When my little cousin planned her wedding for August 5th, and asked me to be her wedding photographer, of course my answer wasm, “yes!” And when my mother and brother and his family decided to come out for the wedding and stay with me, of course the answer was, “yes!” What is more important than family? Nothing! So when I was discussing my dilemma of being late for Sturgis with the wisest woman I know, my mother…………she asked me, “What do you suppose would happen if you just didn’t go to Sturgis this year?” And after mulling the thought around in my head for a moment she continued, “Are you fairly certain they would call the event off?”

Not go to Sturgis? Hummmmm. The thought had never occurred to me. Not in over twenty years! August has long been the month that I set out to go visit all of my family. God put Sturgis in the middle of all of them, so I assumed he wanted me there! Okay, all kidding aside, I used my annual road trip to reassess all that is happening in my life. Stepping away from my consistencies has been the way to clearly evaluate my life. Am I doing what I WANT.

Otherwise, it is easy to slip into overdrive, and just grind at the world I’ve created. Sounds delightful, don’t it? I want my life to be full of conscious choices. Not one of habit, or being victim of circumstance. I want to make my life happen, not let it happen to me. Sometimes we feel stuck, as if we were a prisoner of our own lives. What gives me the purest feeling of not being stuck? It’s experiencing freedom on its most basic level. Nothing helps me feel freedom in it’s most primal form quite like riding my motorcycle down a lonely road. It’s just you at the helm of your own ship,……….deciding which way to go.

Bikers of all ages, types, races, and religions pretty much agree on that one aspect. We love the feeling of freedom we get on a motorcycle. Freedom is what we all seem to value most. It is what wars are fought over. There is no price to be put on freedom, and yet the price is so high. We call our nation, “The Land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave.” I passed a home made painted sign in the desert that said, “Land of the Free, BECAUSE of the Brave.” How true that is. Our country has been in a war on terrorism for a decade. We the bikers that gather in the middle of our nation every summer to experience that freedom, get to do that BECAUSE of our brave.

With my tightened schedule I had only four days to spend in Sturgis, and every day was booked with a ride or event with a charity or cause worth our help, our time, and our compassion. Yet, I found myself so busy running from place-to-place that I barely had time to jot down notes about which events benefited which causes. And as it is in life, sometimes it takes divine intervention for me to slow down and see, to feel, and to comprehend that which is placed directly into my path. So I’ll work backwards in events the way they happened, because God saved my best lesson for last, as he often does!

I was at the Buffalo Chip campground in a panic because I couldn’t find my connection. It was a clear amazing night supporting “American Thunder” with Jeff Bridges, Stevie Nicks, and John Fogerty in the line up. At the time I had no recollection of who John Fogerty was, and although I love Stevie Nicks, I was on a mission. Get out of my way, I wanted to meet the Dude!

Okay, everybody remembers Jeff Bridges as the Dude, I think of him as Wild Bill! I have long fancied myself as a modern day version of Calamity……….although I’ve come to question why I identify so much with a homely working girl. And while I was sweating at the hot, dusty gate of the Chip, my friend Ken Conte asked me what I was up to. Even he couldn’t help me find my connection, but he was with a nice young kid who asked if he could take a photograph with me and my bike. So I threw my arms around the big, strong kid as Ken snapped this picture for us, and then they were off. I remember thinking he didn’t seem like the kind of boy I normally see in Sturgis. He was so straight, clean cut and well mannered!

When I finally did bamboozle my way backstage, the entire night was somewhat of a blur! Because, well, I met the Dude! And yikes of yikes, how ridiculously handsome is he? And oh what a shiny wedding ring he wears, darn thing nearly blinded me. He sings a lot like Kris Kristofferson, and acts, well……….a lot like the Dude.

Before I knew it Stevie Nicks took the stage. And just as she did, a huge gust of wind blew across the open platform. During a few disturbed songs, staff considered dragging her off of the stormy stage. But Stevie kept singing, and I have to say, that wind made her come alive! Her dress started blowing, and her hair took flight, and it was like I was watching her in 1978 all over again. She made the whole place come alive!

Then John Foggerty, who I wasn’t even sure I knew!!!!!!! Holy moly! Every word of every Credence Clearwater Revival song was already dancing in my brain, and he rocked the house down! Now that’s a rock star!

In between songs, while I was standing near the mega star dressing rooms that a young familiar face asked me to look for his friend, and give them directions. I looked into his clean cut face, and thought he seemed very clear and confidant for such a young man, and again, not a usual vibe for Sturgis. I watched him walk away, and noticed he had prosthetic legs. He was wearing shorts, and walked as if he was as strong and healthy as a young man can be. When his friend came thru, I sent him out front to find his group.

Moments later, they returned to wait their turn to take the stage. Turns out, this benefit concert was organized by Bob Woodruff, the ABC newsman who sustained traumatic brain injury when his vehicle was hit by a bomb, while he was covering news developments in Iraq in 2006. Bob was in a coma for five weeks, and no one expected him to make the amazing come back he made, which he attributes to the support of his loyal family. Bob made it his mission to dedicate himself to helping our soldiers, and is raising money and awareness for the many soldiers who also sustain traumatic injuries.

The young boy I met, was in the last band destined to play this evening, called “Southern Fried.” He played the drums, and was a soldier who fought for us in Iraq. I asked him if I could have my picture with him again, and he said, “haven’t we been thru this already?”

I honestly wasn’t sure that he was the same boy. He was wearing long pants, and I had not even noticed that he did not have legs when we took that first picture. I watched him and his friends waiting to take the stage at the very crowded Buffalo Chip, and it didn’t even seem like they were all that nervous to go out in front of a crowd of several hundred thousand people.

After John Fogerty sang his last song, Bob Woodruff took the stage with this young boy, and they talked about our soldiers, and the freedom we are fighting for. Tears just started pouring down my face, because this young boy was so brave. People always see me as this fearless biker chic who does all of these wild things, but he was brave in ways I cannot even comprehend. He seemed to be doing it effortlessly, and his bravery did not end in Iraq.

Meeting Jeff Bridges was absolutely too cool for words, but it was this boy who touched my heart. He made me remember how fortunate we all are to be Americans, who get to experience freedom of choice every single day in everything we do………BECAUSE of our Brave. Truly, the only way our country is ever going to change the sad condition it is in today, is if we start caring less about ourselves as individuals, and more about each other as human beings. This huge benefit made possible by the Bob Woodruff Foundation & the Buffalo Chip was a great event because we need to continue to support our troops, our vets, and their families. This kid was retired Staff Sgt. Dale Beatty. He holds an honorable purple heart and he is the co-founder of an organization called “PurpleHeartHomes”, along with his friend John Gallina which helps disabled vets of all wars retro fit their homes to accommodate their injuries. If you would like to read more about Dale or Purple Heart Homes, go to: www.phhusa.org.

My friend Lorenzo Lamas was also out in Sturgis, and is supporting our troops with his charity rides called “Rumble for the Heartland.” Lorenzo’s organization is supporting the needs of the families who are left behind when their loved one is away. I ran into him and all of my legend friends, I hadn’t seen in awhile at the “Legends Ride,” which rolled over my favorite roads in a loop out of Deadwood, thru Nemo, and back out to the Buffalo Chip.

Every year my experience in Sturgis is unique, and it is because of the people from all around the globe who make the journey to the Black Hills to enjoy the beauty of the land, and the mashing of the personalities! The history of Deadwood and the great warriors and outlaws who have walked those same streets made it the perfect place for motorcycle legends to gather and reconnect.

For many of us who live all across the United States, Sturgis is the one time of year we get to see each other. My good pal Chris Callen of Cycle Source magazine and all of the guys at the Limpnickie lot are friends I never want to miss seeing. Chris has a huge heart, and always tries to bring awareness thru the events he puts on as well. On his ride this year, he helped educate us all on how easy it has become to be a bone marrow donor, and provided a service right there for those who wanted to get involved.

Many of us in the riding community are friends on Facebook now, so you already know about Aiden Jack Seegar, but for those of you who don’t, he is the cutest little 6- year-old boy who really needs a donor, or his little life will be cut way too short. Aidan was diagnosed with ALD, which is a rare brain disease. You can find information on how to help Aidan at: www.aidanhasaposse.wordpress.com.

At night I still like to roam to my roots at the Old Broken Spoke downdown where I can still count on finding most of my friends at any given hour!

My forever wind-sister Sasha Mullins was helping Jay Allen run the place this year, and I owe her a big shout out for hooking me up with the American Thunder group and allowing me to be a part of that whole night. As much as I don’t understand the whole burnout concept and why we all continue to file in and choke on the black air, there is something about the energy in the room when that screaming sound and rubber smoke envelopes you! But I miss the good old days of listening to Jimmy Van Vant play the seemingly endless version of “Freebird,” and dancing the night away with my buddy Carl from Minnesota. We hung out and watched the burnouts together, but it’s a little hard to have a conversation with an old friend under those conditions!

An evening not to miss is always the celebration of the talented Micheal Lichters work. This year Micheal teamed up with artist and collector Jeff Decker, who had many unusual items in his motorcycle art and memorabilia collection, including the original vests of club boys of the past. His collection is so intriguing it even drew in the hosts of the popular “American Picker” show, along with every other big name in the motorcycle industry.

Every year there seems to be a larger group of women who ride and attend the Sturgis rally, and this year was not only no exception, it was the year to celebrate women who ride. Starting out with two of my favorite ladies being inducted into the Hall of Fame, Gloria Struck, and Margaret Wilson, whose husband Mike was also inducted. Both of these ladies are in the Motor Maids club, and have inspired my other women over the years to ride. Gloria is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen at 86 and has ridden in every state and all over Canada.

Margaret and Mike still ride in their early 90s, and together owned a Harley dealership in Iowa. A sweeter couple are not to be found! When I asked them each separately what their secret was to such a long enduring relationship, they each told me they were each others best friend. When they were called up to speak at the breakfast, Mike first gave Margaret a kiss. Later I told them I had missed the kiss, and asked for a repeat performance. I purposely missed it several times to make them keep going! Which made biker/writer Chris Sommer Simmons, and her Doobie Brother husband Pat Simmons want a piece of the action!

Gloria, Chris and I were featured this year in a book called “Biker Chicz of North America” by Edward Winterhalder & Wil De Clercq, along with 19 other amazing women friends. We did a book signing at my all time favorite Indian trading post in Rapid City, called Prarie’s Edge. If you’ve never peeked inside, it is worth the trip! For all of you ladies who have asked where I get my leather accessories, this book holds the secret! Also featured in the book are my longtime riding partners Gevin Fax and Sasha Mullins, and the fastest land speed record holder Laura Klock.

Also my pal Meg McDonough, who is a Jackpine Gypsy, and started the Biker Belle’s run, which all of my favorite women participated in this year. It was great to spend a day just riding and bonding with this seasoned group of amazing women riders. We rode, we ate, we laughed, we cried, and we even had a fashion show! Ya know, girl stuff! But I am honored to be included and spend time with each and every lady that was on the ride. I hope it grows wildly in the future!

Four days was definitely not enough time for me to see and do all that I like to do in the Black Hills, but I did manage to pack a whole lot of fun into four action filled days! At the end of the day, it’s just spending time with the people you love that matters. Several of my friends that we would normally spend time with were working the event and held captive in one way or another! Bean’re was Being held captive by the Buffalo Chip, Jack Schitt was held captive by the Broken Spoke, and Masyn Moyer, well I think she may have tied herself up in her own tent…………

So, I had to leave my friends in the Black Hills, and head on down the highway to my family in Minnesota. I squeezed in one River Ride with my sister Kathy, along the Missippi and back along the Wisconsin side. Then we headed back thru the Black Hills to take my dear ole Dad to Bear Country, then on to brother Joe’s in Wyoming, and finally back to Colorado, because I think, as Dorothy discovered……….there’s no place like home!

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Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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For the last three years I’ve ridden to Sturgis. Last year it was on a Hi-Tech Custom Cycles slammed dresser with Ron Simms bags that ground at the canyons, Arlen Ness panels, and a Crane cam. My riding partners were Mark Lonsdale, a 6-foot-2, 240-pound weapons expert, stuntman, and close quarters combat trainer, and Myron Larrabee, one-time Mr. Arizona, retired Dirty Dozen, and owner of two World Gyms and the Scottsdale Easyriders store. We hauled the long way over small isolated highways and through modest towns until we hooked up with 25 Hamsters in Casper, Wyoming. All along the route we talked of bikes, the dressers we rode, and custom scoots. Ultimately the challenge was laid on the polished oak bartop in some long forgotten saloon: “Could we build choppers and be just as comfortable?” The answer was a resounding, “Fuck yeah.”

All the way along the Continental Divide and across Wyoming we envisioned what these machines would look like, and what amenities they would contain. Not so much for Myron, who seemed content with 14-inch apes and a bagged Road King that was hopped up and detailed to the max, but with my 6-foot-5, 235-pound frame and reach, and Mark’s equally large size, we dwarf most machines. We needed long bikes. So while in Sturgis we sought the advice of the masters of long machines, Brook and Pat Kennedy. Both Mark and I are bonkers over their frames and style, but they don’t build a rubbermount chassis. For touring that was determined to be a must. But for me, their front end with the adjustable rake, long wide glide was the perfect solution for the road. Plus, in addition to being able to adjust rake, trail, and chassis height, the front end offers a multitude of damper adjustments for ridability. That aspect offered additional flexibility for the touring Chopper rider.

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I was beginning to like hanging out in the shop, shooting the shit, and being creative, but the pressure was incessant.

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The concept was launched to build a stretched, big-man Touring Chopper. But first we had invested in the dressers and needed to adjust financially to have the wherewithal to build such a beast. I sold my dresser to Mike Osborn, the editor of Quick Throttle, and Mark got a job working on a Mickey Rourke movie in Texas with Chuck Zito, a New York Hells Angel Nomad. We had our nest eggs. Not to be outdone, Myron began a complete ground-up custom rubbermounted Softail. But from this point on, so I don’t get so fucking confused dealing with all these machines that I lose it, we’ll stay focused on Mark’s modified FXR and my ground-up.

Since the entire build-up has been covered either in Easyriders , with the coverage of the Jesse James steel bags and the Kennedy front end articles, in VQ, with the original concept in the April, ’97 issue, a soon-to-be- published-update in VQ #18, and a full feature in VQ#19, and, finally, the complete fabrication from day one on Bandit’s Bikernet update, I’m going to jump to mid July ’97, almost a year later.

It was the last week before we were scheduled to leave for the Badlands. With less than a week to go we had a polished Draggin’ Coaster 98-inch, predominately S&S stroker with STD heads, a JIMS close-ratio 5-speed Dyna Glide transmission with a Rivera hydraulic clutch actuator and Rivera Brute III primary clutch and belt drive, the Kennedy front end, and a couple of Kennedy 80-spoke wheels. The rest of the creative sheet metal work by Jesse James, plus the modified Paughco frame, and the Battistini’s gas tanks were at Damon’s Custom Paint being sprayed Damon’s red. Jesse’s handmade exhaust system, bumper, and miscellaneous parts were in some tank at South Bay Chrome and a box fulla Hurst controls, Custom Cycle Engineering risers, a Headwinds headlight, Accel electric components, and P.M. brakes waited while I cajoled on the phone.

The answer: “Hey, Bandit, we’d like to help you out, but Jesse just gave us this shit an hour ago.” I leaned on ’em anyway. The paint arrived Monday and Pat Powers, Jesse’s main mechanic, had the engine and tranny in the frame before noon. Tuesday morning I set the alarm for 4:30 and was in my truck by 5 a.m., heading for Paramount and West Coast Choppers. A shipment of Diamond fasteners had arrived, and we were hot to trot. We installed the front end, the rear fender and struts, and the rear wheel, after changing the tire twice and the oil lines when Jesse wasn’t looking. Courtney from Hot Bike even spent a couple of hours tinkering in the early evening. At 10 p.m. that night we left the shop, fried, and went to Fritz, a madhouse tittie bar 2 miles away, to unwind. Three Jack Daniel’s went down like buttermints melt on your tongue during the holidays. I had to face more deadlines the next day and took my leave at midnight.

Wednesday, Pat arrived at the shop at O dark thirty and wired the beast. The day before, after I ran oil lines, I made constant parts runs to L.A. Harley. Performance Machine, which is only blocks away, supplied parts via my daughter, Faith, who is working there. Wednesday, with Jesse’s instructions and confidence, ’cause he was too hungover to make it to work the next day (he kids us about being old-timers), encouraged me to hire photog Markus Cuff to come to Jesse’s industrial park facility, set up a studio, hire a make-up artist and a model, and prepare for the photo sessions of sessions.

Friday morning I got the 4:30 wake-up call again and hit the road. We had planned to ride out on Monday, but at this point I called Mark and told him that our luxury-day card had to be turned in. We needed to leave Tuesday. He agreed and informed Myron in Phoenix. The clock was ticking as we swarmed the red beast and worked tirelessly from 5:30 a.m. till noon, when Markus arrived and began wandering around checking ridiculous shit like circuit breakers and lighting. We decided to stick him as far from the action as possible and moved his operation to the back, where Jesse’s crew makes his line of fenders, while up front the man creates and builds motorcycles. I was beginning to like hanging out in the shop, shooting the shit, and being creative, but the pressure was incessant. With every joke there was a question, “Did the brake bracket arrive?” “Did Eric get back with those fasteners?” “When can we make the hydraulic brake lines?”

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…we found out later that Trina, the make-up artist, had to apply body make-up to our dominatrix’s ass to cover last night’s whip marks.

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By three in the afternoon the model, Dita, was there, and looking fine. Her thing is looking vamp. She’s into bondage routines, although her demeanor was as soft as a kitten. She’s corset trained, has a 16-inch waist, and can draw it to a spinning 13 inches. In the midst of bolting on the pipes she wandered into the shop, almost naked, to ask me what outfit would work. Everything stopped. At that point, I wanted to fist-fuck her and send her down the road, but the sultry make-up queen stood alongside her with her hands firmly implanted on her hips, like some dark mistress, and glared at us until we succumbed to her will and responded accordingly. As the afternoon sun waned Markus was recruiting valuable manpower into his dank surroundings and ordering them to move motorcycles and equipment and set up lights.

On top of Sturgis, making the damn thing run, and enduring a six-hour photo shoot, Sunday was the date for the annual Mikuni Bike Show. Jesse planned to have a considerable display designed, polished, and implanted on the grounds of the Santa Monica Airport to show off his wares to the 10,000 SoCal attendees. Holy shit! We broke out the beer as we pulled the completed Touring Chopper off Jesse’s handmade lift and attempted to fire it. Even with the plugs pulled, the new Predator battery wouldn’t turn it more than a couple of revolutions. It was 4:45; Custom Chrome would be closed in 10 minutes. According to the Predator experts, these batteries have a five-year shelf life and should never be charged. What the hell were we supposed to do with it? Besides, we had mounted the dry cell on its side and we couldn’t replace it with a conventional battery. I called Dan Stern. He wasn’t in his office. I left a message. We were fucked. At five minutes to 5 p.m. Dan returned the call and concurred-the battery should be fine. Another one was sent overnight. One more minute and no battery.

We put the charger on the existing one and went onto other operations. Danny Gray had come across with a seat that fit like a glove. We hauled ass to the hardware store for strips of Velcro and attached the seat pan, which Pat and Jesse had made out of heated ABS plastic, cut, and sent to Danny. The make-up girl was beginning to pace the concrete. “Are you ready?” she asked. The battery charger took a shit, and we had to rustle-up another one. It worked. Since it was Friday night, Jesse’s buddies were beginning to arrive with chilled six-packs and a party mood. Progress slowed, and burnouts commenced in the street. Jesse traded an early Sturgis model Shovel for a slammed ’59 Byscane with hydraulic lifts and started giving the guys three wheeled rides. My video crew arrived about that time and decided to interview Jesse and me. Fuck, didn’t we have enough to do?

Imagine the scene. Markus Cuff, his assistant, and 5,000 watts of power pack were exploding against a seamless background in the back, while welders, grinders, drill presses, and wrenches were flying in the front. One office was boarded up so the bondage queen and the make-up artist could fondle each other in solitude. As a side note, we found out later that Trina, the make-up artist, had to apply body make-up to our dominatrix’s ass to cover last night’s whip marks.

Our video producer took the other office apart, setting up lights and beta cam, then strolled into the midst of trying to finish this masterpiece and announced in his usual dour manner that everyone had to be quiet while he interviewed Jesse, then me. The crew laughed and opened another beer.

Halfway through my interview, Pat Powers fired the bike. All 98 inches ran as smooth as polished crystal while he let it warm and adjusted the carb. The short, turned-out, and baffled drag pipes slapped the walls of the office and gradually drowned out anything I could have attempted to say. Besides, I quickly lost my desire to describe the odyssey we were still in the midst of and wanted to get closer to the bike. As I left the office, Jesse was rolling the bike under his steel roll-up door and heading into the street. He rode it up and down the wide industrial street, I did the same and so did Mark. Dale Gorman, the 6-foot-2, 250-pound, East Coast arm wrestling champion, had just flown from Buzzard’s Bay on Cape Cod to ride with us. He was already knee deep in wrenches helping, ’cause that’s the kind of guy he is.

We stood by as Jesse took another trial run, in awe that it had come this far, performin’ as if it had just run off the assembly line. There was little, if anything, about this motorcycle that was stock or relatively common. The frame was innovative, the engine pushed, the front end mildly radical, and the suspension completely off-the-wall (Jesse had moved the shock position 15 degrees to align the shocks with the line of the frame). Nothing about this bike was tried and true, but it seemed to be acting as if it were. Only one job was left unfinished at that point, detailing. Jesse called his man and a van pulled up in front of his joint. One quiet kid worked endlessly polishing, while his acerbic boss bitched and moaned about everything while doing his part. No more time to adjust and test. The fragile paper back drop, tense video cameraman, edgy photographer, tightly wrapped model, and protective make-up artist were waiting.

First we shot details of the bike in the back of the shop. Dale and Jesse assisted in moving the long bike onto and off the paper-white background. Footprints, oily hands, and tire marks were prohibited. We laid out old blankets and rolled the bike onto the backdrop over the protective material while standing on the soiled material. We then carefully folded and maneuvered the make-shift rugs from under the tires, while the photographer directed. Two hours later we were ready for the girl. I had to admit she looked good enough to … But being a professional with a couple of beers under my belt and another four hours of work ahead of me, I steered clear of trouble and certain rejection. We strapped on a strong, unrelenting 20 hours that day.

One product of a six-hour photo shoot: Dita and “The Redhead”

At 8:30 the next morning I picked up Mark and Dale at Mark’s Santa Monica pad and we worked and strained back and biceps at Gold’s Gym before heading back to Paramount. The shop was clean, the bike warmed and dialed and the cascade of beer cans showered around the joint the night before were mysteriously gone. We spent the better part of the day dialing, fixing, and making things fit better. Jesse called in a local upholsterer who lined the inside of the bags. Mid-afternoon, with Dale following me in my truck, I filled her up with gas and headed for the freeway. It was 45 miles home-almost 45 miles of the most congested traffic in Southern California. If the bike were to stumble and fall anywhere between the predominantly Hispanic, industrial city of Paramount and the war zone of downtown, to the teenage traffic rolling out of Santa Monica into the inner city, I would have been summarily run over by several thousand Saturday drivers and tourists.

Cautiously pulling onto the 105 freeway I changed into the number three lane. As the front 21 crossed into the number two lane, the bike jolted. I hit something. Quickly assessing the pain to the chassis I glanced behind me to investigate-nothing, except 400 drunken motorist and a semi with a flat barreling down on me as if I were the starting flag at the Indianapolis 500. I twisted the wick and continued. The bike felt good in my grip. It centered itself and sensed all was right in the lane. I let go of the bars and it tracked straight. I moved around in the lane to test for a loose front end, wheel bearings, or misalignment-nothing. It seemed to take to the road like a duck to a pond or a salmon to the mouth of a river. But when I changed lanes again, pop! It happened again.

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It’s one thing to split lanes during rush hour, with thousands of veteran commuters around you, but to split lanes on a Saturday, with thousands of tourists, inexperienced, nervous yahoos who generally avoid freeways, and folks fulla margaritas flanking you, is suicidal.

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I changed lanes again and noticed this time that something under the bike was catching the kickstand. Traffic backed up as I realized something on the frame-mounted kickstand was popping the reflectors on the freeway. The bike was definitely too low, but I was about to receive acid test number 2-slow traffic. Suddenly, I was splitting lanes on a bike with a new clutch … and my first hydraulic hand clutch, at that. The pull was positive, but hard. Leery of hydraulic shit that might leak or might not be completely bled, I relied on my faith in Jesse’s assistant, Eric, who handmade each line. Terror energized my spine at the thought that the bike was so low I might tear off the clutch line going over the next reflector. Avoiding changing lanes, I had to split Dodger Stadium traffic through the downtown interchange to reach the Hollywood freeway.

Praying that the clutch wouldn’t give out, I turned the throttle while bouncing between vehicles. It’s one thing to split lanes during rush hour, with thousands of veteran commuters around you, but to split lanes on a Saturday, with thousands of tourists, inexperienced, nervous yahoos who generally avoid freeways, and folks fulla margaritas flanking you, is suicidal. The scooter held firm at slow speeds, and the brilliant red and chrome held onlookers at bay. Then I leaned into my first turn. Everything scraped-the bags, the frame, and the kickstand. Momentarily, the bike was on one wheel. Lesson number three: Watch for ground clearance before beating a cage in the turn.

Miraculously, I made it to my pad and immediately called Jesse. Dale and I quickly loosened the front end and lessened the rake, creating more ground clearance. Two clicks and we raised the frame an inch. The kickstand had been bent with Jesse’s torch on Friday night. Now it needed rebending to align it with the frame. We did it. Checking over the bike I discovered that a fender-strut bolt was catching the tire. Earlier, when we’d pulled the engine over with the hiem joint on the top motormount, we’d over compensated. Now I had to move it back, or risk blowing the tire out over the next 50 miles.

The next morning I had to meet my bros in Santa Monica at 8 a.m. to make it to the famous Mikuni Show by 9. I was up and checking over the bike at 7 a.m. By the time I reached Mark’s pad, I already knew the bike needed to be raised more. We made it to the show on time. Jesse was there with a new booth, flyers, and more bikes, including one they’d finished between Friday afternoon and Saturday evening. I was impressed, and my bike drew crowds.

Let’s go back to Dale for a moment and fill in the picture. Dale rode a flamed dresser from New England to Sturgis a couple of years ago, then rode onto L.A. He spent some time out here, trying to break into the stunt business, but ran out of cash and had to return to Massachusetts to paint hockey sticks with his partner Jeff. He left the flamed dresser, with sidecar attached, at Glendale Harley, hoping to sell it. It never sold, so when he decided to ride to Sturgis ’97 with us, I called Oliver’s men at Glendale and asked them to service the bike and disconnect the sidecar. Dale flew into LAX, and Mark picked ‘im up and took him to Glendale, where he picked up his flamed-out touring ride and was ready to go.

Now, let’s bring you up to date on Mark’s bike. When he returned from Sturgis last year, he looked around his garage and saw his blacked-out dresser, his custom Pro Street (recently featured in the July ’97 issue of Easyriders ), and an ’89 FXR, mostly black and raked. Two years ago he rode it to Sturgis and back the direct route-22 hours and a handful of gas stops and he was home … no sleep, no breaks, just straight riding. Based on my premise of a street touring chopper, he decided to stretch the frame, extend the wide glide to 12-over, and make his reliable FXR into a Touring Chopper. Jesse performed the frame modification, and Mark did the rest-extending the front end, changing his risers to Custom Cycle Engineering dog bones, finding and attaching a new gas tank, having Bartels’ H-D perform their formula street fast head work on the bike, extending the cables, chroming his tried and true Performance Machine forward controls, etc. He basically left the bike black except to have the engine heads polished and powdercoated Hamster gold between the fins. Then he put a golden rod and red graphic on the tank and continued it to the side panels. When complete, the bike fit him like a glove and was done in time for a test run to Hollister. It ran like a dream. All right, so now you know that the two bikes beside me were basically black, with some Hamster touches.

All right, so now we can get back to the tense action. Keep in mind that while we looked at the myriad of flashy custom bikes at the Mikuni show I still had only 65 miles on this puppy, and I needed to jack it up off the ground some more. I hardly had enough miles on it to confidently say the charging system was working, or that the sketchy battery would not fail, or that the engine would hang together, or a number of other questions. We split from the show early, and I headed home to tweak and begin to think about packing. I was determined to pack only in Jesse’s steel bags and not even run one of my famous, convenient bedrolls. I managed by stuffing my day roll with tools and putting it in the right bag, along with my camera, cell phone, tennis shoes, and a quart of oil. In the other bag fit my ditty bag, a small bag of underwear, socks, bandannas, workout shorts, and two folded dress shirts. At the last minute I determined that I could not carry a spare pair of Levi’s and I’d be forced to buy another pair on the road. That was a mistake.

Monday, I rode the bike to the Easyriders Garage and worked the entire day. The staff went crazy over the bike and it seemed to ride and function fine. By the time I got home, I had almost a hundred miles on the clock. I changed the oil and inspected it for wear particles. Everything seemed in line and a go. I didn’t get to sleep till midnight, and the alarm was set to take my ear off at 4 a.m. It came too soon, and I got my sorry ass out of bed and made coffee, checked final packing, and pulled the bike into the street. One hundred miles of fresh paint, polished aluminum, and chrome was ready-or so I thought-for the trek to the Badlands.

– End of Part One –

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

Specializing In Hand Fabrication. If you want that special touch to your motorcycle, a tank with scalloped pannels, hand made exhaust system, a custom fairing or small detail touched to make your bike unlike all the rest, Jesse James may be your man. Click on the image below to see some of Jesse’s Products…

Custom Fender Images and Descriptions

For custom fabrication quotes call the legend himself at (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em Bandit sent ya…

---

Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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We pulled away from the security of the abode at 5:10 and headed to the 405 freeway. My bike and Mark’s were built with 34-tooth Andrews tranny sprockets, which gave us tremendous top end. I wasn’t shifting into 5th until I was over 70, and it seemed to putt at that speed effortlessly-although I was constantly varying the revs to properly break in the engine as we reached the end of the 405 and merged with the 5 north and shortly thereafter with highway 14, heading east into Palmdale. It wasn’t long in the cresting morning haze that we spotted the 138 (or Pearblossom Highway) and swung right, heading toward Victorville.

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That evening we hit on every waitress in the local Holiday Inn without so much as a bite; maybe it had something to do with our creeping around the bar and restaurant barefoot, because our boots were soaked.

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Fortunately, on my way to work the previous day, I went on reserve, got off the freeway, and refueled. My suspicions about my gas capacity were high as we turned left onto Highway 18 to Victorville and a long dry, desert stretch. Just after we passed a sign announcing that Victorville was a mere 16 miles away, my bike began to sputter. I reached for the Accel petcock and switched it to reserve; the bike caught again, but after only a couple of miles began to cough, sputter, and die. At 84 miles I was out of gas in the middle of the desert 10 miles from Victorville and the 15 freeway. We dug around in the desert until we found a Bud can, cleaned it, and initiated a fuel unrep with Dale’s dresser. Mark quickly discovered that he had a gas capacity of maybe 20 miles more than mine. After eight trips to Dale’s petcock we were back on the road. Already, due to the 98-inch engine’s level of vibration, we began to predict that perhaps the big engine should be used in a race bike and that a milder mill be installed in the Dyna chassis. It was tough to keep my feet on the pegs, even though it was a rubbermount chassis-something to think about for the next 1800 miles.

After refueling in Victorville, we jumped on the 15 to the 40. The vibrations took their toll on the right saddlebag as the desert sun began to bake the sand for hundreds of miles on either side of the freeway. We stopped for breakfast in the 100-degree heat of Needles, and I broke my first exhaust bracket in Kingman, Arizona. We took a break at Kingman Harley-Davidson. We had been almost 400 miles at mostly 75 mph, so the guys in service changed the oil, replaced my sharp-looking Hurst pegs with more gooey rubber Isotomer pegs, fixed the exhaust pipe bracket, and set us on our way again. In Kingman, we asked the ladies at the counter to ship our helmets back to the Golden State; we wouldn’t be needing them again for some time. I also had the petcock changed to an expensive, but high-flow Pingle unit. Ultimately ,we discovered that it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

I felt confident in Kingman that we had half a chance of solving the bulk of my mechanical problems and that we could roll (or was that the afterglow of several Coronas). A couple of beers makes almost any motorcycle run smoother, and we rode onto Seligman for Machaca plates in a fine Mexican restaurant. We blasted through the hills of Arizona and into the tail end of a storm creeping north from Mexico and carrying monsoons with it. We had originally planned to wind ’em up on Monday, but as the gods of chrome ride with us, we were warned in our sleep to delay the trip a day. Becky Ball was also breathing down our necks about the weather. I had more to think about than clouds and a little rain, and put weather reports out of my mind, but we were generally blessed until we hit the Mazatal Mountain range, a portion of the Coconino National Forest leading into Flagstaff on Highway 40. We hit the front head on, and 30 miles from Flagstaff we took a break in Williams, where the world’s rudest waitresses brought us coffee and apple pie while we watched the skies unload on our bikes. Of course, we fucked with her until she lightened up. We finally called Myron in Flagstaff and told him we would pick him up in the morning. That evening we hit on every waitress in the local Holiday Inn without so much as a bite; maybe it had something to do with our creeping around the bar and restaurant barefoot, because our boots were soaked. It felt good to be out of the rain, though. Mark propped the roll-away bed against the wall, directly in front of the heater, and we lined up the boots for maximum exposure. We set the heater on 90 and split.

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It started to rain again as we rolled into town, and the red clay dust turned into red mud.

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We finally rendezvoused with Myron on his highbar Road King in the mountain, tourist community of Flagstaff, adjacent to the Grand Canyon, which I have yet to see. We then split 52 miles into the Navajo nation, stopping in Cameron, a one-stop mesa in the middle of the desert. This oasis on the muddy Little Colorado River is home to one gas station, one outpost, and the most complete American Indian gift shop you’ve ever seen. If they don’t have it, it can’t exist. The outpost was built in 1916 out of indigenous rock. A motel, made from the same stone and by the same architect, is attached to the outpost, in addition to a small art gallery/museum and a restaurant packed with Indian artifacts and rugs. The ceiling is copper paneled and all the employees are American Indians. All the furniture in the rooms is handcrafted by their own employees. We ate breakfast in the dining room, and Myron was scared off by the 8-inch grilled Ortega pepper that accompanied his breakfast burrito. Cameron was only 50 miles out of Flag and a good stop on our way through the desert.

The redhead, as Becky had appropriately named the stretched crimson monster, was hanging together. The engine was still moving around a lot, but it was a cool 73 degrees, and we felt comfortable blasting along at 75 on Highway 89 north, then turning onto 160. We were beginning to check parking lots for other Dyna Glides to compare the motor mounts. We also wanted to balance the front wheel ’cause it seemed to bounce instead of working the lowers. It could have been the length of the front end or the rake. Dale tightened the Works Performance shocks, which stopped the bottoming I was experiencing.

We made it another 100 miles to Kayenta, a grizzly little desert burg in the center of the reservation. This place reeks of bad vibes, although it is the gateway to beautiful monument valley on Highway 163. It’s as if you need to pass through the ghetto to reach the Promised Land. The valley is a must-see for travelers, just shut your lids passing through Kayenta. It started to rain again as we rolled into town, and the red clay dust turned into red mud. Pulling into the Chevron station the service bays lay vacant, and I asked the Indian clerk if we could push the bikes out of the way for a spell to tighten a few nuts and bolts. He scuffled his feet, looked at the floor, and denied my request. “Da boss is coming,” he kept saying.

We discovered the one bolt holding the exhaust bracket to the transmission had broken off. It was the only bolt holding the entire exhaust system in place. No shops in the neighborhood. Dale spotted a True Value hardware store across the highway and we wandered over and began to search through bins and drawers to find the hardware and a long narrow punch. Meanwhile, Mark bought a cheap 4-buck rain suit and sneaked back to the register to pay for it. I spotted him and jacked him up. “What about your bros, pal?” His eyes dropped and he pointed to the rack under the fishing poles. Of course, I couldn’t find the damn things. Like my pappy used to say, “If it was a snake, it woulda bit ya.”

Dale spent over an hour coaxing that bolt out of the transmission. With a knife he cleaned the threads; he could see a quarter of an inch into the hole. Then, with the punch, he tapped on the broken bolt in a counter-clockwise direction, gradually easing the shaft of the bolt out. While we were in the station I adjusted the handlebars and tried to convince Dale that he had worked tirelessly long enough. “Gimme a shot, goddammit,” I said, to no avail. He was like the preacher in the milk commercial-unrelenting. As the rain let up we rolled out of the grizzly, muddy little town and headed toward Durango. Just over 40 miles out of town we caught up with the rain. We stopped and donned our bright yellow rain suits. For 36 miles it rained on us as we rolled over broad sweeping miles of highway. It actually wasn’t bad, hiding behind the Wind Vest windshield as we crossed the desert.

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Although I was packing wire cutters, pliers, adjustable wrenches, and screw drivers, when it comes to mechanical repairs there’s nothing like the right tools.

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We missed a turn onto Highway 666 and rolled through the town of Astez, where one of my steel bags came loose, directly in front of the Tool Crib. It was almost 6 p.m., but the owner kept it open-over his ol’ lady’s objections. The bolt from the exhaust bracket was gone again. Myron suggested a bolt and large washer, rather than the existing recessed Allen. It never backed out or broke off again. The plan was to add another bracket and tie the two brackets together when we returned. We discovered that the fender rails were loosening up, causing the bags to shake and loosen. We bought a 3/4 open end wrench from the Crib, tightened it, and discussed running a bead of weld. The fender had sagged just enough to put the tire in close proximity to the sheet metal, heating and blistering the paint. Dale, Mr. Muscle, tightened the sonuvabitch so tight we all cringed at the thought of the wrench slipping or the head turning off the bolt.

As we crossed the desert in the rain our cheap rain suits began to disintegrate, sending strips of yellow plastic slipping past the riders behind us. It was entertaining watching the suits gradually shred to streaks of yellow as we blasted through the rain and onto Durango, another 50 miles of winding wet road ahead. Since I didn’t have a change of Levi’s, I was forced to stay sequestered in my room or in the work out room until they were dry.

Durango, with its elegant downtown tourist region, contained no dearth of up-town eating establishments and bars. The steaks were thick and meaty, and the Jack Daniel’s flowed. The next morning, while in front of the Double Tree Inn, we inspected the Touring Chopper for the winding road out of the valley and into Silverton. The weather was cool and crisp. The rugged countryside, pine tree-strewn mountains, and roads dried as the blazing sun crested the jagged peaks and we attempted to head out of town.

Mark’s bike wouldn’t fire. It was the first and only time we had a problem with another bike, which heightened my complex, although Dale seemed to enjoy the breakdowns and worked on my red sled with the same unrelenting desire to move ahead as I had. That meant a lot to me. Mark, the constant tool supplier, taught me something about packing tools that week. I pack one of my Bandit’s Day Rolls wherever I go. It works fine; it’s just that I’m not carrying the right stuff. It’s important to pack a socket set and a set of open end, box end wrenches. Although I was packing wire cutters, pliers, adjustable wrenches, and screw drivers, when it comes to mechanical repairs there’s nothing like the right tools. I repacked my bag as soon as I returned. I pushed Martial Arts Mark; his bike fired immediately and never blinked again-stuck relay.

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It’s astounding, the beauty you find out on the road. It constantly makes me wonder what the fuck we’re doing holed up in some garage when the entire country is out there waiting.

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But as we weaved alongside the river of Lost Souls there was a nagging doubt about the reliability of my mount. It was comfortable, but vibration was concerning me and a banging at the rear of the engine troubled me. When I applied the rear brakes I was catching a loud clicking, but the brakes were secure and even the Performance Machine anchoring system appeared tight and unyielding. The only aspect of this design that would indicate a weak link was the severe angle of the shocks. Advice and opinions ran the gamut. Some felt the shock angle, although only 15 degrees more than stock was pushing the engine back and forth. Later I would discover that to be the case, but at the time I had no clue, except for the incessant banging over low speed bumps and while rear braking. As we wound and rose to 11,000 thousand feet my mind cemented a decision, a rare occasion. While the guys were warming their hands on hot cups of coffee and refueling in the mining village of Silverton, I would find a welder and have him run a bead along the top of the fender rails, where they were bolted to the frame. I would loosen the bolts slightly, and lift the back of the fender to capture maximum clearance from the tire at the time the welder struck an arc.

An hour later we pulled into the first gas station in town, and I asked the biker who worked there about a welder. “Just pull it into the back after you refuel,” he said, “I’ll clear out this cage, and we’ll have all the room we need.” The service bay behind the gas station must have been a hundred years old. The mortar holding the stone walls shored-up by metal “I” beam girders was falling away. The floors were rough asphalt, with standing pools of water and dirt in some areas, but the area seemed to extend way beyond the normal working space of a gas station, as if the service bay had been built and modified several times during the history of the town.

With a pneumatic dye grinder we dug away at the joint until there was 3 inches of welding area. The mechanic, a veteran, tattooed biker with a big inch Shovel who relished terrorizing the town from time to time, had a light touch to prevent damage to the frame and paint, but Dale took over and tore through the cutting wheel, making the grooves 3/8 of an inch wide and a 1/4-inch deep. We all wanted a shot at the welding chore. I’ve been welding for 30 years after post-military training and certification. Dale runs a body shop and welds regularly, and the man who worked in the shop owned the key to the welder. We stepped aside and let him have his way. For the first time since we left L.A., the chassis, except for the banging, felt secure. I could detect a difference immediately. The bags never loosened again, and the road fell beneath me with predictable regularity as we wove out of Silverton through Ouray and into Delta, another picturesque mining village where we stopped for gas, beer, and a shot of tequila.

Most of the day we followed the San Juan river, north on the 550 to the 50, to the 92, to the 133 over the McClure Pass-some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. It’s astounding, the beauty you find out on the road. It constantly makes me wonder what the fuck we’re doing holed up in some garage when the entire country is out there waiting. Ultimately we rolled onto Highway 82 into Carbondale, not far from Aspen, where we planned to meet up with the Hamsters. They were stuck behind the monsoon front in Santa Fe, so we moved on another 10 miles to the town of Glenwood Springs, adjacent to Interstate 70, 120 miles from Denver. I witnessed the largest swimming pool I’d ever seen in my life. Glenwood Springs is known for its hot mineral baths along the Colorado River. We parked our asses and fed our faces.

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

Specializing In Hand Fabrication. If you want that special touch to yourmotorcycle, a tank with scalloped pannels, hand made exhaust system, a custom fairing or small detail touched to make your bike unlike all the rest, Jesse James may be your man. Click on the image below to see some of Jesse’s Products…

CustomFender Images and Descriptions

For custom fabrication quotes call the legend himself at (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em Bandit sent ya…   …Part Three

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Bandit’s Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by Click on the images to visit Jesse’s website…

www.westcoastchoppers.com

A Complete Line Of Hand Made 18-gauge Steel Fenders For Ordering Information, See Your Local Dealer or call (562) 983-6666 …tell ’em you saw it on BikerNet…

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The following day we would catch the furry pack in Cheyenne, or so that was the plan as we pulled out of Glenwood Springs, refreshed, welded and headed up the 70 freeway, taking the direct route toward Vail and Denver. It was a bright and sunny day, and the road was as clear as a new highway the day before its opening. Just 20 miles up the road we passed Eagle, where the traffic slowed and shitcan-sized fluorescent cones forced us into one lane of slow-moving, ascending vehicles. The steeper the highway, the slower the pack of cars and lumbering trucks. Naturally, our frustration grew, and we began to weave past cars, attempting to put the chain of cages behind us. A truck squeezed to the side to allow us passage, as did a handful of cars. But the last holdouts wouldn’t budge, determined to have us suffer their powerless blues with them.

Undeterred, Myron broke out of the cones into the road construction marked-off lane (no construction seemed evident) and throttled past the traffic. Mark followed, then Dale. I was the last, although usually I’m the first, to downshift, dodge a cone, and pour it on. I slid between two very large fluorescent cones and shifted, but my engine revved as if I’d missed a gear. The JIMS tranny had been the tightest tranny I had ever shifted. It was effortless to change gears, with little toe movement to bring another gear to life. This seemed completely out of context. I coasted with the clutch in, downshifted gingerly, and let out the clutch. The engine revved again. I repeated the process with the same results. As I heard the other riders disappear around the bend ahead, I coasted to the side of the road.

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“Listen, how about I buy a baseball bat on my way into town and beat your busy asses into the pavement.”

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I checked the rear belt and the shift linkage, praying that a bolt had come out and mysteriously the symptoms would lead to missing linkage. The night before in Greenwood, as I inspected around the engine, determined to find the source of the banging, I stumbled across a ball of fuzz lodged between the engine and the trans. We had carefully installed the fiber breather between the two, and I told myself that some of the banging was the breather being crushed by the kickstand stud. That wasn’t the case. As it turned out, my Rivera Brute III Primary belt was misaligned, and since I was using the very latest Dyna Glide components the webbing inside the outer and inner primary was shaving away at the belt. The metal shaved the belt down to 1/2 inch wide before it said adios.

I had just finished inspecting the belt when a sheriff’s patrol car pulled up, just as I was about to call and order another belt. The officer was totally cool, looked the bike over, offered assistance, and split. I pushed the bike to the crest of the hill so I could see if my bros were waiting for me to emerge from another bolt tightening session. They weren’t. I paged Mark, called home, and then rang Rivera and asked them to Fed Ex another belt to 2-Wheelers in Denver. Then I called the shop. “Hey, man, there ain’t anybody here. They all went to Sturgis” I asked ’em if they had a belt. “Nope.” Then I asked if they could you call around and see if anyone in town had a belt. “Nope, too busy.”

I’d had enough. “Listen, how about I buy a baseball bat on my way into town and beat your busy asses into the pavement.”

“I’m calling right now, Bandit, and Eric, our only mechanic, will have the shop cleared for your bike when you get here.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said. When a Hamster threatens, people shake.

As I hung up and stared off into the distance, listening for a motorcycle heading my way, a Kwik Mobile Lube van pulled up and a short, upbeat biker jumped out.

“Howdy. Can I help you?” he said, yanking his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Looks like I need a lift to Denver,” I explained, and in a matter of minutes he had the Texaco station 9 miles ahead in Vail on the line. Natch, it’s run by bikers, and Rich, the manager, sent out his flatbed. An hour and a half later I was in Denver. Buck Lovell from Rivera had already shipped the belt and was loading two more on his Dyna Glide for the ride to Sturgis. He would meet me there to inspect the bike. He also spoke to Eric, the mechanic, and coached him on what to look for and how to set up the belt. I was in good hands.

Hot and nasty from the long haul, we arrived in Denver. As soon as we hit the city limits, Mark made a call to a young Title Investment broker he met on a flight earlier this year. She’s a rider, as are a couple of her female pals. She volunteered to meet us at 2-Wheelers and haul all our big asses into downtown for lunch at Tsunami’s sushi bar. I don’t know what was more relieving, the sight of this petite brunette getting out of her Bronco-style vehicle, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight, her hair pulled tightly into a ponytail at the back of her head-phew, she was a site for sore eyes-or the restaurant, the cold Sapporos, and the heaps of fresh Sushi. The combination made us all sit up and think bad thoughts.

I bought the Levi’s I needed, and while Mark disappeared with the brunette, Myron took a break. I had my boots shined by a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed babe and showered for dinner. Although I wished the blonde was sharing the shower with me, I was still nagged by the bike. My concern for hanging up my brothers was building a tension inside me. Myron was hoping to become a Hamster at the gathering at the Cottonwood Lodge this year, and he wanted to spend as much time with the other members as possible. But due to the belt, we were now a day behind the pack. If on schedule, they would arrive in Spearfish by noon the next day. Although, by the clock, it was only 400 some miles away. Mark, the navigator who couldn’t keep track of the highways, had some doubts we would make it and was planning an overnight in Lusk, Wyoming. I could feel Myron’s pressure, and the fact that all the other black bikes were running trouble-free added to the strain. I slept fitfully and called the shop at nine the next morning. The belt had already arrived and was being installed. Mark, who had shacked up with Laurel and her pals, returned and we hit the chow line, though I didn’t have much of an appetite. I needed to get my hands dirty, feel that I was contributing. The only way I was going to get back to 2-wheelers was to catch a cab or ride her Sportster. Sitting on the passenger pillion, I piloted the fringed Sportster back to the shop where Eric was wrapping up the assembly. He had changed the oil and performed a couple other lifesaving fixes while waiting for the belt. We were concerned about leaving in the afternoon, but as it turned out we were on the road at 10:30.

Not so fast, though. Mark didn’t like the noise his belt was making, so Laurel, our petite Sportster-riding guide, escorted us up to Sun Harley, where the lot was full of bikes passing through. We spent a half hour inspecting other Dyna Glides and lubing Mark’s belt. Finally we hit the road. It was a direct shot at this point, 25 due north to 18 or 21 east into Sundance, Wyoming. We blasted until 20 miles south of Chugwater, where we hit rain. It was as if we’d ridden our bikes across the sand in Malibu and into the surf. It was worrisome, watching the front showering down ahead. For several miles, the highway headed directly under the storm clouds. Then it veered first to the left and I sighed a heavy breath of relief, then it veered back to the right and looked as if we would pass the storm on the right. Then it redirected once again. As we got closer the road zigged and zagged again and again and, ultimately, took us right into the sonuvabitch, although the clouds were moving east quickly.

As we entered the storm we spread out. Myron, who lives in Scottsdale, and encounters rain infrequently seemed to relish its presence. He always sped up in the rain, even in the winding hills. Dale who’s used to New England’s harsh winter weather, could stay with Myron. I’ll do 90 on a freeway, but am much more cautious when the road bends, and Mark fell behind me. He was the only rider among us without the benefit of a windshield. As the storm curtain lifted and we ran into the healing rays of the sun, my bike began to miss. I stayed with it until clear of the precipitation, hoping whatever was causing it would dry up and disappear. No such luck. I pulled one plug wire at a time to determine which one it was, and soon found the problem. Running on one plug, I had to pull over. Each time I touched the front plug wire under the Danny Gray seat my wet glove allowed the spark to make my fingers dance.

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It was the smallest truck stop – market – burger joint I had ever seen-a rickety old building setting on a knoll in the center of a gravel parking lot with one sparse tree growing alongside it.

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When Jesse built the side panels, we suspected that we would need to cut half circles in the lip he built to reinforce the panels, in order to keep the aluminum from interfering with the plug wires. Again, time got the better of us, and it was never done. I quickly assumed that the boot had cracked under the vibration and the wire was shorting to the panel. Mark caught up with me and pulled over. He had a plastic water bottle bungied to his Bandit’s bedroll. We cut out a chunk of the neck and worked it between the panel and the boot. Didn’t make a difference. I took off the panel and first Mark then I whittled at the thin aluminum sheet with a file, then knives, until we had clearance. We reinstalled the panel several times, but when I sat on the bike one plug died. A half hour had passed, and I was sweating the time. Mark stood back from the bike as I sat in place once it started. The front plug wire was running over the rear rocker box, between the box and the frame. When I sat down the engine was crushing the plug wire against the frame, and it was beginning to break down and short to the rocker box. By simply pulling the wire to the right, out from under the frame it quit shorting and we rolled up our tools and hit the road. Ultimately, we would have to replace that wire in Sturgis and the other wire once I returned to L.A., for the same reason. I also noticed, at this point, while surrounded by these beautiful rolling Colorado hayfields, that my rear-wheel- drive speedo had quit at just over 1,400 miles. I don’t care much for speedometers, except this small Custom Chrome job had a trip gauge I reset at each gas stop so I had a gas gauge. The speedo was fine, but the engine was smacking the cable when it smacked the spark plug wires and was straining the drive unit on the rear wheel. Ultimately, the pin inserted into the Performance Machine pulley let go. I now was without a gas gauge and would be forced to rely on Mark’s mileage checks.

We seemed to be catching another front as we neared Orin and the 18/20 junction. I had caused another 1/2 hour delay, and it was resting securely on my shoulders as I pushed the speeds. The Orin junction had little to offer travelers. The station aspect had two poorly maintained pumps, one unleaded and one premium. As we pulled up, a straight with a Camaro was just lifting the premium nozzle to fill his car. I sensed the front looming behind us and suggested to Mark that we live with regular unleaded till the next stop. Our trusty Navigator looked at his map and shrugged. In less than five minutes the front moved closer, and 100-mile winds pushed dirt, gravel, and debris all over the bikes. Then it started to rain and the dirt turned to mud. We quickly filled our tanks as a hail storm kicked up. Deciding to take shelter in the leaning cafe, we pushed the bikes to the leeward side of the building and dashed to the safety of the cafe.

Stuck for 45 minutes, we ate chicken sandwiches and chili and stole beers from the fridge. We wound up paying for ’em, but they wouldn’t let us drink ’em inside the building, so we didn’t tell them about the beer till we were ready to leave. Pushing off, we followed the rapidly moving storm on wet pavement for another hundred miles. As we pulled into Lusk, Wyoming, I noticed a new vibration coming from the exhaust pipes. We had broken the bracket again in the only place that hadn’t broken so far. Again, I asked the attendant at the High Super Service Texaco, and he said, “Pull ‘er in the service bay. I got everything you need.”

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As I straddled the red sled for the final blast, the Jack Daniel’s crept into my blood and my throttle hand twitched.

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He wasn’t bullshitting, either. After letting the bike cool for a few minutes, we removed the entire system and Dale welded it. While he was welding I inspected the belt-Oh, shit! More fuzz. The belt had already lost a quarter of an inch on the outside. We pulled the primary and inspected it. The new Dyna Glide’s outter primaries have several extra webs to strengthen the overall primary structure. One of the webs was interfering with the belt. Dale and the attendant broke out a dye grinder and went to work. Another 15 minutes, and we were on the road again. I was beginning to take on a numb attitude to the foibles of breakdowns. I was going to get to Sturgis, if I had to fix some little bullshit item on this machine every hundred miles. We kept moving.

Nearing Sundance, Wyoming I went on reserve and hung on as we rolled through a bad construction zone, then one canyon after another, looking for some sign of life or at least a gas station. Mark had scheduled gas stops, but as we rolled out of the last filling station we were due to hit another one 50 miles up the road. It was 81 miles to Spearfish, and if we didn’t get gas in Mule Creek, I would be running on fumes. At 50 mph we passed an empty Mule Creek, and I started taking shorter breaths. I was well over 80 miles when I spotted the lights of a town. At 8:15 we rolled into Sundance, Wyoming, 28 miles from Spearfish, South Dakota. Signing in at the Dime Horseshoe Saloon the sky was dark and only a couple of riders were leaning against the bar, but the barmaids were bustling around a folding table in the center of the bar, setting up a birthday do for one of the locals-finger food, birthday cake, and the whole nine yards. We ordered serious cocktails, showed our respects to the birthday boy, and attacked the food and cake. Four big, hungry bikers with almost 400 hundred miles under their belts-we could smell Spearfish and the Hamster lodge.

As I straddled the red sled for the final blast, the Jack Daniel’s crept into my blood and my throttle hand twitched. We had spent five long, hard days milking my sorry ass halfway across the country. The bike had now survived this far and would surely survive the next 30 miles. Muscle Man Myron and I rolled onto the freeway and immediately put the pedal to the metal. I knew how I felt at that moment. The 98-inch stroker motor had almost 2,000 miles on it, was now broken in, and actually felt smoother the faster I went. We rolled up to a hundred and settled in for the final blast. We had played with spark plug wires, welded exhaust pipe brackets, and dicked with petcocks and a limited fuel capacity, but the machine made it in one piece. It was a completely new, innovative, one-off, handmade, excellent machine-perhaps one of the most comfortable bikes I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride. As we traversed the distance from Sundance into South Dakota, that red sled planed out and we pushed the bike harder. Myron felt the speed. He paced my every turn, accelerated whenever I did, and backed away when I needed a lane to pass. Over the last week we had become a team, like fighter pilots, riding in unison, watching each other’s machines for problems. Twice Myron spotted my bags loosening and alerted me. I knew as well as I was beginning to know this bike that Myron was watching my back as we crested 110 and passed two cruisers who had pulled over a camper towing a trailer load of bikes. We thought about shutting down as we discovered that there were cop cars alongside the highway, but we knew it was too late. We were hauling. It felt good, and we weren’t about to stop. The slogan, “Able to avoid high-speed pursuit,” flashed through my mind, and I pulled the Ness throttle harder and the S&S carb responded as I flashed passed the sign stating that Spearfish was 8 miles up the road. In a blink of an eye the 1-mile sign streaked past and together we all pulled off the freeway. Although it was difficult to slow as we entered the small town, our uniform group gathered in a final demonstration of unity as we passed the Silver Dollar Saloon, lined with scooters from all across the country. We knew we were home, home to every scooter bum on the planet.

It was 9 p.m. as I pulled into the parking lot of the Cottonwood, only three hours behind the main group of Hamsters who began their trek in San Francisco. I was greeted by fellow riders like Arlen Ness, his son, Cory, Grady Phieffer, Laun from Reno, Ron and voluptuous Toni from Connecticut, minuscule Allen Deshon, exotic car Barry Cooney and his lovely wife, Kimi, and many other brothers and sisters. Man, it felt good to be home.

-Bandit

The Saga of Sturgis ’97 is sponsored by

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It’s that time again, Tail Gunner here, it’s time to take a look at yourself, so to speak,
This month I’ll be looking at the Fast Lane Mirrors from Wicked Image.

These mirrors are designed to replace your OEM bat wing faring mirrors.

The manufacturer says they are designed to fit ’96-’11 FLHT & FLHX. They come out farther for better viewing and still follow the contour of the fairing. So naturally I ordered a pair. The mirror housing is billet anodized black, real nice design and they looked awesome on the bike.

Installation was easy; accept for the part where I received two right hand mount sides for the mirrors.

At first I was a little perplexed, ended up popping another hole on the opposite side on the left mount so they both ended up in the same mounting position. It was an easy fix, but in my opinion, it should not have been required. You have to remove the outer fairing shell for installation. Seven screws remove the wind screen and unplug the light, and off it comes. Remove the OEM mirrors and replace with supplied hardware. That’s where the first problem arose, couldn’t figure out where the rubber grommet went, inside or out. The mirrors didn’t come with any instructions, so it’s a guess.

The grommet looked funny on the outside, so I moved them to the inside, I’m not sure how they dampen vibration that way, but it looked way better than having them on the outside. There’s also a big metal washer that’s supposed to go on after the rubber grommet, this enables the lock nut to have something to tighten to. Got it all back together, now for the test ride. Holy Crap, can’t see a thing!! The mirrors vibrate too much, and the glass used doesn’t magnify anything, unlike the convexed OEM mirrors.

So all the objects are small and blurry!! My friend Andy just happened to install the same mirrors (in chrome) and we ended up on the same weekend trip to Solvang, where we both asked the same question “can you see out of these mirrors?? HELL NO. Once again, I’m scammed on the hype of another so called improvement product. So back go the stock mirrors, and bingo, I can see again.

www.jpcycles.com P/N 760-786 , $149.99
www.customchrome.com P/N 677679 , $149.99
www.bikerschoice.com P/N 49-5399 , $149.95

You might think that the relationship between one motorcycle museum and another could be more competitive than cooperative, but that’s really not the case. A great example of the cooperative efforts of two motorcycle museums is the recent “trade” that’s been made between the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum & Hall of Fame and the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa, Iowa.

“The National Motorcycle Museum was designing a new exhibit called ‘Motorcycles At Work’ and was looking for examples of motorcycles that are used in work settings,” said Christine Paige Diers, Executive Director of the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum & Hall of Fame. “Our collection in Sturgis includes the very first police motorcycle ever used in the city of Sturgis, and the National Motorcycle Museum asked if they could include it in their new exhibit. With the permission of the Sturgis Police Department, we said we’d be happy to share this example of a motorcycle at work.”

That’s not the end of the story, though. The cooperative spirit continued when the National Motorcycle Museum offered to lend a great motorcycle to the Sturgis Museum while the police bike was away. So, the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum is pleased to have in its collection a temporary loan of a custom motorcycle originally built for the 50th anniversary of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.

The bike, designed in 1990 by Custom Chrome’s John Reed, was owned by Custom Chrome founder Nace Panzica. It was donated to the National Motorcycle Museum & Hall of Fame, where it’s made its home. The one-of-a-kind Harley is built from a 1986 engine and frame and finished with 24 karat gold plating. Now, as part of this cooperative agreement, it’ll be on exhibit at the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum until the National Motorcycle Museum’s “Motorcycles At Work” exhibit concludes.

“It really is great to be able to share loans of motorcycles between the two museums,” said Paige Diers. “We are happy that people visiting the National Motorcycle Museum will get to see the very first police bike used in Sturgis, while our visitors will have a chance to see this great custom bike built for such a momentous occasion as the 50th Anniversary of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. It’s just a win-win for everyone involved.”

The Sturgis Motorcycle Museum & Hall of Fame is located at 999 Main Street in Sturgis, SD. Hours of operation are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday and Sunday during the summer season. Admission is $5 for adults, $4 for anyone 65 and over. Children 12 and under are admitted free when accompanied by a paying adult.

I came across this bike at this year’s Easyriders Show in Charlotte. I was impressed with the tight lines of the bike. As I read the info from the show poster, I saw that the owner, Eric Stein was a local, so I left my business card and the next day I received a call. We made plans to shoot his bike right away. Time passed as winter slowly said good bye and finally we faced the perfect day to shoot TROUBLE, as Eric has named his bike.

This is his third bike build. The two previous were the wide tire variety. While living in NY, Eric had a bike stolen. Anyone who has ever had a bike bagged will tell you it is a low feeling. Eric bounced back and decided the wide tire bikes were on the way out and that he wanted to build a sleek no nonsense bobber.

Before you go thinking this bike is all show and no go, think again. TROUBLE sports a 113-inch Ultima engine with a 6 speed Ultima tranny. Last year at the SMOKEOUT, Eric decided to let TROUBLE blast down the drag strip. TROUBLE posted a blistering low 7 second time and 101mph in 1/8 mile!

You have to see the paint job to really appreciate it. Eric laid the paint job down in his garage! The silver metal flake really dances in the sun light. This bike draws you in and the closer you look the more you see. The lines of TROUBLE are flawless and every part of the bike flows like silk. Real smooth!

I asked him why he named his bike TROUBLE and he said.
“No real reason, just a cool name,” but just maybe it is because TROUBLE gave a lot of bikes trouble at the EASYRIDERS show this past January. Eric and Trouble took home a 2nd place award at the show and won a LIMPNICKIE award at the EASYRIDERS show in 2010. NO small accomplishment!

For me the name TROUBLE fits the bike because like a beautiful woman it draws you in and slowly you get hooked, and we all know where that leads, to TROUBLE!
Along with its engine and tranny TROUBLE sports some serious equipment, S&S G carb, Santee Rigid frame, BDL 3-inch belt drive and modified Super Trapp exhaust.

I was impressed with Eric and his bike. It is my kind of bike, bare bones, no GPS system, no IPOD, no BS, a lot of show and a lot of GO !

Eric is a garage builder who always has a project going on. Right now he is turning wrenches on a FL Shovelhead. Eric also has the support of his beautiful wife Allison. Nothing like a builder having the support of his girl, it makes each build a whole lot easier!

Until next time, RIDE!
–STEALTH

BIKERNET EXTREME TROUBLE TECH CHART

Owner: Eric Stein

Bike Name:TROUBLE

City/State:Indian Trail NC

Builder:Eric Stein

Fabrication:Owner

Welding: Randy at Crafters Metal Fab

Engine

Year:2005

Make:Ultima

Model: El Bruto

Displacement:113-inch

Builder or Rebuilder:Ultima

Cases: Ultima

Case finish:Natural

Carburetion:S&S G

Air cleaner:Moon Eyes

Exhaust:Modified Supertrap

Transmission

Year:2005

Make:Ultima 6-speed

Gear configuration: 1-down and 5-up

Final drive:Chain

Primary:BDL 3-inch

Clutch:Ultima

Frame

Year:?

Make:?

Style or Model:Rigid

Stretch:Zero

Rake:Zero

Front End

Make:H-D

Model:Modified XL – GMAtrees

Year: ?

Sheet metal

Tanks:Sportster

Fenders:7 ½-inch flat

Oil tank:Moon Eyes

Paint

Sheet metal: Painted by Owner

Base coat:Black gun metal flake

Graphics:Silver

Pinstriping:Owner

Wheels

Front

Make:H-D

Size:21-inch

Brake calipers:H-D

Brake rotor(s):H-D

Tire:Pirelli Scorpion

Rear

Make:DNA

Size:16 x 6

Brake calipers:Exile Sprotor

Tire:Avon 200

Controls

Foot controls:Cheapos

Finish:Natural

Master cylinder:BDL

Handlebar controls:BDL

Finish:Chrome

Electrical

Headlight:5 ¼-inch

Taillight:Fab Kevin

Battery:Hot

What’s Left

Seat:Xian Leather

Mirror(s): none

Gas caps:Bare Knuckle

Handlebars:Bare Knuckles Custom Bend

Credits: Special thanks to Allison.

He turned the dented knob, walked through the door and his eyes adjusted to the smoke and the darkness. The AC had been on for a while and it was colder the further he walked inside and almost freezing by the time he reached the bar. The stares of the local barflies and of the tired old bartender who quit wearing makeup ten years ago made the temperature feel even colder.

“Draft beer and a glass of ice water” he ordered without waiting to be asked. He was offered not even a word or an expression as his drinks were placed on the bar.

“You seen any motorcycle gang members around here recently?” he demanded while pointing his finger at her.

Before he finished the word recently, an old rummy eyed man tried to say something but the bartender interrupted him with a sharp “Who wants to know!?”

He said in a very smart ass way, “If you don’t speak politely, I may not let you buy me this drink.”

The bartender screamed at him, “You are gonna get stomped talkin’ that way round here. You just wait till Thumper shows up!” she spat.

“And who might that be? Let me guess, he is that short, hairy man who likes little boys.” he inquired, pretending to talk like a lawyer.

“You’ll get yourself kilt talking that way round here!” she yelled back.

He thought about burning down this place in the morning if he lived that long. These people weren’t worth saving; they were just taking up space. If they were here when he came back, he doubted that anyone would live.

Walking out with the glass of beer in his hand, he finished it, dropped it on the floor deliberately and looked at the shattered mug. Opening the door, he closed his eyes and opened them slowly as he approached his bike, letting his eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. Then he noticed a parking sign that said MC parking only with a cartoonish demon painted on it. He kicked it over before leaving. He heard the bartender cussing him over his pipes as he burned out and covered her with dust. Yes, she would get hers and if she didn’t die, at least she wouldn’t be working in this soon to be destroyed dive bar.

That was three days ago…

Now he had a new name, compliments of a busty college dropout named Trista who worked the local coffee shop and dreamed of getting out but had no means to make it happen.

She saw his exit from the bar from the porch of the café. She served him a blueberry muffin with extra butter of course, soon to be dead men don’t count calories. While he ordered a tall hammerhead, the woman said he resembled a zen master who was ready to die at a moment’s notice. He chalked it up to her trying to perceive Customers through the pages of an eastern philosophy book he spotted. It was dogeared and leaned near her register.

So he let her call him “Zen” for the next couple of days as he spent hours in that shop while keeping an eye on the bar across the street. While he didn’t particularly like his new name, he figured that he wouldn’t be living much longer anyways. And why should he? Everything had been taken from him by some drug dealing men who masqueraded as bikers who ran his car off the road over a perceived insult.

Zen told Trista he was coming back in three days and destroying the bar on the night it was reserved for a Demons motorcycle club annual party for members only. Zen didn’t even hesitate to tell her he was going to do it, and somewhere he just knew she wouldn’t warn anyone and would likely watch it from a distance, whatever he would do.

Then as he was leaving she just said, “Take me with you.”

How fatal that sounded to him. He was bent on a suicide mission and here was a desperate and trusting girl who looked like she had one last hope in those green eyes. He told her that he doubted he would make it out alive but if he could, he would.

“Be ready to go when you hear the blast.” was all he said. She told him she him she would and that she wouldn’t be a burden. The café wasn’t hers and she lived with her grandma who didn’t need her around, and he felt she had all but given up on life and this would be “her last try.” Zen didn’t want to think about what that meant but he had an idea she was about to lose hope in whatever she believed in.

That brief discussion caused him to plan harder, and he thought deeper than he ever had to make it out of this mass murder alive, to revenge his family and perhaps live again and start a new one. Lofty thoughts for someone who was living like a dead man walking, he considered over his third cup of coffee.

On the fourth day he parked his bike behind some pallets in the drive through of a boarded up old hamburger shack. It was cold and grey and he missed the Arizona desert in the fall. Here it seemed that things were dying and he supposed part of him was dying with it. He didn’t believe he would make it out alive or even if he did, he would likely be caught and be spending some time in prison if he decided to let the cops take him in. He kept thinking with sadness how his life had been destroyed since the accident months earlier that took his family. Shaking the pain away he focused on his kamikaze mission and wondered if that was how the Japanese pilots felt when they faced certain death.

Putting the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, he checked his jacket for the extra magazines and walked along the tree line towards the back door of the bar with the Krinkov close against his chest. Yeah, the party was starting and the already drunken band was playing some really bad Southern rock. But he wouldn’t start the fireworks until the band got off the stage and the president of the club starting giving out anniversary pins, new prospect patches, and making speeches.

Security was strong for such an annual event. But the prospects who were busy watching the front and the bikes forgot to check the backside of the building. There wasn’t a reason to because there were trees out back, and no one could drive through trees. Trouble wasn’t being expected and as the night wore on few bikes showed up. It was getting close.

Zen crawled back to where he was out of site and got within 15 feet of the ice cream truck he had stolen a week before and laden with homemade explosives. Then out of the corner of his eye was Trista.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted in a whisper.

“You really are going to do it aren’t you?” she said; her eyes terrified.

“Disappear!” he screamed in a whisper to her and she did but not without doubts of her own sanity. It was one thing to ride off into the sunset. It was another thing to do it after you witnessed a mass murder, she thought.

“Get out of here right now!” he yelled for real this time, still not believing she was there. He told her to wait inside the drive-through of the hamburger stand and not to move until he came back. If he didn’t come back, well then, she should just go home. He reasoned that she’d keep making coffee for the rest of her life.

He started the truck and closed his eyes once more, thinking of his family he put the truck in gear and started towards Main Street with the lights off.
As he approached the corner he could see only one prospect standing outside and some women talking to him. They looked like they wanted him to let them in and he wasn’t having any of it.

Zen rolled down the window and saw the band coming out the front door. While he didn’t put much value on their lives, he didn’t consider himself a murderer of innocents. Yes, there might be a guest inside during the private ceremony to celebrate the club and award Thumper with his release from prison and perhaps some other collateral damage, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances he told himself.

As he drove up to the front of the bar, he heard some cheering knew that some ceremony was kicking off. He hit the gas and jumped out of the cab as it slammed almost perfectly into the side of the aluminum building and right between two support beams. The next thing he knew he was face down with ringing in his ears and a screaming headache. He looked up to see what was left of the bar and brought up his weapon and charged through the hole in the building.

The smoke was so thick, and the fire and screams where as overwhelming as the heat. He saw two Demons MC patch members trying to run out and he cut them down and walked over their bodies. There were people bleeding out of their ears and mouths trying to stand up. Trying to find where the stage was to locate Thumper was going to be impossible. He emptied his magazine on a group huddled under what was left of a table and ran towards where he thought the stage would be. It was there he saw pieces of Thumper’s head.

He knew that red beard anywhere and he stared at it for at least a minute though it felt like hours. The smoke and fire stung his eyes and he ran out the way he came in shooting at random as he exited the furnace that was once a bar and dance hall.

Running towards the hamburger stand while coughing and spitting out smoke and mucus, he saw Trista sitting on his bike and crying. He swung his leg over his Dyna and started the bike.

Trista instinctively hugged him and screamed at him, “Floor it!”

He even smiled at that; his first smile in a long time. As he rode around the corner, he could see other patch members making their way out of the building. He stopped the bike and fired the last of the ammunition in his magazine at them hitting two or three before they scattered. He rode out of town passing a volunteer fire department truck heading towards the bar and a county sheriff right behind them. It wasn’t until they crossed a bridge that he realized he had a Krikov still strapped around his neck. He threw it over the bridge and headed West taking back roads. He thought he heard a helicopter or a motorcycle but it was just his ears ringing or the thunder in the sky. An hour later, they were at a farm and almost out of gas. He stopped the bike and pushed it off the road behind some trees.

“What now?” asked Trista. Yes, what now indeed. The lights on the farm weren’t on and there were no trucks or cars parked outside. Could he be so lucky? He knocked on the door and after five minutes went around to the barn and looked inside. It was a farm being resold and the power was out. The front door was unlocked and there were some boxes inside. He went to the restroom and took off his jacket. There was blood on his shirt and then Trista screamed.