recorder’s account on Sept. 2, 1963, said “the unwashed, unkempt riders” began to break the law Saturday evening. It said they assembled at Main and Olive and many local residents taunted them throughout their stay.
Stories differ as to what happened at the tavern. The Recorder said a biker drank a citizen’s beer, and when the person protested, the biker slugged him. “A patron was knocked from his stool and needed five stitches,” said The Recorder.
The Farm Tribune — the city’s weekly paper at the time, owned and published by Rodgers — reported, “Just when authorities thought the bikers might be leaving town, one of the gang members was injured in a fight and taken to Sierra View Hospital. A few minutes later a half dozen of the motorcycle boys had swept through Sierra View hospital apparently looking for a man with whom they had had the fight earlier.”
Barger saw it differently, saying the man who got slugged, came back with a gun and was beaten by several bikers. At the hospital, four bikers who had an accident were being treated and when the man saw them, “he freaked out and yelled for the police.”
That is when Rodgers, acting as mayor, declared marshal law and a plan was forged to drive the bikers out of town.
City takes action
Armed with a city fire engine and four police dogs, and aided by officers from the Porterville Police Department, Tulare County Sheriff’s Department and California Highway Patrol, city officials began preparing for the confrontation.
Ted Ensslin, former mayor and who was in his 30s at the time, recalled how brave Police Chief Torigian was confronting the dangerous looking bikers. Jeff Edwards, local photographer and historian, was called out that night to take photos for both The Recorder and The Fresno Bee.
Unfortunately, said Edwards, he loaned out film negatives so many times, his pictures from that night have disappeared.
He said he was a little nervous until he saw a local person who was with the motorcyclists and that put him at ease.
The first decision that night 50 years ago was to close Murry Park. That was about 7 p.m. At 8 p.m., according to Thompson’s account, word came the bikers may be leaving, but then there was an accident and the fight at the tavern.
It was after the incident at the hospital that it was decided to force the bikers out of town.
“Traffic was bumper to bumper on Main Street; 1,500 local people stood around at Main and Olive to see what would happen. The motorcycle clan, perhaps 300 strong at this point, was living it up drinking, tying up traffic, breaking bottles in the street, using profane and insulting language, putting on what they considered a show,” wrote Thompson.
At just after 9:30 p.m., Torigian asked the bikers to leave and when one biker tried to go north, he was hit with a blast of water from the fire hose, knocking him to the pavement. Officers were in riot gear with nightsticks and shotguns.
The riders were given five minutes to leave.
The officers worked Main Street north to south, forcing the bikers across the Main Street Bridge.
The bikers went south and amassed at the old Sports Center. Then, they were allowed back into town, but just five at a time with police escort, to get gas at Main and Olive. It was noted a large crowd of local residents heckled them as they got gas.
The Recorder reported that they tried to return about 2 a.m. Sunday, but were turned away at the bridge.
In all, no one was seriously injured, damage was limited and only about a half of dozen arrests were made.
Fifty years later, the lore continues.
Bikernet reaches one of the club members on the scene:
You bet I was there. It was the 1st time the northern charters all came down to Fresno and came to my place overnight.
We headed to Porterville in the morning. I got four tickets that day.
Got evicted by the Landlord when I got back. DA pushed him to it, he said. “The cops no longer liked me in Fresno, They wanted me gone…”
There is a picture of Little Dee on the Front page of the Porterville paper. He went to jail & Indian from Oakland. Cops hosed him off his bike and started a Fight with the Heat… FUN, FUN, FUN.
Lots of good times…
–VERN
The Twisted World of Seth Slagiel
By Bandit |
In a world gone insane with new tech and import parts, there are still builders who create true works of art the old school way. A couple of years ago, a handful of us, including Billy Lane, Jeremiah Soto, and the boss of Sucker Punch Sally, rode north to Half Moon Bay from Los Angeles. Along the way we stopped in Oxnard at a shop, Top Dead Center.
Inside, in the back, we discovered the only guy left in the world who makes complete custom frames with twisted and polished solid stock. Seth has since hit the road on his own. He calls his shop Hand Crafted by Seth and he is still the only guy on the planet who makes these components by hand. He’s turned twisting solid rod into a fine art.
Bikernet recently featured Quentin Guttierrez’s third twisted creation. “Quentin keeps me going,” said Seth.
http://www.bikernet.com/pages/THE_ULTIMATE_IN_TWISTED_FEATURES.aspx
By trade, Seth is a boiler maker, ironworker, and hired gun. He let his union gig go when he left the industry to chase the custom motorcycle world, but since the economy tanked along with the custom industry, he returned to the iron working ranks, which drags him away from his young family to refineries in Texas, Louisiana, Florida, and Utah.
“I have two kids now, ten and seven,” Seth said. “I play with my seven-year-old son every day. I need to be with him.” But he’s looking at closing his shop due to the slow business. “My life is totally different once I had kids.”
In over 40 years in this business I have only witnessed this level of talent a handful of times. Someday, Seth will be recognized alongside Ron Finch and Jeff Decker. He’s one of a kind, and it’s not easy in any respects.
This bike was his scrap project build with pieces and parts from other builds, so each twist isn’t perfectly matched. To stay within budget, he painted the frame black instead of spending thousands on chrome.
Get this – each and every twist is carefully polished before he even sends it out for plating. Take, for instance, the VL styled neck area on this bike. He machined the neck, twisted the metal, welded it, blended the welds, worked out any imperfections, and then polished every element. In this case, he painted the frame himself. Can you imagine priming and sanding each and every twist, curve, and ledge, and then adding the topcoat? Since the details of the frame disappeared, he decided to sand the twisted edges, to enforce the details, but that didn’t work since he was using scrap chunks and all the twists didn’t match.
“It needs to be plated to do the frame justice,” Seth said, and we may see this bike again with a plated frame and a Knucklehead engine. “This is the first frame I ever painted.”
We hope to bring you a tech on his frame-making techniques in the very near future. Quentin displayed one of his bikes at the IMS Ultimate Builder Show last year and I picked it to be the Editor’s Choice winner for Bikernet.
He hopes to have three bikes featured at the Long Beach Show next year, and a bare bike or frame so you can see first-hand how these frames are manufactured. They are not for everyone, with their heavy solid construction, and hand-twisted forms, like twisted spoke wheels. But each creation is unique. Each frame is numbered and he is only up to number nine.
With his bike, he used lots of scraps, including the gas caps he found in an electrical scrap yard. His tanks are set up VL style with gas in one and oil in the other. He used a cowpie transmission on purpose for the details on the tranny top, since the area is open.
Seth refused to install a late 5-speed and electric start. “I couldn’t capture the look I was after with the late stuff sticking out,” he said. “I wanted the open area around the trans.”
He made the complete neck and used the vintage frame castings from V-twin for the rear axle, and dug up a casting for the rear motor-mount and front transmission mount.
The latest creation contains another process, texture, with ball peening every surface of the frame. This is another build for Quentin, and it may hit the bike show circuit this year.
RECENT PROJECT:
“Here’s a few pics of the twisted 1940 Knucklehead I just finished.” Seth said. “Bad ass bike Robert Pradke did the paint. I’m gonna bring this one, and two, maybe three new bikes to the Ultimate Builder Show…if I can finish them in time.
“I threw in a few of it in raw metal. They are my babies while raw. I like to keep ‘em that way.”
*******
BIKERNET EXTREME TWISTED TECH CHART
GENERAL
Owner: SETH SLAGIEL
Address: 666 TWISTED DR
City OXNARD
State/ Zip CA
Phone: 805 248 8073
Website: facebook.com/handcraftbyseth
E-Mail:handcraftbyseth@gmail.com
Make: HANDCRAFTBYSETH#4
Year: 2012
Model: SPEEDY
Type: #4
Fabrication: ALL BY SETH
Finish: PAINT, POWDERCOAT
Time: TOO LONG
Hardware: YES
Assembly: SETH
Assembler: SETH
Value: FOR SALE, MAKE OFFER
Clutch: HARLEY
ENGINE:
Type: S&S SHOVELHEAD
Displacement: 74-inch
Year: 2012
Horsepower: NOT A LOT
Heads: ‘66 HARLEY
Valves: S&S
Pistons: S&S
Cylinders: HARLEY
Camshaft: JIMS
Ignition: CRANE
Lifters: JIMS
Pushrods: JIMS
Carburetor/Injection: S&S B
Air Cleaner: HORN OF A FORKLIFT I THINK
Exhaust: SETH
Mufflers: NO
Finish: STAINLESS
Fasteners/Hardware: CHROME
TRANSMISSION
Brand: VTWIN & HARLEY
FRAME
Type TWISTED VL STYLE , HANDCRAFT
Year: 2012
Builder: SETH
Stretch: NO
Rake: 30 degrees
Swing Arm: NO
Shocks: ARE FOR GIRLS
Modifications: EVERYTHING THAT WAS SOMETHING, AND THE
REST WAS BUILT BY HAND
PAINT
Colors: I ASKED FOR THE UGLIEST RED THEY HAD
FORKS
Brand: VL
Type: HARLEY
Year: ‘30s
Builder: SETH
Finish: POWDERCOAT
Triple Trees: HARLEY
Modifications: 1-inch STEM, 5/8-inch ROCKERS
WHEELS
Front:
Rim: SPOOL
Size: 21-inch
Hub: SPOOL
Builder: VTWIN
Finish: CHROME & POWDERCOAT
Fender: NO
Tire: SPEEDSTER
Brake: NO
Rear:
Rim: HARLEY
Size: 18
Brake: SPROCKET ROTOR
Builder: VTWIN
Finish: CHROME & POWDERCOAT
Tire: COKER
Hub: HARLEY
CONTROLS
Handlebars: PANHEAD INTERNALS
Foot: GSXR
Shifter: Brass faucet knob
ELECTRICAL
Headlights: BRASS SPOTLIGHT
Taillights: NOT SURE, BUT ITS COOL
Turn Signals F/R: HANDS
Speedometer: JUST GO FASTER
Tachometer: EARS
Gauges: DON’T NEED THEM
Electric’s: ONLY A FEW WIRES
WHAT ELSE?
Seat: ALIGATOR
Backrest?: NO
Fender: WEST EAGLE
Oil Tank: LEFT SIDE OF GASTANK
Fuel Tank(s): SETH ….WITH SPEEDY CAPS
[ad
Welcome to the Borderlands – Chapter 6
By Bandit |
Editor’s note: The following story was reprinted from the book, “Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemyer.
Revised version August 6, 2013.
Larry’s ten minutes of winding his way downhill with me as a passenger brought us into a warmer setting. We’d left the cold behind. Wafting ahead of us were the sharp welcoming smells of eucalyptus mixed with sage. Trees and shrubs beginning to bloom painted the roadsides with different shades of green; the third bridge had been a barrier between spring and winter. “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash was playing in my hearing aid size radio.
Speaking of spring, Larry’s guess as to the origin of the rising column of mist was correct. Cradled within the roots of an ancient pepper tree whose gnarly trunk looked like the unfinished face of an old man were plumes of steam marking the location of a hot spring. The spring’s pool simmered like a warm hot tub inviting us to park under the tree’s branches.
Memories of crossing the bridge along with the ordeals of yesterday began to fade the longer we stood near the pool’s edge. Unable to resist the temptation and with our clothes still on, we both jumped into the water.
“Ouch,” Larry yelled as he sank beneath the surface.
“I’ll second that ouch,” I gasped.
“You’ll get used to it,” said the ancient pepper tree that had a trunk shaped like the unfinished face of an old man.
Morning’s sun was showcasing more of the land and with the sun came a peace of mind I’d not felt since our short stay at Ma n’ Pa’s. Finally refreshed and with skin wrinkled like prunes we climbed out, washed the rest of our clothes and then fell asleep waiting for them to dry. We awakened at noon.
“I think we may’ve washed away more than dirt,” laughed Larry buttoning up his shirt. “My feelings of hopelessness seemed to have been washed away too.”
Getting dressed and then getting ready to leave, I felt as had Larry, that some of our worst memories had indeed been washed away and that if the pool had the power to lift our spirits maybe it could…
“What if we filled the Warrior’s tank with water then added one of Pa’s pills? Pa said they’d change water into gasoline.”
“Go for it,” agreed Larry. “The Warrior’s been running on fumes since the bridge. If Pa’s pill doesn’t work we’d have been walking soon anyway.”
Filling the Road Warrior’s gas tank with water from the pool took a few minutes and then I dropped in the pill. The rustling of wind through the trees wasn’t loud enough to muffle the bubbling sounds percolating up from the tank. The bubbling ended when the tank belched out the cap vent.
“The smell coming from the tank reminds me of my grandfather’s barnyard,” I laughed.
Larry wrinkled his nose and then hit the starter switch; with a roar the big V-twin came to life.
Springtime became summer as we rode down onto a high plateau saddled between grass covered hills. Fields left to grow on their own pushed past fences; farms like the farms we’d passed since riding past the barricade at the Crossroads looked abandoned. At the end of the plateau the road divided, the right fork paralleling a widening arroyo that followed a river that had cut its way down to a dry plain. Three hundred yards away the left fork ended at a rockslide beginning directly behind a vertical rock face. And by rock face I mean literally a thirty foot face made of rock.
“The right fork leads down and onto a dry plain so wide I can’t see the other side. Going back the way we came is not a choice,” said Larry pointing over his shoulder. “Our only real choice is to take the left fork. We can either find a path through the rockslide or leave the bike and climb over it.”
Riding up to within twenty feet of the rockslide caused a cascade of gravel; above the cascade was an outcropping of boulders. Would the sound of our engine dislodge them, were they waiting their turn to fall? Further up the hill, in an ascending series of terraces, were even more rock ledges.
“I’ve an idea, it could bring the whole hill down, but it could also clear a way for us,” Larry said looking at the steep slope. “If we can get the nearest ledge to fall it’ll knock the slide out of the way and give us a path through.”
Staring at where Larry was pointing, I added, “And if we’re wrong we’ll make an even bigger barrier.”
Revving the Road Warrior’s engine startled a large group of crows out of some nearby trees. They circled three maybe four times around us then landed back on their favorite limbs. Seconds after they landed the closest ledge fell frightening them back into flight.
Larry’s estimation of the direction of the falling rocks had proved to be correct. Arching across the road then striking the far side of the slide, they took the other rocks as well as themselves over the edge and down the hill.
“Drinking the hair of the dog that bit you,” I laughed, “works for rockslides as well as hangovers,”
“We got lucky with the ledge and now have a narrow trail,” answered Larry. “The question is do we take a chance and ride over it or walk?”
Rivulets of gravel were continuing to cascade down the hill when I answered, “I vote for walk considering the rest of the ledges are ready to fall.”
“Motorcycles can be replaced, maybe retrieved,” said Larry getting off the Road Warrior. “Having the hillside land on us isn’t an option. We’ll walk.”
Instead of returning to the trees the birds circled low over the huge rock face; at times they’d fly so close their feathers would brush the tip of its nose.
“Something’s wrong,” Larry whispered.
Suddenly and without warning the crows, which had been flying in tight circles, started cawing. Instantly the rock face awakened and began screaming. So loud and piercing was its scream it sliced through every thought, every stone, like in boulder, like in hillside with ledges of boulders that at any moment could be coaxed into falling.
“Follow me;” yelled Larry, “don’t stop until you’re clear!”
Running behind him, I followed in his steps. The fact the hillside was crumbling down on our heads gave us no other alternative than to race forward along the narrow ledge.
“Keep up; everything’s turning to rubble.”
Behind us came the sound of the road falling away; following that sound the ground was turning to gravel, to dust, and then into mist. The Borderland was dissolving.
“Not far,” Larry yelled over the crashing and crumbling, “just twenty more feet.”
Twenty feet ahead the seamless pavement of the Old Ridge Route suddenly ended at the beginning of a country road. This one had all the predictable potholes, bumps and weeds that come with country roads.
Southeast of the small town of Hollister California is the village of Tres Pinos; behind Tres Pinos begins Santa Anita Road. It’s an old backroad that runs through pastures and fields and is bordered with hand cut wooden fences and tall valley oaks. Twisting upward out of the earth and with branches looking more like tentacles than tree limbs, these old oaks line the road for about ten miles until ending at a small bridge. The bridge, built in the 1940s, leads to a locked iron gate; I was quite sure this was the same road.
[page break]
Styx and Stones
Twenty more feet and we’d be safely out of the Borderlands; but could Larry survive leaving the Borderlands? Rock changing to dust and then the dust changing to a thick mist; all of it was happening behind us and those changes were nipping at our heels.
“Don’t stop,” Larry shouted at the same time he made a long jump from what was left of the Ridge Route onto the potholed road.”
A second later I’d completed the same jump and was on solid ground. We’d made it, barely, but didn’t stop running for another a hundred feet.
“From solid ground to mist in seconds, I can’t help but wonder if Ma n’ Pa or any of the Borderland they created survived,” I said, still trying to catch my breath.
Already a dense wall of fog had filled in the void. Larry and I walked back a dozen yards and waited. Billowing in, replacing land and sky, the fog came to a stop where we’d made our jump.
“I’ve no idea what’s on the other side of the fog or what’s left of their old Borderland,” Larry said looking at me. “I haven’t started to disappear which makes me think a thread of it runs along this road. How far it runs I don’t know. Threads from the fringes of different Borderlands often run through the fabric of your world; you just need to know how and where to look for them.”
“This road,” I said, “looks familiar.”
“That may be true,” Larry answered, “but my senses are still telling me it leads to the fourth bridge. That we have no bikes to ride is a bummer, that we weren’t crushed is a blessing; I’ll take a blessing over a bummer anytime.”
And so we began walking eastward and the further we walked the more I realized this was indeed Santa Anita Road behind the village of Tres Pinos. “Looking for an Echo” by Kenny Vance was playing in my ear radio.
“Could we,” I asked, “have taken the wrong turn; the only bridge at the end of this road leads to a locked gate?”
“We’ve gotta have faith we’re on the right road; there’s no going back,” replied Larry. “Ma n Pa’s Borderland is gone or at least the entrance into it; we’ve no other choice but to go forward. Our only alternative would be to go upward and we can’t do that without an airplane. Maybe if we could hitch a ride on that WWII Navy fighter coming in low over the hills with its flaps and wheels down that looks like it’s going to land on the road ahead, and maybe…”
“It’s Andy!” I yelled waving my hands in the air.
With a 2800 horsepower engine throttled back enough to turn a thirteen foot propeller slow enough to see the individual blades; the gull wing Corsair lined up for its final approach. Clearing the tall oak beside us was Andy’s first obstacle, amend that to almost clearing. Sheared away, the tree’s top leaves rained down seconds after the plane passed overhead. He was moments from landing… three, two, one and his wheels touched the asphalt. With his wings inches above fence posts, Andy kept the Corsair from bouncing by braking and bleeding off speed before reaching the end of the straight stretch, which he would’ve overshot, had he not spun the plane around just before running out of road.
Running up and then climbing onto the plane’s wing, Larry shouted, “How were you able to find us?”
“Ma, she knew where to find you,” Andy yelled over the idling engine. “I left Ma outside the Styx Diner then flew here. Her whole Borderland is being wiped out. Ma thought it best to destroy it rather than have it contaminated. She said once it was gone she and Pa would recreate it.”
“In other words, or in computer speak,” I’d climbed up on the opposite wing where it attached to the fuselage, “Ma’s going to purge then reboot.”
“It’ll work, but it’s a little like throwing the baby out with the bath water,” said Larry standing across from me.
“It’s already started,” said Andy. “Ma’s already put into motion the process. Her fear is it’s accelerating at too fast of a pace, which is why she sent me to get you.”
“So when do we leave?” I asked.
Even at idle the Corsair’s big engine was hard to hear over, but not so loud as to cover Andy’s answer.
“By you, I meant Larry; I’ve only got room for Larry,” said Andy turning to me. “Ma said to tell you Hilts is safe and that Charon would explain. But simply put, if I don’t fly Larry to another Borderland he’ll fade away. This road’s always had threads of their Borderland running through it but soon they’ll be gone. The fourth bridge is five miles further up the road. Charon’s on his way, he volunteered to rescue you, which reminds me, we’ve got to get going.”
“We’ll meet again,” Larry said, climbing into the passenger seat behind Andy. “It’s a quite a gamble on their part but I think I know your role in what they’ve planned. Don’t question the journey; trust that everything’s transpiring the way it’s supposed to transpire.”
Jumping down from the wing, I ran to the side and watched them take off. Both Andy and Larry gave a thumbs-up when the brakes were released.
With the propeller pitched for maximum thrust, the throttle wide open and the supercharger engaged, the big fighter headed back down the road. Generating enough torque to twist itself up on one wheel, Andy compensated for the engine’s power by making easy corrections. Within the length of a football field the Corsair was moving fast enough for the rudder and ailerons to work; soon they were airborne. Just a foot off the ground and gaining speed Andy retracted the wheels and easily cleared the oak tree’s top branches he’d minutes before clipped leaves from.
Thinking they’d fly on, they instead circled back and passed overhead; both were leaning out the cockpit and pointing frantically behind them.
Looking in the direction they were pointing I saw the same gray wall of fog that had followed us to where Ma n’ Pa’s old Borderland ended. It was a half mile away and moving towards me; I needed to get out of there.
Surfing has been my passion and I thought I was in shape but after a mile of running starting from where the Corsair had taken off I realized my passion should’ve been marathons.
Cresting a knoll I could see nothing but more road leading into the distance and no sign of the fourth bridge. The fog would catch me before I’d run another mile.
Far away a small speck, a lone motorcyclist could be seen approaching at incredible speed. Behind me and gaining was the fog. It would be interesting to see which of them got to me first, the rider or the fog. My money was on the rider, if anything his speed had increased. My Wide Glide had been fast, Larry’s radial engine chopper faster and Hilts’ Road Warrior faster yet. The bike coming towards me would have made them all seem slow and slowing was what it was doing. It was Charon, already beginning to fade into mist now that he was away from the river Styx; the longer he was away from the river the faster he’d fade.
Skidding to a stop beside me, Charon pointed at his Hayabusa, “Take my bike; the fourth bridge is about five miles back up the road. The Styx Diner’s on this side of it. Ma said for you cross the bridge and go through the gate on the other side; she told me to tell you she’ll handle what’s gotta be done at the diner.”
“What about you, you’re fading away?”
“Ma salvaged what was left of me long ago, she’ll do it again;” replied an almost transparent Charon, “I’ll be brought back with the rest of her Borderland once it’s safe.”
Introduced in the late 1990s the Suzuki Hayabusa was a near 200 mph bike out of the crate; to buy one you had to have a donor card. Charon’s was altered to go even faster. With a nitrous oxide bottle just below the left grip and some light stainless steel exhausts that at an idle bubbled out hints of modifications way beyond stock; the thing was a beast.
“We can both make it back to the bridge if we start now;” I shouted at Charon, “the fog’s still distant enough to give us the time we’d need.”
“Too late,” Charon said in a voice that already sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel and just before the wall of fog enveloped an oak fifty yards away, and just before his body faded into nothing.
My options were to ride for the fourth bridge like my life depended on it or ride for the fourth bridge like my life depended on it.
Donning the helmet and hopping on the Hayabusa and then releasing the clutch raised the front wheel.
The fog was accelerating, trying to match my speed; fog wasn’t supposed to move that fast. Thin tendrils looking more like long gray fingers had closed to within a few feet of my rear fender.
Nitrous oxide has become Popeye’s spinach for the go fast folks. Use it in an engine built with a retro design and it’ll turn that engine into shrapnel. Suzuki has, however, a history of upgrading their engines and as a result dominated racing. Later when those same racing engines were detuned and put into the 1200 Bandit they’d seemingly run forever without repairs. Hayabusa’s origins were based on those motors. And so at ninety miles per hour and thinking more of spinach than shrapnel, I punched the nitrous button.
“Picket fence” is part of the lyrics in the ‘60s song “Hot Rod Lincoln” and is used to describe what telephone poles look like when passed at high speed. Passing rows of old oaks at high speed blends them into a continuous wall of branches. Picture being shot out of a cannon down a tunnel wallpapered with trees. Someday someone will write a song about a Hayabusa and rows of old oaks?
By fourth gear I was focused only on the road; raising my head above the windscreen would’ve snapped it back. Clearing a rise with my wheels off the ground had me remembering some scary film footage from an Isle of Man race.
Two more gears to go and Charon’s Hayabusa was already past a hundred and fifty. The fourth bridge was in view, the fog still behind me. I could see the Styx Diner.
Slow down so as not to crash or keep enough speed so as not to be caught became a delicate balance. Opting for compromise I ended up, after a series of late downshifts and locking my brakes, sliding to the middle of the bridge. Chasing me to the bridge, but unable to cross, the fog rose up like a giant wave blocking everything behind it from sight and then it broke covering all on its side in a dense cloud.
In moments the cloud melted away. And where there’d been daylight there was night, for the blue sky had become a sea of stars. And where nothing had been in front of the diner there was now a ‘58 Pontiac convertible. Purple neon letters flickered on and off above the diner’s entrance stammering to spell Styx; stuttering first an S…s…then a T…t…then a Y…and then half an X. At the same time the song “Maybe” by The Chantels drifted out the diner’s door inviting me to come over and help Ma save the Borderlands. Nothing but static was coming from my hearing aid size radio.
Even with the music reminding me Ma was alone in the diner; I’d already made up my mind I was going back to help her. And so with my guitar in hand I returned across the bridge.
Cricket sounds followed me to the diner’s front step; stepping on it made both the music and the crickets stop. If Ma was inside and Hilts was somewhere safe; where was Pa?
Swinging too easily inward, the diner’s door opened into a room empty of people. It was bigger than I remember it being and furnished with 1950s counters and booths; its black and white checkerboard tile floor faded into the far side of the room. To my right was the jukebox. Ahead was the bar where I’d given a coin to an Elvis that looked like the Elvis in the movie BUBBA HO-TEP. Behind the bar was the shadow I’d seen move on its own.
“You’re lucky,” said the shadow, “especially when you’re around Ma,” then pointing towards the jukebox, “but you’re also predictable, as was Ma. I knew she’d come. She’s here and is now one of my Top Ten songs. Check it out; she’s B-4. She made it to the Hit Parade.”
A nearby booth with a list of jukebox songs confirmed what I feared. Ma had been made into a CD labeled B-4. Pictured on the label was her face looking as it did the moment she’d been downloaded onto the disk. Had Elvis suffered a similar fate; how many others had been made into CDs?
“I only had to wait for her;” said the shadow, “I knew she’d come to fix the jukebox. Once she touched it she was caught. The jukebox was reprogrammed to trap her like spam; Pa, however, was a no show. I would have really liked him in my collection. No matter, it’s a new era. The Borderlands ought not to be special; they should be like other lands. Without the harmony generated by playing select songs on their jukeboxes they’ll become part of them.”
Thinking the end of the jukebox cord was but a few feet from the wall and that if I plugged it in and played B-4 I’d release Ma, brought an instant response from the shadow.
“You’re thinking,” said the shadow, “can I plug the jukebox back into the wall, play B-4, and free Ma? And by doing that you’d bring harmony back to this Borderland; am I right? Well try moving.”
Struggle as I might I found that my feet were glued to the diner’s floor. Only my arms could move; the rest of me remained frozen.
“You can’t move your feet,” laughed the shadow, “because I haven’t moved mine. I was once your shadow but in here our roles are reversed. I was torn from you the first time you passed through the diner and out of the Borderlands. Charon’s coin paid for your return passage but not mine. I’ve been stuck in here ever since and it might as well have been forever. As you’ve probably already found out there’s no relative time in the Borderlands; there’s only ‘Now’ time. No matter, as soon as I get you to tell me which song is your favorite, I’ll just punch in its letter and number and then you along with your friends will be part of my Oldies collection.”
“Pa,” I whispered knowing it was a wasted effort, “if you can hear me, if you’re the cavalry, you’d better hurry.”
The shadow laughed again, “Don’t count on that country bumpkin coming to your rescue. Aaron, you’ve already met my friend Aaron, my second favorite operative before you destroyed Femus, was sent to pay Pa a visit. I’m afraid Pa’s now part of the compost he so loved feeding to his garden. If Pa had come here,” and the shadow continued to laugh at the same time he pointed at the jukebox, “he’d be featured in the Country Music section.”
Hopeful for the first time since entering the diner, “You’ve never really met Pa have you?”
“It wasn’t necessary; I saw him many times through the eyes of my friends.”
“You mean familiars don’t you?”
“Same thing,” answered the shadow. “Friends, well it sounds friendlier. Pa’s no threat. Every time I watched him he’d be following Ma around like some type of big puppy dog. When he wasn’t following Ma he was playing at being a farmer or an inventor.”
“Speaking of playing,” I said as I found I could point my guitar at the shadow and play the first few chords of “Deserie” by The Charts, “did you ever hear this one?”
The first few were all I was able to play before I suddenly threw, without being able to stop myself, my guitar across the room and against the jukebox. The room became dark.
At the same time the diner became dark the shadow laughed, “And now I know the name of your song. Get ready to join your friends. I just need a few seconds to coalesce into a figure solid enough to punch in your song’s number and letter. And then my old friend in the time it took to have your worst root canal, you’ll be part of the Hit Parade.”
“You’ve got the ’root canal’ part right,” said an eight foot figure of blue light standing where my guitar had landed.
Somehow Pa had become the guitar at his house and then changed back into Pa when it was thrown against the jukebox. He’d already plugged the jukebox cord into the wall and had punched in B-4.
Ma appeared beside him when “Let it Be” by The Beatles began to play.
Already dark, the diner descended into a deeper darkness. And as bright as Pa was he began to fade but not before Ma reached out her hand and touched his hand. And then like two drops of water that become one when joined they became a figure of light taller and more brighter than the one I’d seen before, so bright I had to shield my eyes between my fingers.
Turning to look at me the figure of light, which was really Ma n’ Pa, said, “Get out. The only way we could trap the shadow inside the diner was to use Ma as bait. We gambled you’d return to the diner with your guitar to help Ma. We gambled on your shadow getting angry enough at you to become solid enough to punch your song’s number and letter into the jukebox. The gate’s unlocked on the other side of the bridge. Take the Pontiac, drive across the bridge and through the gate; the road on the other side will get you out of what’s left of our Borderland.”
In answer, the shadow, once my shadow, stretched its arm, now tentacle, completely across the diner’s floor in an attempt to touch me.
“Hurry, this diner and what’s left of our Borderland will soon cease to exist,” shouted Ma n’ Pa at the same time they stretched out an equally long arm of light and severed the shadow’s tentacle.
No other encouragement was needed. Quickly out the door and into the Pontiac had me seconds later spinning its rear tires away from the diner, onto the road and then onto the bridge. Skidding to a stop at the end of it I looked behind me.
Burned in my mind like an arc welder’s flash was the memory of the Styx Diner becoming so bright it disappeared and how that brightness expanded outwards blotting out all it touched. Already the light was beginning to reach across the bridge for Charon’s Hayabusa. The Doo Wop song “Oh Rose Marie” by The Fascinators was playing on the Pontiac’s radio when I drove through the open gate.
Lollapalooza – 3 Day Music Festival in Chicago
By Bandit |
My name is “T-Bag” Ludlow. I’m a 24-year-old native of Chicago-land and my bike is a hardtail Sporty chop. Yes, I’m living the good life.
Lollapalooza is a three-day music festival hosted annually in Grant Park. It basically drowns out anything else going on near the lake. Previous experience with the festival reminds me of the big-name bands, awesome bar food and beer, and all of this surrounded by the embrace of the scenic Chicago skyline. I found out that there was a wristband I could borrow for Friday and there was no reason for me not to go. By the time Friday afternoon rolled around I was more than ready to get the bikes on the road and head towards the party.
Chicago is a world-class city. The summer here is a paradise that doesn’t seem to end. The roads that take you into Chicago, however, are as smooth and relaxing as performing surgery on yourself with a tuna can lid. Pothole-ridden I-290 has a common speed of about 80 which matches the IQ level of the drivers when event traffic meets the Friday rush-hour traffic. When I am on my bike and I can see the Sears tower, I expect to be cut off, so I typically try to stay ahead of traffic. My cousin James, who had the tickets and my dad’s Softail, also learns this quickly. I’m grateful he found out before the day ended in the E.R., arguing with gunshot victims over which of us looks worse.
Having friends in the city has its perks, and we are able to park in a gated area behind a friend’s apartment in the Ukrainian Village, which is just a quick bus ride to the concert. Things can disappear in minutes in certain areas like this, either all at once or piece-by-piece, like a decaying animal. Since I can put my hardtail in the back of a truck easily with two other people, I presume anyone else can too. Gated parking is a plus in this particular area.
The first surge of concert-goers is pulsing through the gates at Grant Park as we arrive. The first thing I notice is a sea of beautiful young women everywhere. The next is that they are all wearing tank tops and high-waisted cut-off short shorts, almost without exception. Exactly how high the cuts were on these homemade shorts seemed to depend on the personality of the girl. Some planned for the Chicago heat even more seriously than others, which I was grateful for.
Lollapalooza, when compared to other music festivals, is always ready to show recent changes in music trends, especially pop music. It is a festival that is guaranteed to both have a band be “discovered” there, and to also have some of the biggest names on the radio and charts at that time. The crowd consists of all ages in attendance, but it would seem that the majority of us are in our twenties, yes, for better-or-worse and we are in the driver seat of the pop-culture bus. My pick for this year’s breakout band would have to be Crystal Castles.
One genre that stands out to me is dubstep music. Maybe it’s that the DJ on stage plays his tracks with as much difficulty as I do on iTunes during my morning shower. Maybe it’s that all dubstep songs seem to use the same grinding, tug boat, WAHH as the ‘chorus’ and the same whistles for accents. Maybe I didn’t bring the right drugs. For any of these reasons, the dubstep scene seems strange to me despite my honest attempts to sit through a couple sets of Steve Aoki or Monsta. However, I respect the energy and excitement that the true fans bring to these shows.
Later, on one the main stages, Queens of The Stone Age put on a show that reminds me that rock and roll is not lost on my generation. This is a band known for hard-hitting guitars and drums, impressive time changes, and eerie haunting melodies. I imagine Druids chanting at Stonehenge in between spells to summon demons. I was not at all surprised to learn that they would be playing Sturgis a week later. Queens display what happens when you mix hard rock and childhood nightmares.
I have no idea how we ended up in front of the stage for Lana Del Ray. This is more of a phenomenon than a concert for me. Del Rey is a very attractive fair-skinned woman that could be a young Nicole Kidman with a tangy late-‘60s style. Her music is soft and slow- with climaxing up-lifters. Her melodies appear to make the heart of every woman in attendance pump rainbows and MDMA. This crowd is one notch shy of Beatlemania.
James and I push our way through the crowd curious to see the girl who gets so much airplay recently. The stage is tucked back father away than all the others. Lana is wearing a long wispy red dress made out of silk (or something dry-clean only), so the whole scene is something like Fantasia meets the legend of the Island of Feminism.
At some point I feel a thud in my back, and turn around to see a beautiful young blond with tears welling up in her eyes. She apologizes immediately, and I am wondering what for.
“Its my favorite song!” she cries, literally.
“For sure. Can you see past me?” I ask. Being 6-foot tall and blocking the view of a 5’6” girl at a Lana Del Rey concert makes me feel more than out of place.
“It’s her birthday!” says her equally cute, but louder friend before the first blond can answer. It’s always one of their birthdays. That’s also not a bad thing.
“Why didn’t you say so!” I replied as enthusiastically as if she made it into astronaut training camp. “Do you want to go up?” She gasped as she cupped her hands to her mouth and nose, and I could see the tears start to well up again. This is a typical, often adverse, (albeit expected) reaction to my advances, but in Lana Del Rey Land, this means I am now a hero. One would think I just saved her litter of puppies from quicksand.
I crouch down as she hops up onto my shoulders and I grab her thighs. As I stand up, she is light, and definitely athletic. I wonder if I can just walk off with her now, like a Viking, and send Lana a ‘Thank You’ e-card for the loan. Mere minutes later another young girl jabs me.
“Do you have another friend?? I want to go up too! We’re friends!” Her chunky sidekick asks. This is where my fun begins.
“Oh, Hell yeah. I bet this guy would help you out. He’s a champ.” James is a champ, and is strong from soccer training. However, she is about James’ size, and I would wager weighs a little more than him. He is also obviously not paying attention.
I push his shoulders down while the heavier girl of the two mounts him ungracefully. He stands up, and the girl sways on top of him, looking like a tree house you are no longer allowed to play in for structural reasons. She doesn’t notice James’ shaky footing on the soft and muddy ground. James shoots me a look of both confusion and frustration. I am absolutely delighted.
A second song starts and I look over at James, who is now quite distracted. The girls hold hands above us and sing along, bleary-eyed. They are completely confident in the integrity of their improvised perches. James starts to sweat. For the girls, I am a dream-maker- a slightly sweatier and muddier Walt Disney. For James, I am just an asshole.
Eventually, Lana announces her last song. Every woman at the show yells as if Lana will beam back up into space and they only have this last precious moment together before the Earth implodes. I can’t help but snicker. The blonde on my shoulders touches my cheek and brushes my hair back, unexpectedly, maybe checking if I can see the stage. I am starting to realize she thinks I love this music. I look over at James. His girl is screaming like an actress in the Conjuring (great movie btw). I start chuckling when I see a bead of sweat drop off the peak of James’ nose. He is soaked and fading fast.
It is a hot and humid Chicago night here at Lollapalooza. I notice Lana Del Ray extend her finale with a violin solo, which brings more screams. I relax, and try to remember how the hell I got myself into this. James is soaked with sweat and I am laughing my ass off.
“I hope we’re not tiring you guys out,” the bubbly blonde asks.
“No. We can do this all night,” I say.
I had no idea when this concert ended, but deep down it didn’t matter to any of us. The night had turned gorgeous from the cloudy afternoon. The bikes were safe and it was still early. The clouds part and let a little moonlight through to add to the light of the Chicago skyline. Lollapalooza had been a success.
Editor’s Note: “T-Bag” Ludlow is a young, new writer to Bikernet and we hope to see more of his writings in the future!
6th Annual Venice Vintage Motorcycle Club Rally
By Bandit |
Bikes, Babes, Barbecue….what better sums up the SoCal Kulture scene. But sometimes you have come up with a whole new menu when the cupboard is bare.
Back in 2007 when they couldn’t find a descent bike party in the area, four Venice Beach vintage bike fans put together the Venice Vintage Motorcycle Club… Shannon Sweeney, Jeff Verges, Hunter Knight and Patrick Dunn-Baker.
Says Shannon, “Here in the Venice area we have a bunch of bike shops but no local activity, so we put this event together so everyone could network. And we did it so that it encompasses all motorcycles, everybody welcome. It’s a chance to meet other creative-minded people, to ride bikes, and have some interesting bike and art community conversation.”
The first event back in 2007 was a great success and so plans were set in motion to schedule more events, the latest and greatest 6th annual rally transpiring this past Saturday September 14, 2013 and the third time at the same location Venice. Spearheading the event was VVMC Brady Walker, a studio recording engineer as well as an event planner as well as a vintage road racing. He spent months dealing with the paper work and cajoling the local officials until a location was squared away, a place usually occupied by Sunday shoppers looking for fresh vegetables, as it were a Farmer’s Market. However on this particular Saturday several thousand spectators drawn to a smorgasbord of tasty vintage machines of types, descriptions and personalities.
In addition to the bike show, spectators were entertained by five bands including the soon to be famous rocknroll phenomenon called Flynt, a group of 14-year olds that rocked the house. The crowds were well fed tasty barbecue and had chances via a raffle to win great prizes provided by the rally sponsors, the proceeds benefiting the Los Angeles Fire Department. For $10 you could also take home a beautifully restored 1960s bike, the funds raised helping to pay for the cost of staging the rally and for promoting future VVMC events. The bike competition included Best British, Best American, Best European, Best Café, Best Customs, Best Japanese, Best Race Inspired, Best Custom Exhaust and last but not least Ugliest Bike. Milestone Machine Highlight of the bike show was 1960s dual Triumph engined dragster, once the quickest bike in the world and just recently restored. Bike won Best Race Inspired trophy. This year’s party also saw the largest turn-out of lovely ladies in the pin-up competition vying for the coveted pink sash and title of Miss VVMC 2013.
More info: www.venicevintage.com
Time to XR it Home…See you next year at the 7th Annual Venice Vintage Motorcycle Rally….
‘–DREW’S NEWS–2013 BUB Motorcycle Speed Trials Recap
By Bandit |
Hi All,
As many Bonneville racers have been heard saying over the years “sometimes the salt wins”, and much to our dismay was the case for us this past August.Naturally it was a bit of a let down after setting an AMA National record in 2012,but we are already planning and looking forward to next year.
The old XLCR still had an issue with shifting, but after a great conversation on the salt with Dan Baisley of Baisley Performance(who drag raced Ironhead XL’s with huge success),
we will be putting all of his suggested transmission modifications first on our list during this upcoming off, or perhaps I should say non-racing winter season.
It also appears that the Hoosier Daddy on the race team got a bit over anxious with the ignition timing, and carburetor leanness, which caused a soft seizure of an exhaust valve that in turn bent both intake and exhaust valves in the front head.We had new valves and gaskets shipped Fed Ex overnight to our Motel (Thanks again to Dan Baisley),and proceeded to rebuild the head in our van/machine shop.
Unfortunately two back to back huge wind & rain storms made a lake out of the entire race course and pit area.Hence, the event had to be cancelled.
Waiting 24 hours for parts can seem like 24 years for a 20 year old rider
That is now in the past, and we are really looking forward to performing a 100% complete rebuild on our Café Sportster with great hopes for the 2014 trip back to Bonneville.
Lastly, though things went poorly for us this time out there were a few quite humorous highlights to the week.
1. Traveling from Chesterton Indiana to Wendover Utah is not exactly rocket science (at least for some).You basically get on I-80 West and drive for two 12 hour days, and stop.
However, on day one, my son woke up from a nap, and calmly asked “Dad, why are we in Missouri??” as a state highway sign flashed by indicating such. Needless to say, my comment was a rather loud WTF?!?!
After we found a highway going west again, and another heading northwest we tied back into I-80 West in Omaha Nebraska. This was nearly 300 miles later, and just in time for their evening rush hour.
Evidently I have mastered the art of sleeping and driving!
2. During the week of racing Clayton and I were approached by Dan Kinsey from S&S Cycle, and asked to please come to their pit area and have lunch with him. They had a great spread laid out for their sponsored riders, race fans, and employees who were working the race.
In hindsight I now realize that he planned our arrival when there were the most people sitting in the S&S pit.While son and I were eating he presented me with a “fake” invoice for the parts he and Jeff Bailey also of S&S had sent us. Evidently I was a bit too persistent in my request for billing. In any case, Dan hands me an envelope with the invoice inside, and insists I read it out loud. I have to admit I was a bit surprised by the “discount” pricing, HA! After everyone got a big belly laugh one rider said he thought it was funny, because my son’s eyes got wider with each line I read. Probably thinking “Mom’s gonna kill us when we get home, and show this to her”.
3. After a long day on the salt performing technical inspections, measuring engines, and running back and forth to our pit area, I wobble up the sidewalk at the front of our Motel. There sits an assortment of riders with their friends and family. I proceed to sit down to have a beer, and join in one of our nightly BS sessions.
Ron Dickey (Axtell Sales) stands up and excuses himself, because he has to go “make a phone call”. A couple minutes later up swaggers my twin brother, dressed just like me, wearing a Hoosier Daddy Racing cap, Bib Overalls, 1” thick glasses, and proclaiming “I’m Gate Drewood, and I’m the NEW tech. sheriff in town. You’re illegal…go safety wire that drain plug…I don’t like the color of your bike, come back when it’s blue…and so on”
We all just about fell over laughing, and I think this is going to haunt me for some years.
After the week of racing is over everyone gathers at one of the local Casinos for the Annual BUB Speed Trials Awards Ceremony.There is one award (sponsored by Buell Brothers Racing) that is given to any number of riders who had sort sort of engine failure.Many times it involves shrapnel, and or pieces of an engine missing.
Because of our two bent valves Clayton was one of this year’s recipients of the
“Lucky Charms Award” The good part is, history shows that most who receive this return the following year with a machine that performs very well.
Clayton & Santa Claus (Buell Brothers Racing) with Lucky Charms Award.
Racing and working on the Bonneville Salt Flats has become a huge part of my (and now my son’s) life, and of all the different racing disciplines I have ever been involved with over the years, motorcycle landspeed racing has proven to be the epitome of a close knit racing family.
See ya next time
Drew
DREW GATEWOOD
AMA/F.I.M. Technical Steward
GEARS – Gatewood Engineering And Race Support
P.O. Box 2568
Chesterton, IN.
tele/fax: 219-926-5647
email: gears55@frontier.com