Slender Chance Part Two

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Fiction by A. Carney Allen

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Under escort a weary, begrimed figure was shown into the presence of General Vamero at the San Luis barracks. “From Las Palmas,” gasped Terry Devine, and handed across Don Isidore Pancha’s signed order. “Rebels-President-help–“ Minutes later General Vamero was preparing to lead a body of something like 3,000 cavalry, but as he buckled on his sword he turned to an aide-de-camp. “We have eight hours,” he said. “Artillery we must dispense with, for the guns will never keep up with us on those accursed roads. We will take with us, however, one wagon-load of explosives to blow a gap in the city wall if necessary…” He checked as he saw Terry lolling in a chair, then: “Se?or Devine,” he went on, “the point has just occurred to me. How did you get here? Surely not by the roads?” Terry looked up with a wry grin. “How did I get here?” he echoed. “Why, I guess I got here by luck. And pardon me, General, but now I’m here I’d like to go back again, so maybe you could find a corner for me among the explosives. And my motor bike-though I don’t want to ride it for a while, I wouldn’t let it out of my sight now…” *  *  * From the north gate of Las Palmas the ground rises steeply to a small flat-topped ridge; beyond the ridge it slopes again to the level of the city. It was behind that ridge that General Vamero’s cavalrymen now lay sheltered. Along the flat top of the ridge were scattered close on a hundred blue-uniformed, lifeless figures. And down the steep slope leading to the capital lay something like double that number. Heavy casualties for only two assaults, but then the rebels lined the city wall, and the city gate was barred. In a little group behind the ridge stood General Vamero, his staff-and Terry-and General Vamero was speaking. “You have seen the effect of a direct rush. Not one actually reached the wall, and our casualties have been terrible. They have raided the arsenal in Las Palmas, you see, and now possess artillery, which we lack. Our artillery will not be up for hours, and if Martino and those murderous scoundrels have not killed Don Isidore already, they will have done so by then.” He paused, then: “If we could only reach the wall with a few hundredweight of our explosive—“ Terry stepped forward. “Pardon, General, but I have an idea. If you can get a rope…” He started to explain, and only once did the General interrupt. “But it took four horses, my friend–“ My bike’s an 8 hp, General, and it’s strong enough to draw money out of a miser.” From the city wall the rebels saw a sight, presently, that silenced their rifles with its unexpectedness. A powerful motor bike topping the crest of the ridge and drawing behind it by a strong tow-rope, a covered wagon, its shaft fixed rigidly. Curiosity continued to hold the revolutionaries immobile till the odd cortege had rapidly crossed the small flat plateau and was actually on the downward slope. Terry Devine, turning in his saddle then, slashed the tow-rope in twain with a razor-sharp bowie knife! In the same instant he steered aside, and as he did so the covered wagon went lumbering past his rear mudguard, gathering speed on slanting ground which, unlike that farther from the city, was comparatively smooth. The wagon had traversed the pitted roads without mishap. It was not too much to hope that, with shaft lashed to keep it on a straight course, it would come to no harm now until the crucial moment. A crackle of musketry ran along the length of the city wall, but Terry, weaving a baffling zig-zag pattern over the ground, received no more than a scored wrist. He did not fear for himself-he feared only that something would induce the rebels into firing on the wagon before its work was done. And then suddenly, above the flat summit of the ridge, showed a line of changing soldiery-General Vamero and his cavalry-and Terry, swinging round to join in the rush, knew that the advance of the loyalists was calculated to prevent the revolutionaries from thinking, and suspecting the contents of-the wagon! Terry watched that wagon, away down the slope now, and hurtling toward the wall. It was a few hundred yards ahead of Terry-Terry, coursing down the hill on his trusty bike, with the loyalist cavalry thundering to the rear of him. The rebels seemed to take the wagon for a mere battering ram that could not do much damage to the solid wall. They seemed to ignore it, restricting their attentions to the loyalist soldiery with telling effect. Terry saw the wagon-shaft hit the wall just to the right of the city’s north gate; and then… There was a mighty burst of flame and smoke, and a devastating shock that sent an earthquake through the earth underfoot. A furious rush of air seemed to catch at Terry and momentarily check his bike. Around him fell splinters of wood from the shattered wagon, fragments of stone from the shattered wall. The smoke cleared. The wagon had vanished utterly and, where it had struck, the wall had vanished too. With a rousing cheer the loyalist cavalry spurred forward, and that cheer rang the death-knell of ruffian hopes. The insurgents, dazed many of them from the effects of the explosion, had little stomach for close-quarter fighting against mounted disciplinarians who wielded skillful sabres, and with the rabble on the run the loyalists came to the Presidential Palace. Here there was a faint-hearted resistance from men who had laid a protracted seige, but in the space of minutes they were routed or killed. And so at length the gates of the Palace were flung open to the victors by the little garrison, which had held out so stoically. In the broad courtyard Don Isidore Pancha and General Vamero embraced each other fervently, and they were in the midst of their emotional greeting when a sharp volley of musketry rang out. The president started back. The fighting, he had imagined, was over. “It is nothing,” said General Vamero. “Only Esteban Martino taking a too honorable farewell. I did not wait for a signed order, Your Excellency.” The General paused, and turned all at once to a weary, begrimed figure whose dust-covered ducks were made no more presentable by the steady trickle of blood running from his hand. “Your Excellency, we are forgetting the one who has saved our country from ruin at the hands of villainous scum-Se?or Devine.” And with that General Vamero proceeded to outline Terry’s adventures. When he had finished, Don Isidore Pancha stepped forward and took the youngster by his uninjured hand. “Se?or,” he said, “your conduct calls for the highest honor Miranda can bestow-the equivalent of your British Victoria Cross. It calls, also, for a more substantial reward. But above all, it is something I can never fully repay. I can do something, however, to wipe off a little of the debt. Se?or Devine, I am going to abolish horses in Miranda and equip my cavalry with Premier motorcycles. And into the bargain-the roads will not be repaired.” Terry was staring at him in wonder, but at the last words he roused himself. “The roads-will not be repaired? But, Your Excellency, the bikes will not last a year—“ Don Isidore broke in on him with a dazzling smile. “Exactly,” he said. “A yearly order for your firm-a yearly commission for you.” And Don Isidore Pancha so far forgot his exalted position as to close his right eye in a very deliberate wink.

Part One

Sticky shards of beer bottle splashed against his face as Harrison rolled in the soiled sawdust to escape a worn, pointed cowboy boot. His troubled mind whirled. What was he doing diving towards the cigarette butt-strewn deck of the cowboy bar anyway?

Less than a half hour before he pulled his ’78 Shovelhead up to the litter-infested curb in front of the hick bar in the backwater town of Tombstone, Arizona, Harrison was cruising along without a thought in the world.

A pool cue slammed against the concrete next to his head. His eyes expanded to the size of the tops of Harley oil cans and he rolled to avoid he splintering cue stick shattering against the sawdust and cement. Jumping to his feet a fist made a catcher’s mitt out of his stomach.

He thought, when he pulled up to the curb alongside two other shovelheads, that he’d found the only biker bar in a couple hundred miles. The town seemed deserted except for the bar, with its Bud and Miller neon flashing outside, and floodlights sporting the harmless name, “Maggie’s Place.”

Another fist struck him solidly. Harrison grabbed his guts and buckled onto the cold floor again.

He hadn’t been in the joint two minutes when he discovered something wasn’t right. The warm, sexy looking woman at the end of the bar looked up at the rugged stranger as he came in, their eyes meeting as if they had been connected at birth. However, the black and blue shadow under her left eye was a billboard displaying abuse.

Stepping up to the bar, two cowboys strode up behind him. “Hey Chuck, we gonna add another Harley to your collection,” a big, lumbering, beer-bellied boy shouted over Harrison’s shoulder to someone behind a poorly lit pool table.

“Suppose so, if he don’t get the message real quick and hit the road,” the voice was ominous. Harrison couldn’t make out the stranger in the dark corner. He did catch the hint and was beginning to turn for the door when the girl at the bar stood up.

“You’re not going to turn this bar into another war zone while I’m here.” She pivoted on slender legs toward the dark corner.

As her voice quaked out the last syllable, it was as if someone had sounded an alarm. Patrons began to rise and depart to the walls and doors. The small passageway to the heads became as congested as a downtown freeway at rush hour. Though Harrison was tall and well built, a cloud of doom was filling the honky-tonk like an Arizona flash flood. Smacking like a jackhammer, his heart beat against his chest. Knees as slippery as 60-weight quivered beneath him.

A hamhock-sized fist slapped his back, shaking every fragile vertebrae. “Guess you ain’t gonna have that beer after all, boy,” a fat man with bib overalls shouted at Harrison, while launching a right. Harrison was prepared, but off balance. With the speed of a rattlesnake, he blocked the first blow. But the following flurry of punches and kicks got the best of him.

He rolled under the pool table, while four men kicked at him. He hadn’t seen the man in the corner yet, but whoever he was, he called the shots. Harrison drew his knife and stabbed at a stationary boot, he heard the girl scream. Another rancher was dragging the screaming redhead to the corner of the bar.

All Harrison could see were her small refined ankles and petite shoes as she struggled. His mind flashed on the image of the defiant girl as she stood in protest-the tight Levi’s on the narrow waist, snugly gripping her perfect hips and long legs. Her checkered Western shirt fit snugly at the waist and flowed up over her heaving chest, accented by an unbuttoned V below a delicate neck. She was either a vision of traditional Western beauty, or the form he had examined before the first punch had landed was merely a fantasy.

He could still see her delicate shoes being dragged, her feet kicking like a young pony’s, as the man screamed. The knife was buried through the arch of his foot into the sole of his boot. “He’s gonna die, now,” one cowboy shouted, and Harrison heard the sound of a gun cocking. Pulling the knife free and rolling, he cut the Achilles tendon of another kicker and the man immediately fell to the sawdust floor. The first bullet splintered the wood to his side as he spun toward the opposite side of the table.

“Get him, Joe,” the fat farmer shouted, and the cowboy with the 9mm Browning fired again, missing him. Harrison was covered in sawdust and sweat as he wrapped his arms around the cowboy boots belonging to a man who had stomped the knuckles of his left hand less than 30 seconds before. He leveraged his legs against the pool table legs and thrust the man up and over the table. Looking up, the gunman saw this figure diving for him, and he instinctively shot at him. The tackled man fell in his own growing pool of blood on the scarred green felt.

Struggling to stand, Harrison found himself face to face across the table from the smoldering automatic. A fat farmer moved to his right and the young, burly ranch hand grabbed a pool cue to his left. The light above the pool table swung, throwing bits of light in odd directions, and Harrison caught a glimpse of a small sweaty man in the corner slapping the girl while another man held her.

“I own this town, bitch, and you’re mine,” he hissed. The slap made Harrison flinch.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Kill the sonuvabitch,” the slimy little man in the slick leather jacket in the corner shouted.

“But I just shot Billy.”

“All cuz of that fucking biker. Now do him.”

Harrison wasn’t waiting for a decision. He stuck his blade into the fat man’s belly and, yanking the knife upward, spilled the man’s guts onto the table. The horrified cowboy grimaced and stepped back, lifting the auto to aim. Harrison jumped behind the fat farmer just in time, as a bullet spit the fat man’s shoulder socket all over the room. The balding farmer with three days of stubble looked like a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a large bite taken out of the corner. He screamed, as one of the arms he was using to keep his entrails in place fell limp to his side.

Harrison grabbed the half empty beer bottle on the ledge next to the cue chalk and threw it at the gunman, splitting his left cheek, exposing a slashed jawbone.

The girl screamed as the 225-pound ranch hand swung a pool cue like a baseball bat against Harrison’s lower back. He tried to focus on the girl as rivers of pain shot down his legs and up through his spine. His legs went limp and he collapsed. Moving his arms he shoved off the gurgling farmer, slouched against the coin dispenser, and stumbled over the side of the table into the now crimson felt. He reached for the cue rack, the fingers of his right hand barely encircling a couple of the holes. With his left hand he lunged for a chair, and with all his might he prayed for the feeling to return to his legs.

Rounding the corner of the table into the gunman’s sights again, the rancher caught his dragging calves with another sharp blow cracking the cue mid-impact. “I don’t need no gun to take this biker down,” he taunted, recoiling.

The strike shot lightning bolts of pain in the opposite direction. His legs were immediately sensitized again and jerked instinctively under his torso. The pain caused Harrison to flinch. He tore the old wood rack loose from the wall, sending a half dozen cues into the path of the oncoming rancher.

Harrison’s adrenaline was pumping too fast to comprehend. He knew, just as in the jungles of ‘Nam, that this was it. He had no chance. The next bullet would split his skull like a shot through a beer can.

Putting both bleeding hands on the chair, he pushed up, forcing his legs beneath him. They held. Stepping left, he picked up a scarred wooden chair and launched it in the direction of the gunman who had regained some composure.

“Kill the sonuvabitch, you stupid muthafucker,” the shout came screeching from the corner. The cowboy ducked the oncoming chair and fired, taking out the corner pocket in a shower of felt and wood. Fending the chair off with his left arm, his left eye blinded by blood and swelling, he shot again. This time the bullet penetrated Harrison’s Levi’s and the fleshy part of his thigh. He thought he was going down, but the leg stayed strong and held up under him. He charged, head-butting the big man and grabbing the gun. They spun and Harrison’s fingers found the trigger slot. He shoved in a bloody digit over the other man’s, pointed, and squeezed.

The grease ball in the corner stood, dropping the girl to the floor, and stepped into the light. “You dumb . . .” he began, before leaning on the pool table in full view. He was a slight man glittering with gold chains and rings too big for his fingers. His face was pale and pockmarked. A tattoo crept up his neck, over his collar, and between the lapels of the shiny leather trench coat, a red wave began to cover his white satin pocket.

“If you can’t kill him, I will,” he said, reaching into his waistband for the stainless steel 25 caliber automatic while Harrison and the rancher struggled. Pulling it free from behind his belt he released the safety and aimed. Harrison rocked the rancher and the bullet entered his chest. “That’s okay,” the slimeball said, leaning heavily on one arm. “I wanted him out of the way, so I could take my time with you.”

His silver blue eyes glared at Harrison as if he were the dessert after a helluva good meal. As the rancher fell, the slimeball aimed again. Harrison grabbed the heavy automatic with both hands and unloaded the last two rounds into the slicker. The heavier load slapped the already dying body away from the pool table and into the darkness beyond. He heard the body crash against the wall and slide into the debris on the deck.

Harrison pulled free of the cold hand holding the auto and fell to the side of the table, gasping with fear, adrenaline, and fatigue. It was quiet for the first time. A handful of onlookers stood paralyzed against the walls. He glanced around, looking for more assailants. Seeing none, he quickly pulled himself to the other side of the table to check on the sobbing girl. She was tucked in a ball, her face buried in her hands. He lifted her gently, “Are you all right?” he asked.

Raising her face into the light, even with the streaks of tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, her beauty was breathtaking. The pain in Harrison’s leg disappeared as her deep blue eyes met his. His hand melted against her young waist as a hint of a smile crossed her face.

“Thank you . . .,” she murmured. Harrison’s heart swelled as her scent filled his nostrils. As he reached across her middle his forearm brushed the points of her breasts and he sensed their soft fullness. Turning her toward him, she smiled again, only this time with a sly hint of larceny.

” . . . for nothing,” she said as she plunged a stainless dagger under his ribs, slicing the arteries beneath his heart.

End

Up here in the great northland known as Minnesota, we know it’s time to fire up the beast when the Donnie Smith/American Thunder Motorcycle Show and Swap Meet comes around. For the third year in a row it was held at the Xcel Energy Center home to the Minnesota Wild hockey team. I only mention that because my buddy Willy got the coach’s autograph/picture at the show. It wasn’t hard to pick him out, as three-piece suits tend to stand out among as bunch of beer swigging bikers.

The swap meet had its usual club representation and the dirty bins of old parts. Nothing special, I guess I wasn’t on the search of any specific component.The highlight of the day was getting an autographed poster from Dave Perewitz of his new Discovery bike. It’s a right side drive, 124-inch motor with a cool swingarm, red with Perewitz flames. It took 900 hours to build. It doesn’t look comfortable to ride, but who am I to say. He rode it from the East coast of Florida to Dallas.

I like rigids. My favorite show bike was an evil rigid, raked and stretched, rattle-can flat black with shiny black flames. Cool

The night before, Willy and I had a chance to hang out at the hospitality gathering at Whisky Junction (A local biker hangout) and ask Donnie and Dave a few questions. I got to tell you, it was pretty cool getting a chance to congratulate Dave on his recent induction into the national hall of fame, and awarded the VQ fabricated bike builder of the year. We chatted about some of the bikes he’s built for NASCAR celebrities. It turned out that his tattoo artist is mine as well. We talked about the Discovery Ride and he offered a terrific perspective. It’s not really about the competition, but furthering the biker cause. Dave, my hats of to you and all you do. I agree. By the way, Bandit, Dave was looking for you.

I spoke to Donnie Smith as well. He was excited about the success of the bike show. It has grown from 70 or so bikes entrants three years ago to about 170 today. Business was brisk for Donnie and he was pumped. He also built a sharp blue chopper for the Discovery Ride. His thoughts of the current up and coming bike builders included, ” Young builders need to have stamina. You’re not going to be millionaires tomorrow, but stick it out.” On his current projects he would only say, “a super secret project bike.” I am sure it will be sharp.

I did learn two lessons this weekend:

1. Keep a cooler in your trunk, park in the garage next to the building for 10 bucks and drink your beer in the parking lot. It paid for my parking.

2. Do not try to install ape hangers the weekend of big show. All the local shops were out of brake line fittings.

Until the next ride,Have a drink on me,–Troy (Rigid) Toensing

Bikernet correspondent Troy or Rigid.

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They came like thundering hordes over the mountains from Iowa, New York, Kentucky, Illinois, Michigan, New England, Georgia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and even New Jersey. The majority of them rode hard tail choppers. They were dressed in black, wearing grim expressions. The local populace stood back in horror as they watched the picturesque Cherokee Reservation in North Carolina, taken over.

 

Well not really, but they had ridden a long way to party with others of their kind. The Smokey Mountain Smoke Out is not your average motorcycle event. It’s a down-to-earth, hard assed good time. It attracts an unpretentious crowd, riding a variety of hand built, totally unique scoots.

No billet barges here. No fancy $10,000 paint jobs. No miles of gleaming chrome. But there was no shortage of clean, sharp rides either. Bikes in the show stretched from one end of the spectrum to the other. It was almost impossible to pick a winner.

 

What you will find is plenty of black primer. I saw countless uses of the stuff. If there is a way to be creative with black primer, I saw it there. Then there was the imaginative use of objects one doesn’t see at the usual bike shows.

 

It was as if someone said, “Hey, let’s see if we can find a way to use this faucet handle on the bike.” These are interesting bikes, but they built to be ridden and ridden hard. Which is the main theme of this event.

 

Hammer, editor of The Horse, says he wanted this to be an event that people ride their bikes to. There’s even an arrangement up with the local Mailboxes Etc. So that attendees can ship their camping gear or other needed items ahead of time. They can ride their bikes and pick up their gear once they arrive. From the looks of things, it didn’t appear that many folks did trailer duty. Hammer rode his evil black primer hardtail down from Michigan.

About 700 bikes showed up for the event.

 

There were those like Steve and Trish from Connecticut, who built a week long vacation around the Smoke Out. Steve rides a ’67 XLHC.

 

A sleek, turquoise kickstart rigid ’76 sporty is Trish’s ride.

 

Hammer wants to encourage folks to build bikes just to ride to this event. Steve from Clover, SC had just finished doing the top end of his ’78 Shovel chopper. His ride out to Cherokee was the shakedown ride. Nothing like seeing a radical 46-degree raked scoot cruising down the road. And there was plenty of that. This event is a throw back to the old days. Before you could go into a bike shop and buy just about everything for your ride imaginable.

Many of the bikes found here were built with parts found at a swap meet, in the dusty mess of someone’s garage or made simply with a hammer, hacksaw, and vice. Downhome engineering at it’s best.

 

Meeting members of The Horse’s staff was great. Edge, a radical writer, rode his bike up from South Carolina. It’s the only bike I have ever seen with a taillight off a ’66 Mustang.

 

Mr. Wild does many tech articles for The Horse. I have known Mr. Wild for a few years through emails. It was the first time I have met him in person. He’s a bit deaf, so we typed out most of our conversation on his laptop computer. It gave my typing skills quite the test, but it sure was a fun way to talk. He rode down from Wisconsin with his dog.

 

Some folks camped at the KOA. For those who prefer not roughing it, the motels along Cherokee’s trout stream offered a peaceful retreat. I spent a night at The Bennett Hill House Bed and Breakfast. Perched on the side of a mountain, hosts Dennis and Barbara provided an elegant escape in their incredible Victorian home.

For those who aren’t familiar with The Horse magazine, it’s not your average bike rag. Hammer says they are trying tone down the dark, cynical attitude they have displayed in the past. Yet, The Horse is still far from tame. They want it to be reader-friendly, catering to the backyard builder, the working guy who builds his own ride. They even have a dialogue going with the Motor Company. The latest issue of The Horse features two pages on HD’s new V-Rod. More mainstream builders are checking out this magazine.

 

As for my Smoke Out experience, I had been checking out the bikes. The Iron Maiden Contest was just starting up, when I noticed the smell of tar and spotted a bag of feathers. I saw the glint of sharp axes and heard whispers.

Seems a rumor was circulating that I was a spy for an enemy camp. As Bandit was loafing on a sailboat in the tropics, I needed a bodyguard. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a great replacement. He was tall, handsome, and sitting on a savage rigid. We quickly made our escape down the road to Bryson City for alcoholic beverages and some much needed Mexican food.

 

I have been attending m/c events for over 20 years. I have never had a weekend quite like my experience at the Smoke Out. I will definitely be back next year. Just about everyone I talked to, plans on returning for the 3rd Smoke Out next July. The event is being lengthened to 3 days. Hammer is expecting upwards of 5,000 bikes. For more information on the 2002 Smoke Out or The Horse Magazine, click on the link below or go to http://www.ironcross.net

-Crazyhorse

 

Most times the best runs are the ones with out 350,000 RUB’s sporting the latest Harley fashion, bright shinny factory billet barges and vendors gouging $2-$3 for a bottle of water. The best runs or events are the ones where a bunch of people with common interests gets together to share ideas and show what they put together with their own imagination and hands.

The Horse Magazine’s 4th annual Smoke Out in Salisbury, N.C. was just such an event. “Why out in the boon docks of Salisbury N.C.” you may well ask? Well for a number of good reasons. First, the locals don’t bend you over and grab your wallet. A good hotel room can still be had for under $50 a night. The local people are friendly and welcome you with open arms (and legs). The local police are kind, considerate and down right understanding of bikers and the countryside is great for a ride any time of day or night.

Over 5,000 folks from every walk of life and on every kind of chopper made the fourth pilgrimage to the Smoke out this year. Illustrator Jon Towle was there signing the posters he drew up for the event. Jose from Caribbean Custom Cycles, Redneck Engineering, Mad Dog and crew from Shadetree breaking the Guinness book of Records for the worlds longest bike, Voodoo Choppers from Detroit, master hand engraver C.J. Allan, Irish Rich from Shamrock Fabrication, Paul Cox Leather, Kevin of Detroit’s Fabricator Kevin, master of stainless steel, Steel City Cycles were just a few of the shops that had displays selling their goods for down to earth prices. Not one $30 West Coast Choppers T-shirt was offered for sale. This was a real event for the down to earth chopper dog.

On hand rounding out the event was the Infamous Ice Cream Man From Hell acting as ringmaster for the festivities. Shooting rolls of Harley toilet paper across the crowd in the entertainment tent, Getting the lovely bare breasted girls to take a spin on the mechanical bull and keeping the crowd entertained for the entire event with his cool Hot Rod Ice Cream Truck circling the fair grounds with sweet ladies tossing Mardi Gras beads to the guys for a change. Discovery Channels own Indian Larry of Gasoline Alley NYC and his crew were there with their winning biker build off Ed Roth “RAT FINK” tribute bike to pose for photos, sign autographs and mingle with the crowd. CONGRATS LARRY & CO. Billy Lane and the Choppers Inc. boys rode in on Saturday morning and spent the day checking out the bikes.

Billy was besieged by fans wanting their picture taken with him and have him sign their shirts, hats, bikes, breasts and butts. Billy insisted on only signing parts of female’s anatomy. He was gracious to everyone that came up to him, especially little kids who followed him around like the Pied Piper.

The staff of the Horse Magazine was on hand to meet their readers. Horse editor Hammer with his calm, quiet Jimmy Stewart style, saw to it that everyone had a place to camp out and anyone that had a break down was sure that Hammer could help them get on the road again. He was last seen running to find a jackshaft for a Primo drive and a welding torch for a guy from Chicago that needed to get back up and running. Geno was to be found at the Horse booth or running around getting photos. English Jim and “Englishman” Dave Gregory, X-Speed, CrazyHorse, Stogie and the others worked their buns off as well.

The choice plum assignment went to yours truly( that would be me). I had the arduous task of photographing the event for posterity, keeping the ladies T-shirts wet, playing security for Billy Lane who certainly didn’t need any and the monumental task of hosting the Horse Maiden contest on Saturday night. Publisher Hank McQueeney also made the rounds passing out free copies of the latest issue of the Horse and personally thanking every one that rode in to the event.

Probably the hardest working guy at the Smoke Out this year was Edge. Edge was in charge of putting the whole shmagagle together from start to finish and a hell of a job he did. Thanks Edge for all the hours, phone calls and e-mails and working out all the last minute screw-ups. We’ll get around to making you a saint at next year’s event.

So what do you need to make an event a huge success? People committed to getting things done. Celebs with out big egos and attitudes, vendors who don’t try to rip you a new one and most importantly loyal readers who show up to support the effort and have a damned good time.

Fab Carla from

Hope to see you all in Salisbury N.C. next year for the Smoke Out V. We just might have some big surprises in store for you.

TBear

LONDON, Oct 11 (Reuters) – Sonny Barger is on a highway to hell and that’sjust the way he likes it.

The legendary Hell’s Angels patriarch, who helped found the motorcycle clubalmost 50 years ago, has battled cancer and heart disease as fiercely as thelaw, but has no intention of allowing age to mellow him — or giving up thefree-wheeling lifestyle he loves.

“I’m not going to change. I’m not going to slow down. Riding a motorcycle isjust about the most fun thing in the universe,” 64-year-old Barger toldReuters during a visit to a Hell’s Angels clubhouse in London’s East End.

“Hell, most guys would love to retire to have this kind of life so I don’tneed to retire. Plus I just bought a new bike last week.”

The grizzled, tattooed Californian is the kind of rough, tough, unrepentanthard man that country and western songs are written about.

His reputation as grand-daddy of the world’s 50,000 Hell’s Angels has spreadfar beyond the biker community, attracting both hero-worshippers anddetractors on the way.

ROLLING STONES

Barger said he was constantly being asked to tell his stories about theAngels’ history, particularly during the 1950s and 60s when theirhell-raising exploits shocked “straight America” and branded them asoutlaws.

“But probably the question that I get asked the most is what happened atAltamont,” he said in reference to an infamous Rolling Stones concert nearSan Francisco in 1969 when the Angels’ provided security in return for a fewkegs of beer.

During the concert, which started after the crowd was kept waiting forhours,a fight broke out and an Angel stabbed a man to death. The band decided topull the plug.

“Keith Richards told me the band wasn’t going to play anymore until westopped the violence. I stood next to him and stuck my pistol in his sideandtold him to start playing his guitar or he was dead. He played.”

The writer Hunter S. Thompson was among those celebrities who sought him outin the 60s, intrigued by the bikers’ outlaw life.

Thompson hung out with Barger’s Oakland chapter before writing abest-sellingbook about the Angels — which Barger still angrily dismisses as an”inaccurate piece of junk.”

“A lot of the myths about the Hell’s Angels came from that book and stayedaround for years,” he said.

“(Thompson) was a pain in the butt. He ended up getting beaten up and sentdown the road.”

Barger makes no concession to age or illness, brushing off cancer and aheartattack with a wave of his hand.

His leathery tanned skin is testament to the 40,000 miles (64,370 km) heputson the clock of his Harley Davidson Road King every year and the time spentoutdoors working on his small Arizona property.

Reared by his older sister after his mother ran off with a bus driver andhisfather drowned his sorrows in drink, Barger joined the U.S. army at 16 afterforging his birth certificate.

“I learned things in the army that I found interesting. Like how to takeweapons apart.”

He was kicked out with an honourable discharge in 1956 when his deceptionwasdiscovered and soon developed a hankering for another type of uniform –thatof the wild leather-jacketed bikers who were just beginning to band togetherin clubs.

One such fledging group was the Oakland Hell’s Angels. Barger swiftly becameleader of the pack and helped oversee the formation of independent chaptersaround the U.S and abroad.

LEADER OF THE PACK

He is now regarded as the unofficial leader of the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club worldwide and wears his distinctive Death’s Head patch on his leatherjacket with pride.

“We’re stronger, we’re bigger than ever and I can see another 50 yearscoming.

“The motorcycles are the best thing about the club. But the brotherhood is agreat thing too. We take care of each other.”

Barger’s autobiography was an international best seller when it waspublishedin 2000 and launched him into a new globetrotting career as a celebrityauthor, signing books and making personal appearances.

A second book, of biker stories, was published this year and two more are inthe pipeline. A movie about his life is in the works and Sonny BargerPremiumLager is on liquor store shelves.

Courteous and polite in person, it is easy to forget that the “loveablerogue” — as one fan described him — is a criminal with a long record forviolent assaults, kidnapping, firearms offences and conspiracy.

But Barger shrugs off any questions about his past and says he has only oneregret in a life filled with battles, jail, drugs and divorce.

“If I had to do it all again, I probably wouldn’t smoke,” he said with ashort laugh, speaking through a hole in his windpipe after his larynx wasremoved during cancer surgery 20 years ago.

“People have misconceptions about things they don’t know about and a lot ofpeople don’t know a lot about us. The biggest misconception is that we are acriminal organization.”

Barger said the club had a strong code of honour and its members abided bystrict rules, which he was reluctant to reveal.

But his book lists them as including no stealing from other members, nomessing around with another member’s “old lady,” no spiking the club’salcohol with dope and, more tellingly, no throwing ammunition onto livebonfires.

Barger’s stories do little to quash any prejudices about the Angels. Hisbooks are packed with tales of battles with the law, murders, violentassaults, drugs, booze and general mayhem.

One story recounts the theft of his beloved hand built bike “Sweet Cocaine”in 1968. The culprits, prospects for a rival club, were rounded up andpunished.

“One at a time we bull-whipped them and beat them with spiked dog collarsandbroke their fingers with hammers.

“Moral of the story — don’t get caught stealing a Hell’s Angels bike,especially if he is the president.”

 

As usual when I visit my 78-year-old mom, she slips me clippings of stories she reads about motorcycles. As she slid this one onto the desk, I noticed that it was the same one Earl McNeely sent me from federal prison in Texas. When I was in Vietnam, my mom sent me clippings about guys who were wiped out on motorcycles. Of course that was to push her feelings on helmets. Years later, she gave up on helmets and fought along side of me in the name of freedom, at least intellectually.

On one recent afternoon, she gave me an article fromThe Los Angeles Times about a guy named Harold Benich, who turned his Softail into a soybean-burning bastard. When I first read the short piece and studied the photograph, I got the impression that he had altered anEvo engine to make it run on diesel fuel, but that wasn’t thecase. He had replaced the Evo engine with a small displacement dieselturned sideways in the frame. According to the National BiodieselBoard in Jefferson City, Mo., it is the first diesel-poweredmotorcycle in the country to run.

 

I gave Harold a call and found out that soybean oil iscombustible at 300 degrees, which makes it very user friendly. Standarddiesel fuel is combustible at 150 degrees, although there is asubstantial difference in the flash point. “If diesel oil prices gotoo high, the trucking industry could turn to soybean fuel,” Haroldexplained. He gets 100 miles to the gallon. Unfortunately, soybean oil is $2.50 a gallon, compared with $1.39 a gallon for gas in Pennsylvania. With diesel fuel prices cresting the 2-buck mark, soybean fuel could become an alternative.

According to the Biodiesel Board, trucks, cars and even planesrun on food oils. But the motorcycle crowd may be reluctant to playsince the installation of diesel motors in their bikes, as Harold hasdone, may reduce their ability to have kick-ass power. “Soldiersrode such bikes during the world wars to save fuel, but since thenthey’ve gone the way of the Edsel,” said Jenna Higgins, a spokeswomanfor the Biodiesel Board, a trade group that promotes food oils asgasoline alternatives.

 

The 21 HP Perkins Diesel pumps up to 35 horses!

The positive aspect of soybean fuel is its cleanliness, before and after it’s digested by a diesel engine. “You can eat this stuff,” Harold said. “Cleanup consists of a little water on a rag. It’s wonderful.” Soybean oil is consistent and readily available. “When others speak of alternativefuels, they are often referring to waste vegetable oils. These oilsare not consistent and should be used in home furnaces whereconditions don’t change,” Harold explained. “Soybean is pure, can bepurchased in 5-gallon buckets or tanker trucks full. Some waste oilscontain animal fat, peanut oil or even canola oil. Just depends onthe quality of oil a restaurant pays for.”

Another garage-inventor, Hugh Gerhardt of Holland, Mich., is working on a custom bike that will take a rider from Corpus Christi, Texas, to San Diego, Calif., on a 12-gallon tank of soybean oil.

According to Jeffery Bair of The Associated Press, “Harold’sbike gets 100 mpg, roars like a jackhammer and smells like a freshbatch of McDonalds fries.”

 

Harold used $15,000 in H-D parts and an engine he rescuedfrom a construction site. “People wonder whether I have come to mowthe lawn,” he said. “It doesn’t accelerate like a stock H-D, andcosts a third more to run currently (4 cents a mile compared with3 cents a mile for the stock bike), but the fuel won’t catch fire andit runs so clean even the fish will eat this stuff. It’s also readilyavailable. Currently, due to the influx of foreign oils, farmers arepaid not to grow crops of soy. If demand grew, the likelihood ofreduced production costs are great and the price would drop, makingit even more competitive with fossil fuels.”

Using food oils for fuel is not a new concept, according to the AP story. “Inventor Rudolph Diesel ran the first diesel engines on peanut oilin the 1890s, and Erwin Rommel, the crafty German general, putcooking oil in tanks when they ran out of gas in the Sahara Desertduring World War II.”

Some vehicles combine food oils and standard fuels, accordingto a fuel salesman, but Harold wanted to go where few had gonebefore. He attempted to make the standard aircleaner cover concealhis sideways engine. It works until he fires that sucker up. “Some guys just thought it was a Softail, until I start it.”

Harold grew up in the Great Lakes Region near Erie,Penn. “I started riding with a Harley Sprint when I was 14.”Although his wife thinks he’s nuts, they’ve stayed hitched for 11years. “We live five miles from Albion, which is a town of 2,500.We’re in the sticks. My neighbor thinks I’m building a space shuttlein my garage.” Harold worked for Detroit Diesel for 14 years beforejoining the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections’ VehicleRestoration Department. “We have 60,000 square feet and it’s packedwith vehicles to tinker with.”

 

Harold suffers from rider’s block (snow) from October untilearly April. “We still have snow on the ground fromHalloween, when it started. This year we had record count. Currentlywe’re up to 180 inches of snow for the season. I bought a ’92 Fatboyand was riding it when my neighbor suggested, ‘Your next bike willhave to be diesel.'”

Harold started thinkin’ and the snow started falling and thenext thing he knew he was buying a 2000 frame, transmission, frontend and controls. “The bike is Bozo-proof,” Harold said. “It operatesjust like a stock bike, no strange controls, levers or switches.”

Harold started playing with alternative fuels a decade ago. “I had adiesel generator that ran on soybean oil. I was generating my ownelectricity for nothing.”

There’s the story of Harold, a brother, an inventor and a manconcerned about the country’s fuel problems. We’ll keep in touch with him and see where he goes with this. Wonder if he can make whiskey…

–Bandit