Well as we promised here at Bikernet, our series on wide-tire installations has finally arrived. Since the craze has become almost business as usual, it stood to reason that we show you what’s available and how to go about getting the job done right. We’ll be showing you two different 150 installations centered around stock Softail chassis, A 170 install on a custom rigid, Chrome Specialties’ 180-conversion kit for factory frames, and of course, a complete custom chassis set-up around Avon’s massive 200-16.

Part One in this series begins with Harley-Davidson’s long-awaited entry into the world of custom hardware, and their 150 kit is right on the money. All the bits and pieces to get you swapped up two sizes larger than stock are included, and you can do the installation yourself or have it done by your dealer. Let’s get to it…

So many of us have been sittin’ around wondering just when Harley-Davidson would throw their tremendous resources into the ring and produce factory-made parts and accessories for customizing a bike. And more than just the chrome goodies, real, hard-core hardware that would allow the owner of a stock sled to trick it out with genuine H-D merchandise.

Well, we’ve seen a dramatic increase in factory involvement in the last year or two which is immediately noticeable when you see billet accessories hanging on the wall at your dealer, all proudly sporting the badge-and-shield logo. ‘Bout time, we all said. And this seems to be a whole new area that promises plenty of options cooked up by the very people that brought us the most customizable motorcycle to begin with.

Well, you can’t look too far without seeing all of the attention that is still being given to the whole wide-tire craze. Hell, there’s more wide tires, huge rims and fat chassis out there than you can count, so it’s pleasant to see that the factory has developed a proven package that is designed to work on their own bikes, and not just for full-on customs. We are of course talking about the H-D 150 conversion kit for the infinitely-popular Softail line. Yep, no more guesswork, chasing part numbers and sifting through everyone’s opinion of what will and won’t work, this kit gets it all done in one shot.

Most folks with Softails have fiddled around with slipping wider rubber under their rear fenders for a while now, but the fun usually stops at the 140/16. The 150 was always desireable because of it’s even wider stance, but until now, such a conversion took a chain final drive conversion, and a lot of head scratchin’. So let’s get into it, and see how the factory managed to pull this one off.

Photo 1

First of all, what you get with the 150 kit allows the swap to be done all at once, and no torches, hacksaws or voodoo is involved. In this installation, a set of Harley-Davidson chrome shocks was added to the mix as well (photo 1). An option, these shocks are designed to give the Softail a full inch of lowering in the rear. But as for the 150 kit itself, well, this sucker’s absolutely complete. You get a 150 tire, new rim, new wheel pulley for the belt final-drive, and a new belt. See, to get the tire in the frame, the biggest concern is not so much will it fit, but the side clearance for the rear belt. This is why many people swap to chains when doing a wide-tire conversion, because the chain is narrower than the stock belt.

But now, there’s enough clearance for the meaty 150 because the H-D kit uses the narrower width drive belt and accompanying wheel pulley, like those that are found on belt-drive Sporsters. Customizers in the past who wanted to maintain the rear drive belt used to actually cut them to a narrower width, but this was way out of most folks ability, so Harley picked up the ball (or belt?) and took it a step further.

Photo 2

Photo 3

Where ya start is with the bike propped up securely and stripped of the entire primary drive and rear wheel. (photo2). This is necessary to swap out the narrower rear drive belt (photo 3) which, compared to the wide stocker it replaces, really alows you to see just how much more room there is to be gained. Another quick visual comparison between the stock 130 and the beefier 150 shows the big difference between the two (photo 4) and how crucial the side clearance between the belt and tire really are.

Photo 4

The stock transmission pulley is left just where it is, and gets the new narrower belt slipped over it. At that point, the wheel is slipped back into place, and the bike is re-assembled, no big deal, no prying, no fuss. The last visual check with a tape measure (photo 5) reveals the difference in width. Not bad for an afternoon’s work. Once the primary is buttoned up, there’s even room for some of those slick H-D billet covers to complete the job. Hey, ya gotta splurge every now and then, right? But either way, the swap is complete, and lookin’ bad as ever. From here you’re set to roll.

Photo 5

— Wordman

A while back, I spent a week one day in the garageof Bikernet headquarters with Bandit. Bandit was hot to putapehangers on his shiny new Road King Classic.

Once I arrived and cooled down his “high-bar desire”, I suggestedputting all the handlebar switch wires inside the bars where theywould be safe from his undue attentions in the future. After a quickassurance on my part that I wouldn’t feel a thing, he okayed the idea.

With the bars off of the bike and the switch wires laid out on thebench, he started whining about “all those wires”. It was at thistime I whipped out the handy dandy “wire vise” and showed him how touse it (it only took three times) to solder the wire extensions inplace. While Bandit amused himself with this new toy, he asked whereI found it. I explained to him (slowly) that the first time I saw onein use was at the old West Coast Choppers shop in Paramount, CA. Oneof the mechanics “Koon” was using the wire vise on one of the shopbikes, when I asked where he found it he replied, “some old guyshowed me one.” I asked to see it up-close and personal and tracedthe wire vise on the palm of my hand so I could make one once I gothome.

After Bandit was done with his soldering chores on the switchwiring, I retrieved the wire vise from the bench only to be stoppedat the door. The only escape was to promise Bandit a wire vise of hisown. So, the only way to one-up the doorman, was to showeverybody just how easy a wire vise is to make.

All you need is a short length of wire (a piece of welding rodor even a coat hanger) and a couple of alligator clamps. Here is mywire vise and the components for Bandit’s.

I’ve added a six-inch scale to give you and idea of the overalldimensions. The vise is two and a half inches wide and each arm is aninch and a half long.

After marking where each bend is, the wire is lightly clampedin the bench vise and bent ninety degrees.

You can see the first arm is bent so it is the correct lengthwhen compared to the original.

Pay attention to the orientation of the first arm when bendingthe second arm, make the second bend so the arms are parallel to eachother.

Using the scale to align the ends of the arms, Craftsman sidecutters snip the wire to the correct, equal length.

The wire is bent with the arms parallel and the ends of thearms, where the alligator clips will be soldered, have been cleanedup with Emory paper to insure a solid soldered joint.

Rolled up Emory paper was used to clean the inside of thealligator clip as well.

After the Emory paper treatment each end of the wire and bothalligator clips were cleaned with Super Cleaner from PJ1 to removeany Emory residue.

A good solder joint means using a liberal amount of solderingpaste, here the alligator clip is dipped a few times right into thepaste.

The wire receives the same treatment in the soldering paste.

Now the clips are slipped over the arms of the wire and lightlycrimped in place. The thin wire clamped in the alligator clip jawshelps keep the clips in alignment during the soldering process.

Using a soldering iron held against the alligator clip, feedthe solder into the joint until you see it flow out the other end.Note: it takes a minute or two for the clip and the wire to becomehot enough for the solder to melt and fill the inside of the clip. AnAllen bolt is used to elevate the wire off of the bench top. With theclip sitting on the bench top, it would absorb some of the heat fromthe soldering iron and take longer to solder the joint.

Solder both joints, allow to cool down and your done. Theactual size of the wire vise is unimportant, we found that this sizeworks well in all areas, especially inside the headlight housing ofdressers like the Road King.

I hope this makes Bandit happy for a change. The sonuvabitch wouldhardly let me outta here to go to Daytona. I had to promisethousands of flicks for Bikernet coverages. Hang on for the shots.

Below is a shot of the Wire Vise in use.

Sportsters…… I love ’em. Light, tight, quick, and always ready for a street brawl.There’s just one problem: The availability of aftermarket parts. Although theaftermarket industry has yet to fully embrace the Sportster rider as a marketingforce, Baker Drivetrain is one company that is bucking the trend.

 

What you see before you is the recently released Baker XL6 6-speedtransmission for your Sportster or Buell. I’ve had this one in my bike for just acouple weeks now, and I’ve got to say – this is THE TICKET for anyonescreaming down the highway or wanting to raise some eyebrows in betweenstop lights.

 

The unit comes packaged in polystyrene and complete with transmission,shifting drum, forks, pins, low-effort detent spring, a template for minor casemods and installation instructions.

My test sled was my Softail Sportster, built just last year. It’s a 1200 XL with astock 30-tooth pulley on the secondary. At 80 mph, it feels like you’re doing 65with about a 550 rpm drop. The top gear is a .86 overdrive, as opposed to thestock 1-to-1 gear ratio of the stock unit. This is interesting because it gives youbarn burners out there the option to drop the tooth count on the secondary pulley,gain about 8 percent torque through the gears, and still retain the stock overallgear ratio at the top end. It’s also got a trap door about as thick as the armor ona battleship. As anyone who races Sportster motors knows, the week point ofthe stock engine is the trap door. Baker’s is made of about a 1-inch-thick pieceof T-6061 billet and it’s about five times stronger than the stock door.

So, let’s get to the installation.

 

First, we remove the shifting arm from the outside of the primary and remove theprimary cover to reveal what you see above. At this point, we need to removethe clutch basket.

 

With the help of a spring compressor from Custom Chrome, we remove the diaphragm spring.

 

We now have access to the two shaft nuts that have to be removed to allow forremoval of the primary chain, clutch and front rotor/sprocket assembly. You willneed an impact wrench and a couple large sockets to get these off. The impact/air wrench takes advantage of the inertia of the motor and basically bangs thenuts off rapidly without you having to hold or jam the assembly while you muscleit off with a torque wrench. There is one thing to note – the transmission mainshaft nut is a counter clockwise thread, so don’t beat on it all day in the wrongdirection trying to get it off.

 

For this project, the rotor was placed back on the front shaft just to keep itsomewhere clean, but you can take it off for working in this area. It’s magneticand wanted to stay on the stator, so we gave it a good tug and it came right off.

What you are looking at in the photo above is the stock shifter prawl, detentplate, detent and detent spring. The stock plate is held on with a spring clip. Asyou will see later, the Baker model is held on with a screw.

 

Remove the detent plate, shifter prawl and detent spring (loose in the photoabove) and get ready to unbolt the four bolts on the trap door.

 

Once you unbolt the four bolts holding on the trap door, the entire cartridgeassembly is removed by pulling it toward you. The stock unit is above. Note thedoor thickness and webbing on the cast piece.

 

Once you have the unit out, you can see the stock 5th main gear (still in thecase) with the main shaft, counter shaft and shift drum bearings still in the case.Note the template at the top – we’ll get to that in a minute.

 

The next step is to modify the case. Baker sends a template to guide a diegrinder or Dremel tool to make clearance for the 6th gear, which is sunk into thetrap door. We mounted the template (as shown in the previous photo) andisolated the area with some shop towels. This is a messy process, so you wantto make sure you keep the shavings OUT of the case.

 

To properly modify the case, use a Dremel tool or a die grinder with a mediumburr. The cut you will make must follow the contour of the template as shown. Theback-cut must run about 3/4 of an inch. I went back 1 inch just to be sure. YouDON’T want the gear in contact with the case. When complete, remove the rags,blow it out with air and clean with a brake cleaner or other solvent to flush out allthe shavings.

 

Now we’re ready to prep the transmission. We must remove the stock 5th gearand place it on the Baker countershaft. It is held in place with a snap ring, so itwill be helpful to have a good set of snap ring pliers. YOU MUST PUT THEGEAR ON IN THE SAME ORIENTATION AS STOCK. Wear patterns occur inthese gears and you need to keep the wear patterns in the same orientation asbefore.

 

Next, we must place the shift forks on the drum and mount them in place usingthe drum pins and cotter pins supplied with the kit. The manual details the exactorientation of the forks.

 

The forks are then put into place over the two shafts as shown above. The newdetent plate is then fastened onto the end of the drum on the right hand side.This photo gives you an idea of how thick the door actually is. You can also seehow the top gear set is recessed into the door. At this point, you will also need tore-attach the detent, which restrains the detent plate.

 

The shifter prawl also needs about .100 inch ground off the tip to make clearance on the new door.

 

Next, the gear set was slid back into position in the case and bolted down.

 

The prawl was put back in place and adjusted per the service manual, and thelow effort detent spring was installed. I highly recommend you get a Harleyservice manual for this job. Adjusting the shifter prawl and the proper bolttorques are all critical to reassembly.

 

The clutch basket, front sprocket and diaphragm spring are then re-installed,and you are ready to re-mount the primary case. Remember to get a newprimary gasket and hold it in place with a little grease to make re-assemblyeasier. Torque down your primary cover, adjust the primary chain per the servicemanual for proper play and you’re ready to rock.

A couple of side notes. If you have a pre-1991 XL, ask Baker about upgradingyour 5th gear to eliminate any gear whine. Reverse pattern shift drums are alsoavailable for those who like to upshift by slamming their foot down, rather thanpulling it up.

Later – Digital

From left to right: Bandit, Mad Myron and Special Agent Zebra, Spearfish, South Dakota, Sturgis 2000 MIAMI, FLORIDA “What you’re trying to do is a felony,” the DMV cunt behind thecounter told me bluntly. A rule-crazy jackass, practiced at spouting outby-the-book bull crap, the sorry bitch was clearly taking delight in being able to turn down yet another applicant in a string of many. “How is it a felony to try and register a motorcycle?” I asked,tired, mad as hell and on the verge of reaching across the counter, dragging her uniformed ass over it and pistol whipping her to death with my H&K .45.This chick needed it in the ass, in the ear, in the eye and down thethroat. She was in worse need of a stiff drink and a stiffer dick than any broad I’d come across in a long time. Angry, bitter, gray about the eyes, herpussy a dead clam on a tideless sea of fouled estrogen long gone sour, hersingle claim to life was the trickle charge she received in her numb spinewhen she could utter the governmental word “no”. “Well,” she continued, “you have to have about 10 morepieces of paper that you don’t have and you have to register in Dade County, not Broward. And you need an appointment. That will take at least two weeks.” I had all the fuckin’ paperwork a man could get, MSOs foreverything, receipts for everything, you name it. “Oh fuck it,” I said, reaching over and taking back my huge pack ofpapers. “What are you doing?” the DMV grunt demanded. “I’m going to Sturgis,” I snarled. “You can’t ride that motorcycle until you’ve registered it with theFlorida DMV.” “Watch me, sugar tits,” I said as I slammed the door open andstormed out. “YOU’LL GO TO JAIL!” she cried. “State-sponsored bed and breakfast, baby!” I roared back. “Bringit on!” Most bikers have at least one fuckup on a run as far as Miami Beach,Fla., to Sturgis, S.D., and back. But mine had already startedand I hadn’t even set off for the far north country. “Fuck that cunt,” Eddie Trotta barked when I got back to ThunderCycles in Fort Lauderdale. “That bitch changes the goddamned rules every fuckin’ time we go in there. I swear to God, no matter what we bring in, it’s never right and there’s always some new fuckin’ thing these cocksuckers want.” Eddie grabbed a dealer tag, filled out a bunch of phony numbers andjammed it into the plate holder on the Zebra Great Northern Steamer. “Get your ass on the road. You’re gonna get beat by Bandit. He’sgot a 500-mile head start on you just from living farther north. If you getcaught, you’re going to jail. If you don’t, you’re going to Sturgis,”Eddie said. I agreed. When the goddamned law makes it impossible to get the jobdone, that’s when you get American and stomp the law. The Great Northern Steamer, my entry into the Bikernet ChopOff2000, had about 100 yards worth of break-in on it when I rolled out of Thunder Cycles in Fort Lauderdale. I had to ride 40 miles south, back to the Bikernet.com East headquarters in Miami Beach, to get my gear. The extra 80 miles would also help me nail any potential landmines that might be hiding in the brand new scoot before roaring off into the great unknown. Of course the minute I got on I-95 and headed back to the beach Ihit very heavy traffic and rain. If you’ve ever driven around Cubans and SouthAmericans, you know what it’s like to be a pinball. There are no rules andpeople drive like suicidal maniacs. Every day there’s at least onefatal wreck and a lot of non-fatal crashes that mangle three or four carsat a pop. Add to that a tropical rainstorm and a taillight the size of amatch head and you’ve got a recipe for doom. Twice I could have reachedback and touched the car behind me before it got slowed down enough to keepfrom ramming me under the vehicle in front of me. It was a great moodsetter for a 3,000-mile run north on an outlaw scoot. I got back to the house and strapped on a good amount of gear,tools and firepower. As I strapped on my Bandit’s bedroll, I spotted the firstproblem. The primary case was leaking new oil everywhere from a dud seal.When I hooked up the gear on the back fender, I spotted the second problem.The lower hex nut on the back brake caliper had not been properly tightenedand to do so would require sliding the rear axle forward about 4 inches.I loaded up and blasted back north to Eddie’s place in Fort Lauderdale. Eddie’s crack mechanics jumped on the primary case and knocked thebad seal in the head in a matter of minutes. They noticed the headlight was coming loose and quickly created a custom bracket to hold it. Then they moved the speedo because it was blocked by the slant of the custom handlebars. This machine was so new that we had no bugs worked out whatsoever. I hit the road at about 7 p.m., hoping to get to Daytona Beachbefore shutting down. All the gear was strapped on wrong and I had to stop twice before Igot the Bandit’s Bedroll positioned so that it threw the wind up over me properly, which it’s designed to do and do well. I rolled 350 miles, to Cocoa, Fla., before wearingout. I was pushing hard because part of the ChopOff 2000 was to see who would get to Sturgis first. Bandit had left a day earlier but I knew he would have to stay a day in Arizona, where he was picking up Mad Myron. The downside to this was, when those two former 1%ers get together, they ride wide open. Beat and mentally spent after a two-month breakdown with the GermanFeminine, I pulled over and got an over-priced shithole room at a grungyhotel on the north side of a nothing Florida coastal town called Cocoa. Iwas taking 95 all the way through Florida to 10, then east a bit to 75,then north into Georgia and Tennessee, then west through Kentucky, Illinois,Missouri and Kansas, north and west through Nebraska and into South Dakota. As I unpacked the Great Northern Steamer and flung gear into thedirty hotel room, a local horse thief sidled up and eyed the gleaming newchopper, now with just over 400 miles on the odometer. “Say, that’s a nice bike. What would a bike like that be worth?”he asked through rotted teeth and a dirty beard. “It’s worth a life,” I said coldly. The local eyed me warily as I bent over to pick up a bungee cordand my H&K .45 stood up under my Bikernet vest. “Oh,” the local replied. I whipped a Krypto chain around a small palm tree and through thefront tire to give me enough slow-down time to get a clear shot when the localand his 10 friends returned with a van and a need for a custom chopper. That night, I slept with the window open and the H&K on the bed.South Florida is notorious for bike theft. Bikes vanish like fog and I wasn’t about to let horse thieves pick off my new scoot. It was insured, but it wasn’t the monetary loss I was interested in avoiding. It was a pride thing. Getting a bike stolen is a real punch in the nuts. I was tired and in an ugly head after the last month and wasn’t in the mood for much nut punchin’. I gladly would have shot any man who so much as touched the fender that night. I’ve been inToo many gunfights in my life, some a fluke of bad timing, some just becausethere are folks out there who don’t understand things like don’t steal themotorcycle with the “Z” on it. I’ve never liked the sport, too hard on thenerves, but I had gone to the trouble to get serious training from the bestcombat shooters on earth and I wasn’t about to play games with horsethieves. Apparently the old boy got the message and the evening passedsilently. I hit the deck at 6 and ate a huge breakfast. Then I broke out thetools and torqued the entire bike. The covers on the rear pushrods were loose as hell and I cranked them down tight, knowing I was in for a very longrun and would need that engine oil all the way. I found about 15 loose bolts and hex screws and applied some blue stick-um to each. Theywouldn’t be coming loose again. I’d gotten five hours of light sleep and wasn’t planning on stopping forlunch. I had about eight hours to make up for and was determined to winthe race part of the ChopOff if for no other reason than I hadn’t won lately inlife and was in a pretty competitive mood. Bandit’s bike was prettier thanmine, no doubt about it. So if I was going to extract any sense of victoryout of the ChopOff, it’d probably have to be winning the run. Plus, there’s a certain cleansing to be had by throwing the spursto a big custom chopper and letting a new RevTech 88 moan for 15 hours at apop, streaking across America, free, illegal, feeling the leather crack. I was leaving behind a messy relationship breakup. I hadn’t taken avacation in over two years. I was feeling hooky and getting out of townwould prevent me from messing up a certain South Florida local who’dstepped over the line and was in desperate need of a crash course on class. I lit the fuse on the new RevTech, dumped the resulting torque into my beloved Baker 6 and cooked some dinosaur oil. Rolling, rolling, rolling, passing trees by the thousands. Bugshit you like raindrops in Florida. Big, juicy, bitter to taste. For anyone who’s claustrophobic, Florida is no place to ride. The interstates, highways and deer paths are all entirely walled off by heavy vegetation. The occasional dead gator lies by the side of the road, blasted by a passing vehicle in the night. Zombies of all breeds swirled in my head. Bad women, Marko theDestroyer offering to help clean up a mess, film projects for 1%er movies, cops, studio suits with smiles and promises, loose hex nuts and enough stress toblow the lid off a boiler. I screwed the gas a little tighter. Day 2 GEORGIA South Georgia. Warm weather, clear skies, fast asphalt. Georgia has perfect highways. I passed several “last chance peaches” roadside stands until I couldresist the temptation of a native-grown Georgia peach no more. Rolling over, I stopped and got off, my back popping like automaticweapon fire after 11 hours of non-stop running. “How many ya want, sonny?” the old man asked from behind the counter,which was a door thrown over two sawhorses. “One.” “Just one? You sure? It’s been a good year and these here peachesis mighty fine.” “OK, two.” “Just two? You sure? It’s been a good year and …” “One,” I said, not caring for his hard-sell tactics. “Two it is,” the man said, grinning as he wrapped up two hugepeaches. “How much?” I asked, pulling out a roll of cash. “Nothing,” the man said, smiling again. “Nothing?” “Nothing.” “You sure?” “Don’t I look sure?” he asked. I shrugged and took the peaches. They were incredible. The old man’s daughter of about 20 watched me as I ate the juicypeaches. She was trashy, dumb and very well built. “You build that bike?” she asked, lust in her eyes. “Bro in California built it,” I said, watching her, wondering whatshe would look like in her essence. “You ride that from Florida?” she asked. “Miami Beach.” “Ain’t never been to Miami Beach.” “It’s nice.” “You like my peaches?” she asked coyly. “Sure do,” I said. The old man’s smile faded. “They got a beach in Miami Beach?” she asked. “Got a good one.” “Lots of girls there in bikinis?” “Lots of girls there in bikini bottoms. South Beach is topless.” “My goodness,” the old man mumbled. “Really?” the girl asked with interest. “Yep,” I said, biting into the new peach, peach juice running downmy chin and dripping into my leather vest. “Bet that’s pretty nice for you,” she said, smiling, revealingdueling rows of perfect southern belle teeth. “Pretty decent,” I said. “If I come down there, could I go without my top?” she asked. “If you come down,” I said. “We need more peaches,” the old man growled to his daughter. The gal got up and reluctantly walked out the back door to get morebaskets of peaches. “Much obliged,” I said. “You come back sometime, sonny,” the old man said, smiling, happyonce again now that his virgin was safely out of harm’s way.

To Continue

TENNESSEE

I rolled Tennessee on the second or third day. I’d lost track ofthe days, the weeks, even the year. Everything was a seamless flow connected by anetwork of glistening August asphalt and flashing dotted lines. The way itshould be.

I swept through the Tennessee mountains, climbing, climbing. Theview was stupendous from the Great Northern Steamer. I sat almost 3 full inches abovethe fleeting asphalt and could see for miles as I climbed into theSmokies.

If you’ve never ridden through the Tennessee hills, you’re missingout on a serious ride. The hills are relatively unsettled, wild, open, as God threwthe clay so long ago with very little visible disruption from meddlinghuman hands. The air is clean and the scent of moonshine mash and virgin hillpussy rides thick on the cool mountain breezes.

I leaned and twisted, swept and swooped through the hills,climbing, descending.

I stopped around noon at a restaurant that overlooked a vastvista of pine and lakes. At least I think it was noon. My watch had been giving metrouble lately. I’d thrown it off a bridge.

The waitress brought a flagon of ice tea and a half a hedge hog,which was smothered in glazed apples and bourbon.

“Do you want anything else?” the blonde asked, a knowing grin onher face.

“Ketchup,” I said.

Her expression fell and she pulled a bottle of ketchup out of hercleavage in an automated fashion.

“From around here?” I asked her.

“No,” she said, her expression brightening.

“Where you from?” I asked.

“Other side of the hill.”

“Thought you said you weren’t from around here.”

“I’m not. I just told you, I’m from the other side of the hill,”she remarked as if I was entirely dumb.

“Oh,” I said, sensing that my own free roaming point of relativitywasn’t shared in this part of the country.

“Ever been out of the country?” I asked.

“Went to Nashville once. Didn’t like it,” she responded, wiping anearby table.

“Ever been out of America is what I meant, actually,” I said,trying to clarify the error in interpretation.

Her rag stopped in mid circle.

“What?” she snapped.

“What?” I asked, a slab of wild hog hanging from my teeth.

“Are you saying I’m fat?” she asked defensively.

“No! How did you get that out of my asking if you’d ever been outof the country?”

“Oh I get it. So I’m not only fat, I’m stupid, too. Is that it?”she asked, stuffing her rag into her apron.

“I didn’t say you were dumb,” I defended.

“You didn’t have to. You said it in your tone.”

“I did?”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me!” she shouted.

“Nobody said you were dumb!” I retorted.

“Oh, so now I’m not only fat and dumb, I’m a liar, too? Just whoin the hell do you think you are, coming in here, calling me a fat, dumb liar?”

The patrons in the restaurant were beginning to stare.

“Well, you know what?” the enraged madwoman screamed at the top ofher vocal ability. “You can just go to hell! You, with your arrogantholier-than-thou attitude! You, with your dirty, stinking leather, judgingeveryone around you! Do you think you are the only man in this world? Doyou think I can’t find someone who will treat me with respect? Who willlove me for who I am, not whether or not I have a perfect ass?”

She flung her dishtowel in my face and stormed off. I sat there,dishtowel hanging from my nose, looking around at the local faces staring back in disgust.

I hadn’t had much luck with the ladies lately. Maybe it was mycologne.

As I fired up the Great Northern Steamer, a crumpled $20 bill hit mein the eye.

“You call that a tip, you cheap bastard? Keep it!” the waitressyelled from the doorway of the restaurant.

I hit the gas and got the hell out of there before they could getthe rope over the tree limb and take the kinks out of my back the old-fashioned way.

As I strummed along, I realized it was time to surpass the 65 mph break-in andopened the RevTech up to 75. But when I gave her thethrottle, the engine fell flat on its face.

“Strange,” I said aloud as I tried it again. Again, the bike fellon its face at exactly 74 mph. “Shit. What the hell?” I checked the fuelpetcock, but nothing would coax the big engine over 74 mph. Thiswas very distressing. Bandit would beat me for sure if I couldn’t climbover 74 mph.

As I rolled along, I noticed it was time to do another break-in oilswitch. The boys told me to dump the blood at 50, 500 and then 1,000. I found a localH-D dealer off the interstate. They rolled the Great Northern Steameronto a lift and started to siphon the oil out. Bandit had not installed adrain hose from the oil bag, no doubt in an effort to retard my progress inour race to the Badlands.

“Why the rev limiter?” the mechanic asked as he siphoned the oilout with a marine sump pump.

“Rev limiter?” I asked.

“Yeah, you got a rev limiter here under the seat.”

“I do?”

“Yeah,” the mechanic said, pointing to a tiny rev limiter cleverlyhidden under the seat near the battery.

“Why that worthless… Take it off,” I instructed.

“Can’t,” the mechanic informed me. “Don’t have anything to replaceit with.”

“But I don’t want to replace it. I don’t want a rev limiter atall.”

“Yeah, but the way it’s wired, you have to have something and wedon’t have anything for a RevTech. I mean, we have oil filters, those are prettyinterchangeable, but the way this thing is wired up, you need something to replacethe rev limiter in order to close the circuit.”

“Why you evil bastard,” I said, cursing Bandit. He’d really nailedme to the ground with this one. “Can you at least advance it?” I asked.

“Maybe, it looks adjustable. It also looks about half homemade.Don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it.”

“Oh that dank wretch.” I could see him and Snake and Ink Dink andDigital Gangster roaring with laughter as they plotted against me at the Bikernet garage inL.A., where the majority of the construction on the bike had taken place.

“I’ll try,” the mechanic said.

The mechanics fiddled with Bandit’s homemade rev limiter for aboutan hour and announced that they’d been able to advance it.

“You should be able to pull a steady 100. No more. When you getto the Badlands, find the Custom Chrome boys and they can get you something toreplace it with.”

When I get to the Badlands. Of course. How convenient. By thenBandit would be the victor. He had gone to great lengths to insure his victory.

Just a few hours before, I’d noticed my feet kept slipping off the custom foot pegs.Then I noticed they’d been put on upside down, in order tocause my feet to constantly work themselves off the ends. It had only taken meabout 10 minutes to break down the tools and switch them, but each littlebooby trap Bandit had engineered into the Great Northern Steamer cost meprecious time, time he was using to streak farther and farther down the roadtoward victory.

I cursed his name as I roared out of the Tennessee Harley-Davidsonshop and onto the superheated interstate asphalt. The mechanic’s words rang in my ears,”Be careful and don’t speed through Kentucky. The place is crawlingwith troopers. It’s their main source of revenue in the area.”

KENTUCKY

They don’t need a sign announcing Kentucky. As soon as you crossthe border and hit their dog shit amalgamation of potholes, you know you’ve hita state with a piss-poor economy like Kentucky. Shame too, it’s pretty, butone of the most polluted. Nice folks, with one of the worst levels ofeducation. All reflected in the roads.

As I thundered through Kentucky at 100, I wondered where Bandit was. Were he and MadMyron already lounging in Sturgis, sipping mint juleps — Bandit’s favorite drink?Were they neck-deep in local women, being fed grapes and having their motorcycles polished?Fuck the troopers, I thought. Let themtry to take me alive. I knew if I so much as got stopped, the run was over.I was running an unregistered bike with California MSOs out of Floridathrough Kentucky. Shit, they’d just chop me into hamburger and feed me tothe hogs — after 20 years of slave labor picking tobacco naked under theblazing Kentucky sun while the bullwhip danced off my back. It was win orlose. There were no sidelines in this game. I cranked the throttle harderand rolled the bike to 101, where it began to flutter. I let it coast backto 100.

There’s something about riding exceptionally long distances, thecountryside ever unfurling before you, always just passing through. You begin to feel a bitinvulnerable. Local gossip and pangs do not threaten you. You glide past headaches and feelnothing. Relativity changes. The weight you give one thing can suddenly shift into anentirely different area in your life, leaving something that you thought was critical feelingmeaningless, and another part of your life, which you thought was of little meaning at all,feeling quite crucial or interesting.

I sorted through the last six months as I rolled on. Awatched odometer is not unlike a watched pot, it never boils. As I rolled androlled and rolled, I watched the odometer slowly flip past tenths of amile, then a mile. Then it started over, flipping off life in tenths. A tenthof confusion with the German Feminine. A tenth of aggravation with the moveto Miami. A tenth of re-writes on the film script “1%er”. A tenth of mybills. A tenth of uncertainty. A tenth of self-discovery. A tenth of the smell of asweating woman on a hot Miami night. A tenth of the laughs at Bandit’s place. A tenth ofbrotherhood. A tenth of the thunder of a fresh engine, stripping the black off bustedKentucky highway. A mile. And over again.

Throughout history there have always been men who adventured, menwho traveled great distances. But in reality, we are all pioneers into our ownselves. We all journey forward, ripe and robust, fresh from the womb, toslowly degrade, to fail and to triumph, to love and to lose, to dance, as uncle Henry Millersaid, “on the edge of the volcano, through the fingernail clippings and the gutter bile,giving a great, triumphant shout.” What strange thoughts I had as the sun lay down itsburning head on the soft wheat grass on the horizon. Strange thoughts in a strange time.

The miles rolling along on the odometer, silently recording their ownpassage, were not those of the motorcycle. They were mine. For when thismotorcycle is rusted and gone, I thought, these miles will be credited notto the memory of the machine, but to myself. In the end, the miles wetravel are our own. Though we might traverse different portions of ourlives with certain people, even certain partners, in the end, the journeyis our’s alone. And when the individual at last can no longer be rebuilt andand we are retired and put to rest, the miles belong to us and our memories.None of us is more than an unremarkable pile of dirt with a temporaryheartbeat. It is within this simplicity, this utter lack of permanentvalue, that our beauty lies. It is because our odometers, in the end, arefinite, that there is some sort of rush, a sense of charge to the fact thatwith each flip of the meter, with each lap, we are closer to the endchapter in our own dirty, sexy, scandalous, glory-filled, fast-run non-fictionstory.

I double-bumped over a hunk of unidentifiable road kill as twilighthit. Time to switch from the day goggles to the night glasses. Knock off thehorseshit road philosophy and get down to the business of riding at topspeed.

Gas stations and abbreviated conversations, minute relationshipswith fossil fuel customers and other adventure seekers. Phony interest,curiosity regarding motorcycles. Why do you ride? Did you build it? Whereare you headed and where did you come from? Oh, how nice. My goodness,that far? I bet you get tired. Have you ever killed a man? Where do yousleep? Why Zebra? What is Sturgis?

Sturgis, who said anything about Sturgis? I don’t know any Zebra. My name is Jones,Jones from Arkansas. Bought the bike at a flea market. Been riding ever since. Gun, nothat’s not a gun under there, that’s my colostomy bag. Lost my asshole in WWII.German landmine blew it off. Dastardly business, war. And colostomy bags, too. Messy ondates, makes gymnastics impossible. What cologne am I wearing…?

A long, sloping hill. A near-miss with a sleeping truck operator.Clever ideas that will be lost to the waving ditch weeds and fence posts that tick past attop speed, as I ride, unable to write, trying desperately to catchthe fleeting Bandit 3,000 miles to the west.

Night is a strange time on a motorcycle. The universe collapses,everything becomes condensed. Space and time become subservient to the headlight and itslimited expanse. One’s thoughts and rambling philosophies adjust accordingly, becoming moreerrant, distrusting, abbreviated, less focusedin reality and more ready to believe that which you would not havebelieved in, in the light. The night is a fast-paced game of hiding. It is aflying pocket of light in which you incubate as grand lands and greatdistances magically pass without your knowledge, your understanding of yourjourney suddenly limited to that which your searching eyes can pry from thesuffocating darkness. I say suffocating, but in reality, it is reallyquite liberating. For what you can’t see is suddenly no longer yourresponsibility. You are free to ignore the ephemeral giganticness thatsprints past you on all sides, hidden from your probing gaze, anon-liability that you will experience yet never be able to see, describeor recall due to its invisibility. But, like the grand reason, whichescapes us all, it’s out there and we can sense its magnitude, its heat,its sheer mammoth electromagnetic effect, though we cannot grasp its chaoticentirety.

I had been scheduled to stop at the house of a bro named Randy from Tennessee, who’dcontacted me via the Internet and offered acot and a hot. But when I got close, I was unable to figure out the directionsto the interstate grocery store, which is where we were supposed to meet. I stopped at arestaurant to get dinner and called The Shepard, Mike Osborne, inCalifornia on my satellite phone.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“I don’t know, somewhere in Tennessee or Kentucky. Maybe Paris.”

“Getting weird out there, is it, Zebra?”

“Weirder the better,” I said.

“Well, let’s see.”

I could hear a flurry of keystrokes. The Shepard was accessing mye-mail account to retrieve the directions Randy had e-mailed me prior to lift off.

“Okay, got the e-mail. Let’s see, you should be close. Let mecheck Yahoo Maps.”

The Shepard accessed Yahoo Maps and plotted a course. He wasgiving me directions when my cell phone call waiting clicked. It was Randy.

“Zebra, whatever you do, don’t come to that grocery store! Thetroopers are all over the place. They’re running a license plate sting on bikes! They’llnail you for sure.”

“Sweet mother of whiskey!” I exclaimed. Troopers running licenseplate stings was the last thing I needed.

“Sorry, man. We just found out. Been trying to get in touch with you all day. They’venailed half a dozen bros already. Hauled ’em off. Hit thehighway and get out of the area, fast.”

I thanked Randy and relayed the bad news to The Shepard.

“What time is it there?” he asked.

“Around midnight,” I replied, gulping coffee. “And it’s startingto rain. Heard from Bandit?”

“He checked in earlier,” The Shepard said, as he plotted analternate course for me on the Internet maps. “Said he’s somewhere in Utah. Gas tank brokea mount. Fell off, blew up or something. Killed a whole bunch of people. He was pretty nutswhen he called. He and Mad Myron were in theJack and spewing nonsense about blowing up the plumbing in a local hotelwith gasoline fumes and a hotel shop vacuum. Couldn’t make sense of it.Then there was gunfire and a lot of screaming and I lost contact withthem.”

Bright news. Breakdowns for Bandit meant I still had a fightingchance.

“Get me to the next city,” I told The Shepard. “I’ll catch thatvillain yet. He put a rev limiter on me, but we got it dialed up wide open and I figure ifI can put down 900 miles today on this hard-mount buzzingbastard, I can get back in the game.”

The Shepard gave me a new route and it was a good one. Sure, I hadmaps and I knew the better end of the roads in the region, having lived in NewOrleans for four years. But with the digital maps, you could get currentreports on traffic, road construction, weather, you name it. That wassomething you couldn’t get from a paper map.

“You’re good with moderate showers to looks like Louisville.They’ve got some weather there, some heavy traffic on the south side, but it doesn’t look likeanything you can’t ride through.”

I thanked The Shepard and got the hell out of there. The rain wasincreasing steadily and I didn’t need to deal with troopers.

Outside the restaurant, I strapped on the rain gear and lit the fuseto the RevTech. Riding fast, I cut through the rain on my new Avons, which held surprisinglywell at speed in the heavy torrents.

Coming around the city, I went on reserve in heavy traffic and pounding rain. I had yet tofigure the range on the new tank, so I took it 15 milesfarther each fill up to try and locate the exact range. It was the firsttime I’d gone on reserve on that particular petcock and it took me justlong enough to find the reserve that a heavy truck nearly wasted me when thebike lost speed on the rain heavy highway. I looked back and could see the massive Peterbiltlogo. The rattle of the truck’s pipes told me the driver was using everything he had to slowhis rig down to keep from hitting a biker that no doubt appeared out of nowhere in the driving rain. I caught some fresh gas and dumped the big RevTech 88 into the Baker 6-Speed and got hell bound.

Taking the first off ramp I could get to, I rolled into a crapghetto area of town and found a fuel station. As I screwed off the gas cap and flipped up myfogging goggles, I noticed a fat white car person filling his Jap car while eyeing me withdisdain. He ogled the long K-Bar blade that hung frommy right hip, then the large L-lump that the H&K made. His wife locked hercar door and frowned. No doubt they expected me to sodomize the both ofthem.

A couple black gangbangers strolled up. They surrounded theyuppie and started putting the screws to him, their eyes on the car, the luggage on top andthe cat’s old lady. These were real hitters, guys with jailhouse tats and born-to-die brains.

“Yo, yo, yo, let me pump dat gas, Pennsylvania,” one hood said,referring to the yup’s out-of-state license plate as he tried to take the gas nozzle away.

“No, I got it,” the freaked yuppie squeaked.

“You got a lotta shit stack on dat car,” another hood said, tuggingon one of the securing ropes.

“Hey, don’t pull on that,” the yup pleaded.

The cat’s wife was terrified, knowing she’d soon be a widow and thenprobably a hump doll.

I topped off the tank on the Great Northern Steamer and hung up thepump. The five or six gangbangers were getting ugly and more aggressive as theyup lost his nerve. The black attendant who watched from behind 3-inch-thick bullet resistantglass was making no move to call the local heat.

“You get rained on coming from the north?” I asked the yup.

Everyone turned.

“Because I did,” I said, unholstering my H&K and flinging the rainoff it. “Soaked me clear to my fuckin’ bullets,” I added, holding the big German GSG9 specialby my side, looking into the eyes of the gangbangers.

I didn’t care if we had to gunfight. In fact, at the moment, agunfight sounded like just the thing. Clear the senses, loosen up the joints, the smell offresh cordite was always invigorating. You know you’re alive whenyou hear that first, compressed pop. Or dead, whichever the case may be.I was soaked, full of demons and wasn’t all that worried about consequences.Or losing.

“Uh, yeah,” the yup stammered. “We got rained on.” Maybe I shouldrob him and the gangbangers, I thought, chuckling to myself. Take ’em all foreverything they’ve got, nab the guy’s old lady, make her ride on the fenderclear to the Badlands, a meat tenderizer of sorts. Then get married by theChief himself and give her a stout corn husking. Yes…what a marvelousplan… But the fender was covered with gear, so piss on it.

“I was hoping it wasn’t raining north of here,” I said, walkingtoward the gangbangers, watching closely to see who might be stupid enough to go for a weapon.

The gangbangers began to drift backward and then slowly walked away,mumbling. I’d spoiled their fun, but only momentarily I figured. I handedthe yup $10.

“Go pay for your gas and pay for mine with this. I’ll stay hereand keep an eye on your car and your old lady.”

The yup took the money and stared at me like a frightened rat.

“I wouldn’t take too long, if I were you,” I said. “Chances arepretty high those old boys are gonna feel the sting of what just happened and come back aroundthe corner of that fuckin’ gas station shootin’. And the onlything we got for cover here is gas pumps. Move your ass.”

The yuppie scurried to the bulletproof glass and slid the cashunder the window. I kept a keen eye out for incoming fire.

“Boy, I’ve never been glad to see a biker before,” the yup admittedwhen he gave me my change and got into his car. “What’s Bikernet?”

“It’s nothing,” I told him. “Now go on and next time you see abiker on the side of the road having trouble, stop and ask if you can help.”

“I sure as hell will,” the yup assured me as he lit out of thestation and gassed it for the interstate.

I saddled up and got the hell out of there, before I got a bulletin the back.
Back to Part I

To Continue

I was hammering around town when the hail hit. Nobody can ridethrough hail. At least nobody who buys their own paint jobs.

Stopping on the shoulder, I pulled out my rain gear and tried tolean over the tank, to keep the hail from ruining the $1,000 color thatEddie Meeks from Hardly Civilized in the Carolinas had just blasted on. As thehail slacked off, I stood up, turned and BUMP, walked straight into afemale State Trooper.

“Oh shit!” I hollered without thinking.

The gal trooper stepped backward from the impact and looked at mewith surprise.

“Whoa, you scared the shit out of me,” I said, trying to play itcool.

“Sorry,” the gal said, smiling. I immediately realized she wasvery good looking and had a huge rack pushing her body armor forward. “I thought at first youwere some guy pushing a shopping cart. Hard to see in this rain. Then I thought maybe you werehaving trouble, so I figured I’d better stopand help.”

“Nope, just getting on more duck weather gear,” I said, steppingstrategically in front of the low-mounted license plate holder.

“OK, well, be careful, it’s terrible weather to be riding in,” thetrooper said, smiling again.

For an instant, I could picture her naked, upside down, her asshigh, while I fired her pistol into the air and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But with theluck I’d been having lately with women, the last thing I wanted to do was engage one who’d beengiven the power by the state to place offending men under arrest.

I lit the RevTech fuse and rolled the Avon. My heart was stillpounding. I’d never get to Sturgis, S.D., with these dummy paper tags Trottamade, I thought to myself. The ink was running off them, they were fallingto pieces. I must be out of my mind. I tried to estimate what it wouldcost me in legal fees and lost work by the time I got out of some localcounty slammer. How did I let Bandit get me into these idiotic situations?He was a terrible influence. Bikernet was a disease. When would I learn?No doubt it was all part of his master plan. Bikernet was at last makingridiculous money, hundreds of thousands a month, and the pond scum hadgotten greedy. He was trying to get me out of the picture, not wanting to splitthe gold with the old Zebra. I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done thesame. The blasted hoodlum. He’d get his in Sturgis, provided I got there todeliver it. Which I most likely would not.

“Aw fuck the troopers,” I mumbled to myself as I leaned into thedriving rain and cranked up the gas handle. She did have a nice set of jugsthough. I questioned turning back. If that body armor was laying on them, justthink of what they’d look like without. I cursed myself. What was Ithinking? Sure, Zebra, engage with a chick cop. Best idea you’ve hadsince you left Miami with dummy plates you dummy fucker. Focus on the road,count the white dashes. What tits? I never saw any tits.

About an hour later, the rain cleared off and things warmed back up.I took a hotel room and rode the Great Northern Steamer in through thesliding glass door. Tonight I would sleep heavy.

Day 3

I awoke about 6 a.m., showered, gathered up the wrenches andtorqued the Great Northern Steamer.

I tried to imagine where Bandit was. Probably Utah, I figured,laughing. Bandit hates Utah and won’t ride there, claiming it smells bad and isinsufferably ugly.

The Baker 6-Speed was performing even better than I’d hoped and thetall sixth gear let me to roll lower RPMs, allowing the engine to break ineven easier. The tranny was smoother than an 18-year-old’s ass and shiftedcleanly and with almost no effort or clunk. It was a beauty.

As I drifted peacefully behind the big trucks through the rollingtobacco fields, I never saw a single trooper. Truckers have radios and high points ofvisibility. They also hide bikes until the last minute. They’rewonderful bird dogs.

When I rolled out of Kentucky and into Illinois, the condition ofthe asphalt improved dramatically. Illinois was abloom with corn fields andwaving farmers.

Illinois was the breaking point. Everything about me snapped and Ibecame of the road. Home was gone. Grief was gone. My sticky world was gone.Everyone’s sticky world was gone. All went numb and I was naught but arider riding a fast bike. I was a penny hustler who put motor oil on hiscereal, a rolling contradiction, duality in sixth gear, a searing, stinkingMr. Anyone with a gimmick and a goal. I am fierce and complicated, I believe fighting ispoetry applied, I have failed at everything twice, I am a proud, rolling menace, I haven’t anapology for anyone and when they take me down, mercy won’t be requested. I’d catch that hotrodfreak Bandit.

I rolled into east St. Louis at about 8 p.m. andcalled my second cousin’s place. He was a big shot ad executive there and I’d not seen him orhis wife in 10 years. He was also a biker and owned an antiqueIndian and several other scoots.

If you’ve never been to east St. Louis, don’t go. It’s due for a napalm strike. Losers,misfits, turncoats and nitwits populate a rusting infrastructure of gloom and infiniterecession into the vainglorious abyss of human indiscipline. Immediately, a drug slavewanted to know what my bike was worth.

“$25,000,” I said. “Want to buy it?”

“Where are you?” Liz asked.

“East St. Lewy,” I told her.

“What?! Hang up and get the hell out of there! You’ll be killed!”Dick’s wife commanded.

“I can’t, I’m about to sell my motorcycle,” I laughed.

I got the directions to the house, but unfortunately the old boywho wanted to buy my bike couldn’t come up with the cash. Pity, I really thought I’d sell itand ride back on a Wichita hotrod called Boeing.Dick was out fishing with the boys. Turns out the household had grown by three during myabsence. When Dick and the boys arrived, he failed to recognize me until I mentioned my name.

“Oh hell!” Dick exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you at all. Whatare you doing in town?”

“I told you 10 years ago I was gonna build a custom chopper one ofthese days and ride it from stem to stern and you said when I did to be sure and stop by so you could see it. Here it is,” I said.

Dick laughed and looked the Great Northern Steamer over closely.

“Wow, nice bike, man,” he said. “Want to put it in the garage?”

“Sure.”

I met the boys and then Dick and I spent the night catching up. A man can measure how he’sdoing in life by how much family he’s got that he can call on a 10-minute notice and have aplace to stay on a cross-country run. Dick and his lovely wife Liz were kind enough to bunkan outlaw and even bought dinner.

In the morning, I geared up and tried to work out a mother of akink that was starting in my left shoulder just beneath the scapula.

“How’s it ride?” Dick asked as I lugged out gear.

“Hell, see for yourself,” I said, tossing him my state-mandatedbrain bucket.

Dick took the Steamer for a roll, then took each of his three boysfor a back fender ride.

One of his boys got off and Liz asked how he liked it.

“It felt like electric eels were biting me in the butt,” the ladexclaimed, apparently referring to either the vibration or an electrical short of which I wasunaware.

I packed up, said my goodbyes and pledged to return in 10 years totake the boys with me on their own scoots. Dick laughed, Liz cringed. Then the boys camebounding out of the house yelling, “Look mom!”

They were dressed in sunglasses, bicycle helmets and had plasticknifes hanging off their belts.

“You’ve clearly had an affect,” Liz laughed. I figured I’d betterhit the road before the little guys decided to be writers. I don’t mind turning youth intobikers, but I’d hate to see one go down the dark path ofliterary insanity.

I rolled on the throttle at about 8 a.m. and headed for the mightyRock Creek Ranch in Kansas.

I was planning to take a day off and let the vibration stop and myleft shoulder unkink at the ranch. It was home and I hadn’t seen everyone forquite a spell.

The ride from St. Louis to Kansas City was a smooth, easy, 90 mphrun through the grocery store of the world. Corn, milo, alfalfa, wheat,you name it. I rolled past hundreds of thousands of rows of the carbohydrateload of the human race.

Crossing the Arkansas River, I broke the boundary from Missouri toKansas and the wholly unique sensation of home washed over the handlebars. When you’re home,the sun always feels a little warmer, the breeze a little cooler and the water a little sweeter.

As I swept through Kansas City, I saw some of my old haunts, placesI hadn’t seen in 10 years. The stockyards, the Plaza, the old blues bars.Everything looked so easy, so simple. Of course, it all lookssimple when you’re just passing through. But throw down an anchor or two,get a residence, a few phone numbers, an old lady, a job, a boss, a fewoutstanding warrants, and presto — what seemed so simple is suddenly complex.

And therein lies the beauty of the two-wheeled machine. An engine,two tires and a chair. Always a front row seat to a game that’ll never beplayed twice. No connections other than abbreviated hookups to the localgas pump, and even those last only a few bucks. You slap the gas capback on, hit the starter and simplicity flows back over everything like wind.

As I came off a long sweeper, elevated, I noticed a marvelous woman,mulatto perhaps, streaking along beside me in a red Mustang. She gave methat smile that says ‘I recognize that you’re just passingthrough, you can’t possibly offer me any complications, I’m interested.’ Igave her my favorite smile back. It said, go fuck yourself, baby, I’mridin’. I’d had just about all the woman horse crap I needed lately. I hit the gas and sangher a little song on my new RevTech 88. It said the thrill isgone, the thrill is gone away…

The Kansas Turnpike west of Topeka was empty. I hit maybe twocars, two and a half all the way the ranch. A large white cloud of dust sat on the asphalt inthe distance. It looked innocuous enough and I was in a daze.Then a gust of wind kicked up the dust and I rolled through it.Almost instantly, my eyes were on fire. I nailed the brakes and felt therumble strips passing under. I had to find the kickstand by feel. Inailed the kill switch and stripped off my goggles, which had just enough air hole to allow themiserable stinging dust in. I grabbed the water bottlestrapped over the back fender, being careful not to grabthe Gatorade bottle of spare gas, and threw it in my eyes time after time.Then, with somewhat blurred vision, I drained an entire bottle ofVisine into my eyes. Still, they burned mercilessly. I sat on the side ofthe road for a good hour, waiting for the stinging to subside. I couldtell from the smell what the culprit was — concrete powder. The shit has anacidic base to it and if you get it in your eyes, you’ll find religion in ahurry. Finally, I was able to see well enough to find the starter buttonand get the Great Northern Steamer fired. Twice more I had to stop and tossmore water into my purple orbs. Seeing was damned near impossible.

I rolled to the toll booth.

“Two dollars,” the toll taker said.

“Here you go,” I said, sniffing loudly, handing her a five.

“It’s hot as a hooker in a French whore house, isn’t it?” the tolltaker said, applying some lipstick.

“Sure is,” I said, chuckling.

She turned, her eyes locked onto mine.

“Oh,” she said, coquettishly. “Hello…”

“Hello,” I replied, smiling through the tears. Or at least it feltlike a smile. It may have been facial contortions caused by my impendingblindness.

“I’m Sally.” She spoke demurely, though a part of me could tell,somewhere in there, was a woman. Somewhere inside this toll taker marooned on the vast Kansasprairie was a woman who longed for the moment she would meet aman who understood her complexity. A moment when she met a man whounderstood her complicated, horrendous, vile, despicable dualities.

“What’s your name?” she asked, feigning shyness.

“Zebra.”

“Do you have a first name, Zebra?” she asked, grinning.

“Special Agent,” I replied.

She put me at ease with her line of questioning. Nothing toodifficult. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing I wouldn’t remember the answer to with a headfull of twisted, bad memories of a German Feminine gone utterlynutters, too many miles in too few days, DMV communist sympathizers and black horizons withrain and hail. I looked at this delectablecreature standing in the faded wooden toll booth and the same thought keptswirling in my mind — what a rack. How I’d love to get a hand on thoseoutlaw protuberances and maybe even write a poem on them. Ipictured us at the county fair, a blue ribbon dangling from each nipple aswe laughed and loved, danced and held her massive knockers long into thenight.

“So, I bet it’s pretty cool in there,” I remarked, fishing.

“Well, the air conditioner seems to make it cooler,” she concluded.

A woman of wit, I thought, grandly charmed.

“Probably harder to work up a sweat in there, eh?” I continued.

“Well, you’d have to do something pretty vigorous,” she saidenticingly, smacking her rich, full lips together. She twirled her finger through the finehair that hung delicately from her upper lip. “What are you doing for dinner?” she asked,handing me a tissue for my watering eyes.

“I thought I’d have June bug and grasshopper surprise.”

“I, I just want to say, that, I have feelings for you. Feelings Iwant to explore. But feelings I don’t understand. Feelings that, I don’t know, I,I need more time. Maybe if you could come back. Tomorrow. We could talk. There’s so muchyou don’t know about me. So much I don’t know about you,”she said hopefully.

Suddenly I became keenly aware of the Great Northern Steamer idlingbelow me.

“Oh, yeah, uh, I’m really just passing through. Can’t actuallystay that long…”

A dark look spirited across her face, but she recovered quickly witha warm, understanding, fiendish smile.

The concrete was back. My eyes were again ablaze. Down came thewater. The toll taker suddenly softened.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her lip beginning to quiversympathetically.

“Fine,” I said, my eyes pouring water.

“You don’t look all right. Want to talk about it?” she asked.

A meadowlark chirped in the distance. A bull bawled on the horizon.

“Really, I’m fine. I just have something in my eyes.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?” she asked, injured.

“What? I’m fine,” I said, growing frustrated. “I just have …”

“I know, you have something in your eyes. Well that’s man talk.And you know what, if you won’t open up to me, then I just can’t keep doing this. I can’tgo on like this, pretending. I need more. I need more from life. I need more from a man,”she said, beginning to weep openly.

“I swear, nothing is wrong!” I bellowed, my eyes pouring.

“Oh scream at me! That’s just so like you! You’re afraid tocommit! That’s your problem! You’re afraid to commit and you look for every little excuse,like blindness, to get out of treating me right!”

“I don’t even know you,” I rebutted.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s got to be? Well I don’t know you either!I don’t even know who you are anymore!” she cried, turning away.

“Oh, come on, don’t be mad,” I said, feeling terribly guilty.

“No, just go. I can’t keep doing this,” she wept. “Just pleasego.”

“Can’t keep doing what?” I asked. “We were never doing anything.”

“Oh sure, just act like we never had anything together! Pretendlike it never happened! That’s so typical! I wasted 10 minutes of my life with you,Special Agent Zebra! I’ll never get those 10 minutes back. Yourobbed me! You used me while I was young and when you got what you wanted,you just threw me away like a piece of trash! I loved you!”

My head was spinning, my eyes were bursting with pain. Why didevery single encounter with a woman go south with me?

“You know what?” I said, exasperated, just wanting my change. “Ithink it’s time we ended this. I need to move on.”

The toll taker looked at me with broken eyes. Eyes of betrayal.Eyes that said everything we ever had was a lie.

“I always knew you’d do this,” she said in a trembling voice, eyespleading for me to change my mind, to stay and make everything the way it was, when I firstpulled up. She handed me my three bucks change. Istuffed it into my vest pocket.

When I clicked the Great Northern Steamer into gear, she burst intotears and ran to the other side of the toll booth, weeping.

I rolled away, confused, angry, wondering how it had all gone soterribly wrong. My God, I thought to myself as I rolled through the gears on my smooth newBaker 6-Speed, why is life so damned confusing? I could stillsmell her perfume as I crested the hill and she faded out of sight, out ofmy life, forever.

I rolled into Rock Creek Ranch around 4 p.m. I hadbarely had time to recover from my tumultuous breakup with Sally the toll takerand was feeling delicate, vulnerable. The time at home with family andthe simplicity of the ranch life would be welcome relief to the fast-pacedthroes of amore.

I unloaded the Great Northern Steamer and humped the gear up thelong stairs to the second floor of the sprawling ranch house, tossing it intoone of the guest bedrooms.

We all sat down to a huge dinner of steaks from a steer they’dkilled earlier in the day.

We laughed and joked and I told them my sordid stories of the roadand about the difficult break up I’d recently had with Stacy. Or was it Sally?

“You know it’s fair time,” dad said as he cut a steak.

“Is it?” I asked. I’d forgotten the county fair.

“Yep. Maybe you should stay an extra day or two and run over andsee it. Been a while since you’ve been.”

“That’s true. Although it’d give Bandit a pretty big advantage.He’s already riding 500 miles less than I am.”

“Oh hell, you can surely catch Bandit,” dad said. “Hell’s fire,you’re riding a motorsickle. We cover 100 miles a day on our old horses and they aren’t halfas fast as that big sickle sittin’ out there.”

The next day we all loaded up in the pickup and rattled off to thecounty fair. It was 30 miles of gravel road and we made the trip in just under an hour.

At the fair, I ran into a lot of old friends from school and the olddays. It was odd to see them again. Some I hadn’t seen since the mid ’80s. They all lookedmuch older, smaller, more frail. Most were married, many had akid or seven. A few were dead. According to all of them, I was one ofthem, but I quickly dispelled the rumor.

I watched the 4-H beef show and recalled my years as a youth when Iwould show my cattle and shoot for the blue ribbon. At the time, it all seemed so important,so big. I wondered as I sat there if one day I would look backon the race to Sturgis against Bandit, with its global media coverage andinternational flair, its women and wine and pomp and circumstance andthink that it all seemed so distant, so small, so insignificant. It was hard toimagine, but sometimes life does funny things.

The next day I saddled up and thanked them both and fired up theGreat Northern Steamer.

The break from the motorcycle had done some good. The massive kinkin my neck was far more relaxed. I could see again. And, drum roll please, the break-inperiod on my new RevTech 88 was over.

I lined the big chopper out on the two-lane black top that wouldlead me through northern Kansas and into Nebraska to my youngest brother’shouse, where I would stay the night. It was a short, 11-hour hop to hisplace and I was looking forward to throwing the spurs to the “unbreakable”RevTech and seeing how she ran.

I passed the Nebraska border at over 900 miles an hour. Jesus, Ithought, this fuckin’ thing IS full of torque. Then I realized the vibration from the rigidmount was actually creating the visual illusion of an extra 0. Ikept cranking the throttle, turning it round and round and round, until atlast I had the monster wrung out. At 100, the collars on my denim shirtwere handily stripping the finish off my chin. I could see the bungeecords holding my Bandit’s Bedroll on the front risers beginning to stretch. Iput my chin on the air-suspended bedroll, relaxed my neck and settled in for amad blast through Corn Husker country. Bandit would have to ride like ademon on the way to a soul stomping to catch this rig, I thought proudly asI swept past semis full of feeder steers laboring up the long hills leadingto the broad, muddy Platte River.

I made good time and got to my brother’s house in just under sixhours. I questioned this time since the sun was setting and my watch had been on the blinklately, but when you’ve got a new horsepower-belching monster like I had, hooked to a go-fastget-out-of-town tranny like the giraffe Baker,anything is possible.

“What the fuck’s wrong with your eyeballs?” my brother asked when Irolled into his driveway, having ridden past it four times previously.

“Cement dust,” I said, shaking hands.

“How’d you get cement dust in your eyes?” he asked, gesturing for meto mind my step and not trip over the coon hound.

“Ran through some on the turnpike in Kansas,” I told himmatter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you go around it?” he asked as he began to scale somefresh bass in the kitchen sink.

I sat rolling his question over in my mind for several minutes.Why hadn’t I gone around the offending eye poison? It was a question that would haunt me forthe next 30 seconds.

My brother and I ate and drank for a short burst and I decided tokeep rolling. I had to catch Bandit before he got to the South Dakota borderbecause I knew from experience that once he hit that line on the map, he andMad Myron would go berserk and ride wide open until they got within 50 miles ofSturgis, at which point they’d slow down to 55 and enjoy the view. But bythen it would be too late.

I rolled through the strange land of northeastern Nebraska. It’s abeautiful and empty land, rolling, steep, smooth, with two-lanehighways empty of all traffic and offering enough space to allow a man’spulse to actually return to what it was before he became burdened with theways of the world.

A massive storm brewed on both sides of the highway asI crested a hill. The two storm systems were headed straight for eachother and their collision point promised to be the highway itself. Irolled on the gas and leaned into the wind. Eighty-five mph was as fast as I could gobecause of the constant switchbacks and curves. Lightening crashed and I got exactly onedrop of rain on my nose as I shot through the window and thestorms collided behind me. It was a perfect miss, the kind of evasion onealways hopes for but rarely gets. I would ride dry tonight.

Darkness. The spooky night of high-speed cycling. Tranquilitybroken by the occasional surprise railroad crossing. A pair of deer eyes staring from theditch. Don’t do it, you horrible beast, I thought as I blistered past, holding a wad of seat leather firmly in my ass. But the deer held his ground and didn’t leap.

I finally ran out of steam in the northeastern corner of Nebraska andgrabbed a nickel hotel next to an abandoned grain elevator.

At 6 a.m. I was making noise down the highway, headed for theelusive South Dakota border at 100 mph.

At the border, I stopped for a photo op on an unprotectedhill in big winds. The Steamer sat low, real low, and the kickstand didn’t have a lot oflean in it. As I unbuckled my gear on the ground to retrieve the camera, I felt a gust of wind, followed by the Great Northern Steamer falling down on top of me.

“Fuck!” I roared, whirling, trying to catch the new chopper as itfell into my lap. Downhill and on a steep gravel slope, I had little chance. The bikecrashed down on my legs. I got a grip on the frame and thehandlebar and incline pressed the gear-heavy bitch to get my feetunder me. I snatched it upright. There was little damagesave for a bent front brake handle and a couple serious dents to me.The paint job and carb had been spared.

I stood the bike back up, snapped the photo and strapped my brainbucket to the back fender. South Dakota is a free man’s state.

I’d be in Spearfish in five hours, or jail in four.

Streaking through the Badlands, I passed motorcycle aftermotorcycle. The roads became more congested, I rode harder, breaking, shifting, rollingthe throttle. The beauty of the scenery and the proximity of the goal helped to ease thehellish fire in my neck, the result of five days and nights of damned hard running. Iknew Bandit was in the area if not already at the hotel and half expected to roar past him,starting an all out race to thefinish line. The farther I got without passing him, the deeper my heartsank, realizing I’d been outrun.

When I rolled into the Spearfish Holiday Inn, I looked over theexpanse of custom choppers. This was clearly Hamster territory. Radical steel leapt anddove in impossible angles. Massive custom engines twinkled in the sunand bespoke of great and unruly levels of horsepower.

I parked the Great Northern Steamer and sat, head ringing, body buzzing. I felt likeI’d been on a week-long bender, which I had. I satfor what felt like an hour, staring, sunburned, exhausted, in pain, fried.I couldn’t see Bandit’s bike or Mad Myron’s. Had I actually beaten them?I knew better. No doubt they had gotten there hours, perhaps days earlier,unpacked and were in Sturgis drunk and singing.

Then I noticed on the opposite end of the parking lot an outlaw’sworst nightmare — troopers. And not just a few. The entire South Dakota Highway Patrolreserve force was staying at our hotel. Would wonders never cease? Here I was with anunregistered scoot, staying not near, but with thetroopers. The plot thickened. A lot. How had Bandit managed to book uswith state fuckin’ troopers when we were both running bikes with Oklahomapapers? The maniac. It was probably his idea of humor.

Finally I got off and checked in.

“Bandit here yet?” I asked.

“Nope, not yet,” the gal said.

“You’re kidding…”

“Nope.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I mumbled.

I threw my gear into the hotel room and went to the bar where Iknocked back two stout whiskeys.

About an hour later, Bandit and Mad Myron rolled in, covered withbug guts and grime, a hose clamp holding Bandit’s gas tank on.

“You beat us?!” Bandit exclaimed in disbelief.

“Hola, compadre,” I said, shaking hands.

“Hell, I didn’t think you’d make it at all from the reports comingin before we left,” Bandit said.

“I said I’d be here, goddamnit. That means I’ll be here,” I said.

“How was the ride? Look at your motorcycle. How’d it get so damneddirty?” Bandit asked, looking over the filthy Great Northern Steamer.

“Miami Beach is a long ways from here, bro,” I said.

“Zebra,” Mad Myron said, extending a hand.

“Howdy, bro,” I said, shaking his thick hand.

“Let’s have a drink, goddamnit,” Bandit said. “I’m thirsty!”

STURGIS:

Day 1-3

The first three days of Sturgis were a blur of non-stop beer,roaring chrome and film. Two producers working on “1%er” and my writing partner, directorIan Truitner, had come up to get B-roll footage and discuss story changes. They were allvirgins to Sturgis, so the party essentially waswithout recognizable break. They filmed day and night. We interviewedeveryone who could or would talk to us, getting great shots of custombikes, bikers, club members and all the things they do that people in the civilian worldsimply would not understand.

Somewhere during the madness, the Great Northern Steamer split agas tank. I took it off and Bandit directed me to a local welder in Spearfish.

 

“Yeah, I kin fix her,” he said.

“I didn’t drain it because I didn’t have any place to put the fuel.Thought you might,” I added. I had a cold beer and was disgusted with thesetback.

“Nope, don’t need to. I’ll just weld her as she is,” the crustyold welder said. He fired up his machine and dropped his welding hood.

“RUN!” I hollered as the lunatic touched the rod to the groundedtank, which was half full of gas.

We sprinted out of the building, beer flying, expecting theresulting explosion to kill us all.

Half an hour later, we crept back into the old shack.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Back here,” the old welder called.

The tank was there, welded and ready to go.

“She’s all done, sonny. That’ll be $40.”

How the hell had that guy welded a half-full tank of gas withoutblowing his head off will no doubt be one of the greater mysteries of my lifetime. But he’ddone it.

On the third day, the producers and my writing partner had to headback to Denver in the rental car to catch their flight to L.A. The trunk of the car reekedof gasoline because the petcock had been bumped and had leaked about a half a gallon into thecarpet when we hauled it back from the welder’splace.

Later that night, I got the call. The airline had decided thecamera bag, which had been in the trunk for eight hours and smelled heavily ofgasoline, was a bomb. They had thusly blown it to smithereens in a bombbasket for everyone’s protection, destroying the film, camera and allour footage.

That night, as I ate dinner and listened to Hamsters discussupcoming custom projects, I saw a young lass, maybe 20, maybe not, waiting on tables.She was a cute gal, innocent enough and she clearly wanted amotorcycle ride. I was officially done working, the fucking fools atUnited Airlines having successfully fried our B-roll footage.

That night I took Jennifer on a slow putt through the local roadsaround Spearfish. She was doused in innocence, fearful and repeatedly made mepromise that I would return her to her family and friends and not spirither away to some heinous sex slave camp where she would be defrocked andmorally and physically vandalized for all eternity. Even her mother got in on the act,insisting on a curt interview to determine “my intentions” withthe wee lass.

My intentions? Well, my fair mother, my intentions, hmmm, that’s avery good question indeed. Should I mention the incident in New Orleans withthe five mulatto voodoo queens from the French Quarter? Would it be prudent todiscuss anything, anything at all, that ever occurred at my place in FortDefiance? Were the nude women lolling about at my palace in Miami a topicthat needed to be discussed? Did young Jennifer know the first thingabout Chinese basket sex? And what of this odd custom of wearing a bra? Wasthat localized? Need I mention my personal stance against such things?

No. Best to keep things like that quiet. Savor the suspense.

“What do you intend to do?” the she-mother asked. “With mydaughter? What do you intend to do?”

“I intend to teach her the rare and gymnastic ways of the KamaSutra,” I said, rolling the cigar between my fingers. No, best to say nothing. Let themysterious stranger vibe carry the day.

Apparently I passed muster and mom let me take her virgin on a shortafternoon ride, which involved a harmless fountain drink at a local bar anda lot of scenic back roads in 105-degree heat. I acted as the perfectgentleman, representing Bikernet in its finest light. Besides, I had mydoubts as to whether the goodly Jennifer had accomplished as many birthdaysas she claimed to have. The last thing I needed was the entire state ofSouth Dakota law enforcement hunting down a “juvenile predator”. Nosiree, this was to be a perfectly legal ride, a favor, a gift of charity.

I returned Jennifer to her mother no worse for wear and entirelyunpenetrated and roared off into the horizon.

What to tell about Sturgis? Sturgis is Sturgis, and this year wasthe greatest ever, with attendance estimates hitting the 600,000 mark. The entire regionwas jammed with American iron and American free men. It was what it is and if someone hasnot been, they will not glean from mere words thecelebration. If they were there, then no need to explain.

By day five I was ready to get the hell out of Sturgis and all thatit stood for. I had chrome sickness. Just the sight of other people’smotorcycles made me want to shoot someone and if I had to creep the 15miles between Spearfish and Sturgis in the stop-and-go motorcycle traffic(the state was so clever they decided the Sturgis rally would be theprefect time to work on one side of the interstate, reducing it to a dividedtwo-lane snarl) I’d commit suicide.

Bandit and Mad Myron had flown out already. Their bikes were ontrucks headed home. I was halfway done. Somehow staying with the troopers hadn’t turned outas badly as I feared. A sort of odd myopic failure ontheir part had prevented them from noticing that right in their own parking lot,two of the most high-profile criminals in the entire motorcycle industrywere running phony plates on unregistered bikes. Bandit, who’d let the old1%er get the best of him, had even gone a step further and raised thechallenge by sticking a “Bikernet.com” sticker on his plate holder. Atleast I’d gone to the effort to phony up a crooked tag. Bandit, hevirtually pleaded for an arrest. But the bust never came and we left aseasily as we’d come.

I loaded up and rambled south. Another 2,500 miles and I’d behome. But I had no idea what lay ahead.
Back to Part II

To Continue

STURGIS 2000, THE LONG WAY HOME

SOUTH DAKOTA

As I rolled out of South Dakota, I day dreamed about what it wouldbe like to own a rubber mount with a windshield, a cushioned seat and a frontbrake. We all fantasize from time to time and this was my fantasy. Suddenly Icould see red and blue flashing off my chrome.

“Oh you evil rat fuck sleaze bucket miserable mother of a whore!” Icursed as I let loose on the throttle and began to coast to the shoulder and myjail cell. I looked around. Nothing but empty expanse and a single twolane blacktopper for 50 miles. There was no sense in compounding thesentence by trying to outrun a radio with that kind of range. I wasfucked. Hard.

I’d made it all the way to Sturgis and now I was going to get thelaw book shoved up my ass on the run home. Jesus Christ…

The trooper hit his siren.

“All right, you insolent motherfucker!” I hollered, as I coastedover. “Go to hell! I see ya!”

Rolling to the side, I tried to figure what the jail cell would belike. A view of the local gas station probably, where I’d see thousands of bikers passing forthe next three days, heading home.

The trooper powered around me hard and roared off into the distance,waving. I was dumbfounded. What in the hell was that?

About a mile later I discovered what had gone down. The trooper hada woman in a Buick pulled over who had charged past me earlier. Apparently Iwasn’t the only one who’d witnessed her shameful mocking of the law. Thecriminal wench.

“You’ll burn in hell!” I screamed as I roared past the godlessoffender, waving my fist in the air. The trooper gave me a blank look and continued writingthe ticket.

It only took six hours to get out of South Dakota. I bought gasand burned gas and nothing else.

Somewhere in northern Nebraska I began to smell raw gas. I feltunder the tank on the fly with my leather glove. It came back wet. The welder had apparentlymissed a spot. Screw it, I thought. If the bike blows, thebike blows. There’s nothing I can do about it out here in cattle country, 800miles from the nearest town.

Riding home. What a strange proposition. No goal. No race. Avacuous suck into the far south with no propellant other than gasoline and a need for an endto the journey.

Sprawling brown expanse, rise up against me asphalt opponent, I putyou down. You rise up again, and again, I conquer you. Black serpent on yourback I ride, whip and dance, crazed attempts to unseat me at top speed. Nojoy there, the Avons bite into your glossy back and I wring the gasolineout of the right handlebar.

Cattle, flowing cattle, enormous skies, vibrating, vibrating, vibrating, gas stations,dead, lonely, abandoned railroad tracks, sun-faded signs advertising products of years past.Coke! The refreshing five-cent pick-me-up! Gasoline powered engines sold here. Shoes, $2.

Sunshine, the shadow of the motorcycle slowly fading from the rightside to the left. Thoughts of a German Feminine, long walks up fire roads in Palos Verdes,speedometer needle, flicking fence posts, moon light strolls with a partner gone by, mistakes,misunderstandings. Now you haunt me, youperfect wisdom, with your clarity of vision. Now you come after me, out here,when I am alone with nowhere to hide. Evil miscreant. Admissions at 90 mph, admissions ofguilt, vibrating despair. Memories of days that went perfect and dreams of many more unrealized. Rolling notions of romance, spinning rubber, twirling chrome H-D rims, flexing forks, a young girl’s kiss, silent cursing…

NEBRASKA

I hit the Nebraska border and called the little brother. I wasrunning a course that would put me much farther east this time. I never take the same roads.I asked how far it was from where I was to the sister’s ranch in Kansas.We figured I could make it by dark if I rode hard. I put thespurs to the RevTech 88.

Nebraska, who are you? Who are you with your lack of fame, yourquiet security, sitting in history while the rest of the world charges madlyforward? What peace is this which you hold, Nebraska, and from whencedoes it flow?

Could Nebraska know something other lands do not? Does it keeplocked in its sprawling bosom a secret of undetermined value? I spread my arms wide and coast. Are you so full of wisdom? Is this why your rivers flow sowide and so low, brown water worms, belly up, sliding, sluicing? Should I stayand live naked on your anonymous plains?

A long back you have, Nebraska. You have fooled both me and mybrother. The faster I ride, the wider and more expansive you seem to become. Your hot windswhither me and still you push Kansas farther south, holding italways just below my front tire. But I will break thee, Nebraska.

KANSAS

Twilight, 700 miles south of the Badlands. Reserve, petcock, arestart on the open road. A gas station. A man with a tale about his old friend, The Racerthey called him. Did I know him? Of course I know him. I know everyone. Every man, womanand child is my brother. Rolling again. Whystop talking now? Yes, I know The Racer.He is my son and I his.Ditches, you are my cousins. All the pretty babies? They are my dark, wonderful sisters.The delta blues, I invented them. The Mississippi? I poured that river. New Orleans,Royal Street in the Quarter? I laid the purplebricks. Lafite’s Blacksmith shop? I built that brick-between-post brigandoutpost. Hell yes, I know The Racer. Delirious ditches, which promise to catch me at theslightest error. Fatigue, pain, 800.

Darkness. Headlight, are you my world now? Narrow headlight, tellme a story. Tell me a story of infinite night, a world which to you would beheaven and to me a permanent extension of nothing and nobody, a seizure oftime, a cessation of clockwork, a ticking out of ticks. I am a dark andbrooding angel of singularity, always rocketing south, down, away from thenorth, I am the polar and ionic wrongness of up, north is something whichcannot faze me now.

The ranch house. All is dark. I am too late, I will sleep in thegrass. Lovely grass, hold me in your arms and whisper with your waving Kansasblades about tales of great bison herds and gypsy Indians who sang songs tospirits that went out of style and were replaced by far more contemporarygods. Gods with economy and a sense of fashion, gods of convenience andgods that were not so damned demanding, always harping of discipline andvalor, morality and generosity.

Headlights. Turns out they were just at the local fair. Fair timeabounds in August. At last a real bed. It was 1,000 miles to this bed, making it a specialbed indeed.

And then to sleep, where the journey continues. When a man spendsenough time alone, speaking to nobody, he strikes up conversation within himself. Theseconversations, unlike mortal conversations, are not affected by sleep or itch or agony.They carry on despite themselves. And they can drive you mad if you are not especially carefulwith them. They can sometimes speak such pure and unsalted truth that they sting the tongueand burn the eye, causing them to water and the lower lip to quiver and dance.

Dawn. A young girl of 3 opens my eye for me with her tinyfingers. Time to get up, she tells me with a smile.

Breakfast, laughter, much talk from the wee one, a quick game ofdolls and then I am off. Off, though I would rather stay, but I must ride south for all theaforementioned reasons. There were reasons mentioned previously, weren’t there? Of coursethere were. There must have been. After all, I am again riding south.

MISSOURI

Missouri. Lunch. A roadside diner. A man who tells me his friendonce found a motorcycle from Elvis in his barn. Name engraved on a gold plateunder a rotted seat. Tuna fish sandwich. A stout swig of tea. Freshgasoline. A dead starter.

A dead starter. It bears repeating. I push-start the GreatNorthern Steamer. Entirely dazed. I went 1,000 miles yesterday; 1,500 miles. Let’s ride,goddammit, we’re burnin’ daylight.

Mile after mile after mile, I am a Jesus freak junkie eatin’ redson a hype tryke at the witch’s hour gettin’ 30 percent rear wheel spin at 140 on a back highwayin the City of Love. My name is Horsepower and I am an egomaniac with an eggplant under myhelmet and a can of oil shoved down my throat. Can I get an Amen…

No longer do I ride a motorcycle. I am running. I am a flying manwith rounded feet. The thin leather show seat allows me to feel the frame barsnicely. My mind buzzes in time with the vaulting and halting pistons. Iam a hard, humorless amalgamation of rolling chrome, iron, blood, guts andugly. The temperature rises, cooking my head in my black helmet,furthering the departure. Fuck the law, I mumble as I unhook it on the fly and hang it offthe K-Bar hooked on my belt. How fast can I go? How long? Harder,faster, crave the vibrations, tame the wind, spank the weak highway,bleeding heart, laughing at the broiling sun, is that all you got?

ILLINOIS

The border passes like a blink. I slice the speed hard, knowing thetroopers like to camp on their outer most jurisdiction. The helmet isbarely on when I roar past a Johnny Lawman hiding in some brush off theinterstate. A warm smile. You scum ball mother fucker. I wish him well asI crest the next hill and pull off the brain bucket.

Raw gas droplets occasionally sprinkle my face as the fissure inthe sheet metal grows from a hairline to a couple of hairs line. As long as Iride fast, the wind will blow the explosive liquid down the underside ofthe tank, keeping it from dripping on the scalding hot RevTech 88.

Gas stations are another story. I shut the monster down and coastin, half expecting to rocket straight into the air when the big fucker goes.Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, the gas drips on the front jug and evaporates instantly.Skate that edge you suicidal maniac, I think as I unhook the nozzle. $1, sizzle, sizzle.$2, sizzle, sizzle. I pull the ear plugs.Riiiiiiiiiing. $3, sizzle, sizzle. I make my own napalm. $4, sizzle.

I hang up the nozzle. Dead starter. Valdosta, Georgia. I take alap at 100 degrees around the expansive semi lot, pushing, clutching, drowning in sweat.Another lap. The monster pushes me to a dripping stop.

“Fuck!” I roar as I contemplate shooting the gas tank and endingthe ride.

Sixth, we’ll try it in sixth. Around we go, running, faster,harder, hypoglycemia setting in as I begin to feel dizzy, running, farther, faster, pushingthe gear-laden scoot. Clutch, chugga, chugga, a fire, chugga, chugga, fire, chugga, cough,pop, sputter, chugga… I stop, barely able to drop the kickstand before I drop the bike.The sun hammers down. The temperatureis nearing 100. I strip off vest and shirt. Fifth gear, around we go,jogging 70, 80, 90 yards, chugging, coughing, throttling, choking, everything inthe book. Dead horse.

“Need some help?”

Several truckers walk toward me, noting my heaving sides. I looklike I’ve been swimming, jeans soaked from the waistline to my knees.

“Fried starter,” I tell them.

“Got an ’88 Fatboy,” the fat one tells me.

“’77 shovel Narrowglide,” says the skinny one with the Peterbilt capcovered with fishing lures.

“’90 WideGlide,” the trucker in the stained T-shirt says, crackinghis neck and stretching his back for the big sprint.

“’55 Pan, bro,” the black trucker says, untucking his long-sleevedenim shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

“Bikernet, huh?” the fat man asks quizzically.

“Got Internet access?” I ask.

“Sure, in my truck.”

“Go to ‘Bikernet.com’. You’ll find out,” I tell him.

He nods.

“Let’s all get behind it,” one of the truckers says.

They’re smaller men, under 180 pounds, but there are five of them,plus me, and we run considerably quicker. When we hit our top speed mark, I leap.

Cough, boom! The fucker dies as I over throttle and drown it.What an idiot.

“Shit…” one of them mumbles, hands on his knees, wheezing roughly.

These men are out of shape, they aren’t going to be able to makemore than two passes across the 100-yard parking lot before I lose them andtheir goodwill. If I don’t catch it the next time, I’m going to bespending a fortune getting a tow truck to drag me to the local mechanic who’s going towrench my wallet.

“You want to try it again?” I ask.

Their faces are red, sweat virtually squirting out of them.

“Yeah, sure,” one of them wheezes.

Off we go, running, slower this time. I give it all I can andleap. Boom!

A massive backfire burning the fumes and gas out and the RevTech 88 comes to life.I stop and look back. Strung across the lot are the truckers invarious stages of death, each wheezing in the spot where his cardiovascularstrength gave out. Slowly they gather themselves up and walk over to me,looking like track runners after having run the mile, hands on hips,sucking big air.

I put my long sleeve shirt back on to keep the sun from eating theskin off me in the deep south radiation zone.

“Much obliged, fellas,” I tell them, puffing hard.

“Oh Jesus,” one laughs, I think you’d better ride me over to thehospital so I can finish this heart attack the right way.

“Take me to the fuckin’ morgue,” another gasps.

Hands are shaken and I’m off, blistering down the asphalt at 95.The two-hour workout was enough to loosen up the horrendous knot in my upperback, which had grown so large I could actually feel the bound-up musclegroup in a lump under the left trapezoid muscle.

Illinois, Illinois, take your time, I got all day, I think as Ipush to get through the state. Then I catch myself. Why would I be wishing myself throughsuch a massive and memorable run? Most men rarely get to makeSturgis every year, especially from such a long distance. I was a fool forrushing it mentally. I sat back and watched the farm belt streak past.The fields and tractors, the horses and cattlemen, combines, hay swatherslaying down windrows of alfalfa, augers pumping grains into storage binsand trucks, pickups delivering lunch and fresh water, circling hawkslooking to pick up exposed mice, blazing sunshine, the smell of chaff drifting on the air,large vibershanks turning newly cut wheat straw, it all remindedme of my childhood growing up on our ranch in Kansas. I rode deep into time,rolling at 100 mph through half a million memories accumulatedover 33 years. It was all part of the total journey.

Life is the ultimate wind in the face of the biker. He is a lostman, a gypsy, with brothers who streak past in the night, bug-stained beardsbeating time with the grand clock of the open road. He never drinks fromthe same glass, but always from the same bottle. He never sits in the samechair, but always eats with family. He never calls the same town home, buthe’s home every night when he shuts down.

A massive wheat field flashes by, yellow lines sewn by the springdrill pulled behind the old 630 John Deere or perhaps a Massy.

A biker has a vast point of relativity and can see the good ineveryone and the bad in the few. Some run alongside brothers of 40 years like Little Joe.Some, like myself, often blaze alone, feeling the lift and fall of the highway as they rideas fast as their machine will go for 10, 15, 20, 30, 40, 50 hours at a pop.

If a man rides far enough, he will sometimes realize he’s ridden sofar that there’s no longer enough time to turn around and go home before hislife ends. It is at this time that he must simply press on into theunknown, and that unknown is time. If he rides hard as hell, he will oneday, perhaps, make it clear home. But between him and that fateful day hecoasts back into the driveway and hits the kill switch that last time, arethousands of miles, hazards, deer, rainstorms, snows, freezes, blown tires,busted belts, leaking hoses, split gas tanks, deserts with their scorchingheat, potholes hidden in the shade of a lone tree, sand, sleet, hail, highspeed front-end wobbles, crooked cops, dirty judges, horse thieves and barfights. If he can ride through all of these without giving up, withoutgetting planted, without getting lost and forgetting his final destinationor drinking himself into a permanent stupor, he’ll get home and the ridewill be complete.

In life, we all ride. It’s just that some of us get to enjoy thesmell of a northern pine and the fresh cut prairie hay of Kansas, the salt sweat stink oflobsters in Maine, the muggy swamp of the Atchafalaya Basin andthe time immemorial sweetness of Joshua trees in Twentynine Palms.
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