I’LL JUST CALL IT MY STORY
By Bandit |

I ride my bike to work every chance I get, it’s the only time I actually look forward to my hour long commute. Yeah, I could live closer to my job, but that would require moving from the sticks of Havana, Illinois. This is something I wouldn’t even consider. My wife and I have moved six times on our nineteen year marriage, none of which even involved changing our phone number, so I guess you could call me deep rooted.
I was going in to start my first of two 12 hour night shifts. It was July 10th, ’99, a perfect day for a ride. There was poker run going on in a little town I pass through on my way to work. It made it very hard to keep riding to the ‘ol salt mine. A few miles down the road, I spotted a rider stalled on the shoulder. I stopped to see if I could help. I had emptied my saddle bags and tour pack of everything, including tools. I was picking up food on the way to work for everyone in the building, it’s one of the few simple pleasures you enjoy when you work nights and weekends for a public utility. The only thing I could do at this point was offer the brother a ride. He decided to take his chances on the next rider coming along to have some wrenches, so I wished him luck and split. I didn’t realize at this point I would be the one needing the luck.
I got everyone’s order after a longer than usual wait and rode on in to work in downtown Peoria, IL. My building sits on Water Street, right on the Illinois River. This is more salt-in-the-wound of working. I’m also a boater, and here’s all these people having fun zipping up and down the river in their boats, and here’s me wishing that I was one of them…..shit. Everyone inside was happy to see their food. I handed out the orders, and I realized that I’ve been shorted one…..mine. My co-worker that I was relieving told me she’d wait, if I wanted go back and get it. Hell yes, I wanted go get it. I paid for it, I was hungry, plus I got to ride my bike once again, even if it wa just a few blocks.

“Ray’s Pumkin”
The Bub exhaust I put on Pumkin sure rattled nice between the downtown buildings. I waited about two years for this bike. I almost had her set up the way I wanted. With the exception of some different bars, and lowering just a tad, I was pleased. Pumkin was a 1999 Aztec orange Road King Classic. I had bolted on everything I bought for her before our first ride. At this point, I had no idea I’d only ride her about two more blocks before her demise.
I almost turned right about three different times to get to the street that I needed, but I kept telling myself when I caught a red light, I’d turn then. I noticed the car in the center turn lane, but for all practical purposes, it appeared to have stopped, waiting for me to pass by before making a left turn. I couldn’t have been any more wrong. When I realized the car was still coming, there was no time to react or escape the path. I was in the right of two lanes, and I had a building on my right side, and no place to go. My only hope now was the driver would see me, hopefully right now, and hit the brakes just in time. This didn’t happen. I remember being hit and flying through the air, but I don’t remember landing. I give my years of water-skiing credit for helping save my hide and noggin a bit. While air born I remember curling up in a fetal position and holding my head in my hands, just like I had done so many times when my slalom ski had vanished right out from under me on a tight turn. Any skier can tell you the water’s not very soft when you lose it in this manner. Looking back, I’m lucky I did this.
When I sat up, I was in the street. For some reason I had rolled down the street, while Pumkin went to the right and stopped after taking out a stop sign and hitting a wall. She was lying uphill from me. The starter was cranking because the controls were smashed. I remember a deafening silence as I sat in the street, everything was in slow motion. I remember thinking, “Wonderful, I’ve survived the crash, and now there’s probably gas running down the street towards me, and it’s going to ignite from the starter, and I’m gonna burn if I don’t kill the power.”
Then the blood starting flooding down into my eyes about the same time I realized my head was really stinging. I found out later that the burning was because the scalp was torn lose between the two cuts, one on the top, and one on the right side above my temple. I think it took 14 staples to fix this at the hospital later that night. I tried to stand up and walk towards my bike. It was then I knew something was wrong with my feet. I quickly sat back down, and began crawling towards the sidewalk where the bike had come to rest. The curb of the sidewalk was a major obstacle for me. That’s when I became more concerned about the injuries to my feet. Pumkin was laying uphill and away from me. I had to crawl up over the left side to reach the key switch. My leather coat was sticking out of the left saddlebag that was torn open from the impact. I pulled it out and used it as a pillow.
When I opened my eyes, there was a woman telling me she was calling 911 on her cell phone. I asked her to call work and tell them I wouldn’t make it back. Don’t ask me why I did this. I guess I just wanted someone to know where I was, and get word to my wife. I was pretty sure I was going to live, but all sorts of weird shit went through my mind, so I was covering all the bases. The second thing I remember was a guy telling me “He just kept going, man.” This was my first clue that neither one of these people were the drivers of the green Pontiac, and he had left without so much as a “sorry” or a “kiss my ass”. The man spoke again, “I hear the sirens, hopefully they’ll get here before he gets too far.” Then he said something like “Hey! You got his license!” He started pulling on something out from under my bike. It was a piece of the plastic bumper cover, and the car’s front tag was still attached to it. The impact stripped this from the car. I never did get names of the man and woman, and neither did the cops, because they didn’t see enough of anything to be witnesses. I later put a “thank you” in the paper, hoping they both saw it.
The ambulance crew was all over me, I told them what I remembered. The feedback they were giving to the trauma center over the radio sounded good to me. I was pretty sure I wasn’t about to bite it, but it was kinda nice to hear someone agree with that thought. The only bad part of the ambulance ride, was that damned back board they cinched me to. I found out later my left leg was broke just above the ankle, with five broken bones in my foot as well. I think I did this when I cleaned the shifter off as I left the bike in a hurry. I give my engine guards credit for still having a left leg. It came to rest firmly against the primary and the engine. The horn cover looked like it was molded around the guard. The left footboard was gone, as well as the the foot controls.
The real pain came when they tightened the straps, and all of the weight was resting on my bootheels. (I’m a firm believer in steel toe boots too, I’m still wearing the same pair). Most of the pain didn’t come from the left leg though. It came from my right heel, which I later find out was shattered. The medical term that they used to describe the fracture compared it to dropping a china cup on the floor. Basically, there were no pieces left that were big enough to put back together as far as surgery was concerned. The only thing holding it all together was the skin. I kept beggin’ them in the ambulance to loosen the straps on my legs…..no go. Again, I’m lucky, the accident was only blocks from St. Francis Hospital, which is the largest trauma center in downstate Illinois. At least I could get these straps off as soon as the docs confirmed no spinal injuries. And what a relief it was. Then, after about forty minutes of me beggin’ to “take my boots off….please!”, one dude has this brainstorm that he might wanna take my boots off, on account of the swelling. (Regular Dick-fuckin’ Tracy, wasn’t he?)
I can’t tell you how many times I got asked if I was wearing a helmet, or if I was gonna ride a bike again after that night. It angered me,…. alot. I realize that they see this all too often, and most of the staff are dead set against bikes. But this is like telling the driver of a car that they deserve this for driving a smaller vehicle when a semi plows into him. It doesn’t make it right, and it sure as hell didn’t change anything at that point in time. Besides, helmets don’t fit feet, and my feet were severely damaged.
I was glad to see my wife, Kathy and my son, Casey. I was about to start getting pissy with the people who were eventually going to help me, and my family’s presence calmed me a little. My good friends and neighbors as well as riding partners, Bob and Lisa came too. I remember someone again asking me if would ride again, and I told them “yes”. I then remember Bob responding with “good for you”. I think that it was the last time I heard that question for a while that night. My daughter, Kelsey, stayed home. I later learned of her fears to see me. It seemed she thought I’d be a mangled mess. She came the next morning though with the rest of the family. This was another break . I have a barely noticeable scar on my right shoulder and the rest is hidden under thick, brown hair. Not bad for someone who went down in the street in jeans and a Harley t-shirt. I still have the shirt, not a mark on it.
I got lucky again. Doc Brown came in the room. This Doc Brown is from my home town. I flet better already. It seems he heard from the staff that they had one from “your neck of the woods”, so he stopped by to see. I don’t think he had to do it, but he became my liaison for the rest of his shift. He gave me some damned good advice from that point on. Like, when the hospital found out they weren’t going to do surgery that night, they were ready to release me. Yeah, that’s right….they wanted to send me home. I couldn’t believe it. So Doc told me I should stay, and I agreed. In fact, I told the Doc to tell them to find me a room, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Before the night was over, I was screamin’ out loud, “The morphine ain’t doin’ jack shit.” I was grabbing nurses, or anyone else who got close, telling them, begging them, to knock me out, and they wanted to send me home. They ended up keeping me for a week, by the way. It was that night that the man who did this to me would have paid dearly, if I could have reached him.
It was late in the night when I got the official word of my injuries. Doc Brown told me it was time to call on an orthopedic surgeon for a consultation. Doc told me the name, and after a few questions on my part, I decide to ask Doc for some other names. I choose the first one he threw at me. I figure if Doc Maxey’s name is the first that comes to Doc Brown’s mind, then he’s the one I want. Doc Maxey was a great choice. By the way, both Doc’s were the only two people who saw me that night that didn’t pass judgment on me for ridin’ a bike. I learned later that evening that Doc decided to wait on surgery until the swelling went down. They would decide on the coming Tuesday for the steel in my left leg. I think it was about the same time I learned there was no surgery scheduled for my right heel. There’s nothing they can do for it except hang it over a pillow and hope for the best.
I don’t remember the name of the guy in the room with me that first night, he was down to one day left from a car accident, then he would go home. I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep much Saturday night from me yelling. I’d scream out, then apologize to him through the curtain. I’ve never felt pain like that before. I didn’t realize how many nerves were in my feet. It was actually kind of a relief when they died from the swelling pinching them off. I don’t remember what the Doc called it, but it’s the nerve that gives us the feeling in the bottom of our feet and toes. I lost feeling from the front of my right heel to my toes for a few months until it grew back. I didn’t know they grew back either, I just thought they were lost forever. I also didn’t know I’d be screaming out loud when they started growing back. I’ll get into that later. Several times that night and for weeks to follow, I wanted to take a ball bat to the asshole who hit me. I can’t say it was the accident that angered me, but him just leaving me on the street changed all that somehow.
They gave me a shot of something in my IV every two hours. I don’t know what this stuff was, but it gave me about twenty minutes of relief from the pain. The bad news was they could only give it to me every two hours. There was a button on my morphine drip I could hit every ten minutes or so which gave me a little extra dose. I’d get just enough to drift off to sleep, then it would wear off and the pain would wake me up. Then I’d punch this button like it was a video game for a while, drift off for a bit, and the cycle would continue. It was about this time during my first twenty four hours that I told myself out loud, “Fuck it, it isn’t worth this”. I was referring to riding a bike. It’s the only time the thought ever occurred to me, but it did creep into my brain that night. Kathy stayed at my side the entire next day squeezing that damn button every ten minutes, so I could get some sleep.
The pain eventually became tolerable after a few days. The five broken bones in my left foot and ankle were nothing. Those were a cake walk. But I don’t wish a crushed heel on anyone. Doc fixed my ankle fractures up on Tuesday like he had planned. I still have the plate and screws in it today. He said they could be removed after a year if it bothered me, but it hasn’t so far. There was a therapist who wanted me to start sitting up on the edge of the bed soon after, hanging my feet over the side. I did it for about ten minutes. The pain in my heel came back just like the very first night and lasted all night again. She came back the next day with the same request. I think I scared the hell outa her. I not only said no, but hell no, and verbally attacked her for what she’d put me through all over again. We had better days after that, and I’m grateful for all she did for me. Again, I was lucky. I had great nurses my entire stay. All of these people were a credit to their profession.
Friday came, and they’re turned me loose to go home. But first, they had to show me how to give myself shots in the sides twice a day for blood clot prevention. There’s a real confusing signal to the brain. We’re taught not to stick sharp objects into our bodies all through our childhood years. I’d sit there and pinch the fat on my side, and kinda wind up with the syringe in the other hand, like I was getting ready to throw a dart. It quickly became routine for the next two weeks. I arrived home to a hospital bed set up in our downstairs family room. We have a bi-level home, so this became my bedroom for several weeks until I could ditch the wheelchair. Doc told me no pressure on my left leg for six weeks, and none on the right foot for three months.
It got really hot and humid for the next two weeks to follow. This was probably a blessing for me. It was two weeks of those dog days in Illinois where you go outside and immediately begin to soak your t-shirt. At least I didn’t want to be out in it, so being cooped up in the basement didn’t seem so bad. Neighbor Bob had made me a ramp to get in and out of the patio door. I could go out and set on the 10 by 20 slab of concrete once in a while. Bob and my son Casey also assumed the care of my five acres of mowing as well as Bob’s own five. Kathy and the kids waited on me hand and foot, bringing all my meals down, bringing me clean clothes, getting my water ready for my next month’s worth of sponge baths. I still remember the joy of my first actual bath after that, what a treat.
I mentioned the nerves growing back slowly. It seems when they do, they’re hyper active. The signal that they send to the brain gets confusing. This is why I felt everything you can imagin in my foot for two straight weeks. One minute it would feel like there was a cutting torch two inches from my skin. The next minute it would feel like someone sticking a long needle between my toes. There were times I’d actually raise up and look at my toes, I would’ve swore that there really was someone yanking my toenails with pliers. This consumed me for about two weeks. It was at it’s worst when I was trying to sit still to eat, or sleep. Doc gave me some pills to dull the nerve sensation along with therapy, which consisted of rubbing my foot with a silk scarf and then working my way up to one of those kitchen scratch pads to re-educate the nerves. The pills kicked in after about two weeks. It takes this long for the stuff to build up in the body and to actually start to work. I remember the first night I slept for six hours, what a great feeling. At this point and for the first time, I felt like I was rebounding.
The first time I actually felt like getting out I took a short trip into town. The weather had broken, it was mid 80’s and less humid. Kathy took me to the park in Havana along the Illinois river. There’s plenty of sidewalks for walking and rolling. I can’t tell you how many people were there who I knew, all wishing me well. It’s been said that during times like this, you find out who your friends are. I thought I knew who they were all along. I had no idea how many friends I really had until then. As far as friends and family are concerned, I’m truly blessed, from my wife and kids caring for me all summer, to Bob and Lisa….the perfect neighbors, to my mom and dad for coming in and cutting and cleaning up my tree tops after a July storm, my sister for hauling me to the doc’s when Kathy had to work, and the get well cards came for weeks.
Bob hauled my butt to Halls Harley-Davidson in Springfield, to see my bike for the first time. I had been having thoughts of changing and customizing Pumkin. I knew at first glance I didn’t want it back again. There was nothing on her that wasn’t dented, scratched, gouged, or broken. The handlebars were bent around to the front and pointing down to the forks. I didn’t realize I had that much grip. The longer we looked, the more broken shit I saw. I was relieved to find out later that she was totaled. Stan Hall and Steve, the sales manager asked me if I was going to ride again. I told them yes. I asked Steve what my chances were of getting me a Fat Boy. This was the first time that I admitted to myself that I missed my first Softail. He thought he could have me one by spring of the coming year. This didn’t surprise me, I was hoping for the upcoming fall, but I knew that answer was coming. What I didn’t know, was that they would make some calls, and do some trading. I’m not really sure what they did. The only thing for sure was that I went to see them on my crutches months later, and Steve handed me a paper with a serial number. The bike would arrive in December. I had a pretty big lump in my throat at that moment.
I spent the next several months going to the Doc’s office. The first phase was getting a cast for the left foot. I could use it for a pivot foot to get in and out of the wheelchair. My basement was actually cool to move around in. I had my pool table re-clothed while I was laid up. I spent a coupla months bugging my family to play me whenever they got the chance. My next phase was an air cast for each foot and crutches. This came in September. At this office visit, I was informed that the next plan would be to let me walk on my left foot in October. That was three months exactly from the day of the accident. When I went back for my next office visit, Doc asked me if I was ready to try walking on my left foot. I said I was ready. He then asked me if I was ready to try walking on the right foot. I was speechless. He told me it had healed very well, and he didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t walk on it. I left the office on crutches, but without the moonboots on my feet. This rivaled the same feeling that I’d had when I got to stand up and piss for the first time in months…….damn, the little things we take for granted. I was surprised at how little I could get my feet to do for a few days. At first, it was like walking on two stumps, then things came back fairly quickly.
I still spent the fall and winter going to the Doc’s for therapy though, because the next hurdle was the heel spurs I developed when I started walking again. I still have scar tissue built up from this. It feels like my sock has slipped down below my heel and I’m just leaving it there. This feeling increased by the fact that my heel had “popcanned” when it was shattered. When it was compressed on impact, it spread out to the sides and stayed that way. Instead of me having that concave or that dimple that goes in under my ankle socket, mine goes out. My heel is flatter and wider too. I buy shoe insoles, and whittle some of the arch support out of them to compensate for this. I also had to buy all new shoes for the most part, because I had new feet. It was like wearing someone else’s shoes. I took my steel toe Carolina’s to a shop and had new soles and heels put on them, and started breaking them in all over again.
I never did get all the feeling back completely as far as the nerves are concerned. My toes feel like my foot fell asleep, and it’s just waking up. I get that tingly feeling almost all of the time. But it’s just the tips. Everything else came back. I have some major arthritis, and the time I spend on my feet is very limited. It gets frustrating when you’re used to doing what you want. Running is out of the question. I use the wall to get me started walking every morning. Walking barefooted is out of the question most of the time. I can also tell you when the weather’s changing well in advance too. Don’t get me wrong, there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thankful for still being around. I’m not bitching, it’s just my story.
I got my new Fat Boy in December, hauled it home, and put on all the heavy duds I could layer on to ride it. I went about 2 miles before I turned around to come home. I was doing okay until the asshole in the Grand Cherokee came up behind me and parked his bumper on my rear fender. I was hoping he’d pass before I had to turn left in a mile. No such luck. When I got to my turn, there was a car getting ready to turn left at the same intersection. You can imagine the flashbacks I was having at that second. The fear I was having ruined what should have been a day I normally would have celebrated. I told Kathy later that night that I wasn’t sure about this anymore. The next day it got up to 42 degrees. I told myself it was time to decide to keep riding or sell the bike. I rode to town. Havana is small enough to have lots of 4-way stop signs. I figured I’d go in and expose myself to some cars turning left. It was about ten minutes before I was heading out on some highways. In about 45 minutes, I was wishing I had some break-in miles on the motor to stretch it out a bit. The second ride was the day of celebration for me. I was gonna be okay riding again. I still seize up a bit when I’m in traffic. I’m now more of a defensive rider, and that ain’t all bad.
The only way the courts could link this clown to hitting me was by his own admission. Nobody saw anything clear enough to tie him to the accident, including myself. It’s good that he didn’t know this. Had he claimed that the car had been stolen while he was sitting in a bar all day, that he’d found the wrecked car sitting on the street sometime later while walking to the police station to report it. Then he’d would have been home free. He never did tell the police he was driving, but he admitted it to his girlfriend’s insurance company and the agent told the police. He then got himself a lawyer who threw him in a de-tox program in a local hospital.
The cops had one witness who said she thought that there were two people in the car at the time of the accident, she just wasn’t sure enough and she wasn’t willing to go to court as a witness. The cops had this theory that because of the street they were turning on, this loser was buying some drugs as he and his dealer were circling the block. Looking back, the theory held water. The parking lot where he ditched the car one block up is a known dealer hangout. I guess I’ll never know for sure.
I’ve learned a lot about dealing with the insurance companies, and all of the crap that goes with it too. So here’s some advice. If you’re gonna get hit by a cage on your bike, you’d better hope it’s some blue haired ol’ lady that has a bushel of CD deposit papers layin’ around. If he’s a piece-of-shit junkie/thief who doesn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, you’re subject to the limits of their insurance policy if you seek any pain and suffering. And the insurance company knows, if you’re hit by a piece-of-shit who doesn’t have any money, that there are absolutely no assets there for them to protect. When they know this, they sit back and take a “fuck you” attitude, ’cause they know their money is the only thing you’re gonna get. They also know that if they keep the “fuck you” attitude up long enough, and drag it out for two years maybe, that their money has made them more money. So with this in mind, coupled with the fact that they’ve already got lawyers on retainer to keep the “fuck you” game going in the courts for two years or so, they know that they’re gonna keep at least another 20% of their money either way. This is where my liability limits would have came into play. I learned that if I had higher liability limits on my own coverage, I might have been able to ask my coverage to kick in and help. I’m not sure if I would’ve done this, somehow it just doesn’t seem right to me, but at least I would’ve had this option. If there’s any advice I’d give, it would be to tell anyone to raise their liability and underinsured limits on their policy.

On January 31, 2001, I called the Peoria County States Attorney’s office. The dickhead was scheduled for a court appearance. He plead guilty to the injury hit and run, in exchange for the other charges being dropped. He was sentenced to 60 days of jail time on a work release. He got out every day to go to work, and went back in at night. How brutal. I asked the assistant States Attorney why she would plea something down when he admitted his actions to the insurance people. She told me this was “standard procedure”, and that even with me as a witness, no judge would have given this guy jail time. One thing’s for sure, we’ll never know now. He also got some sorta conditional release. If he screws up in a year, he goes back to jail. That’s what I’m gambling for. I hope he remains a moron for another year. I’m thinking he will.
I decided to not let it go so easy. A friend gave me a website address for the Illinois Dept. of Corrections. Anyone can search a name from this site and see if that person has a history in the states correctional system. It seems my dirtbag has a history of three counts of burglary. Here’s the good part, he was on parole when he hit me. His parole wasn’t up until Oct. of 2000, over a year after he hit me. I called the states attorney’s office back, and asked if they had checked this clowns history before the plea bargain was given. She matter of factly told me “no, it’s not like he killed somebody.” It’s good we weren’t face to face when she told me this, because I lost it. This clowns first encounter with the law started back in 1988. I’m sure he established a pattern of not giving a shit, and I’m starting to see how he can get away with it. I called the Dept. of Corrections and spoke to a victims advocate, telling her my entire story. She said she’d check into it and get back to me. She called two days later and told me that the dickhead was in fact on parole at the time and, had they known about this, they would have most definitely revoked his parole. Because it expired, I got an apology instead. When I finished the conversation I wrote another one to the half-ass assistant DA telling her the 60-day jail time, (where he gets out every fuckin’ day like some school kid to go play could have been hard time). I was sure it won’t faze her, but I was thinking that she’ll get sick to her stomach when she learns he could have went to jail, and it wouldn’t have cost her office more than a simple phone call to the DOC. I think the real reason she pled it down was to save money and clear her desk.
The past few weeks have been almost as bad as the summer for me. I’ve learned a lot about our system of justice. I’ve learned how the father of a raped child could walk into a courthouse, lay a gun to the head of the cocksucker that violated his daughter and waste him. Several times I’ve wished that the matter could have been handed over to me, let me seek my own justice. I’ve spent my time thinking of revenge, finding out where this asshole lived. I’ve driven past his house. I’ve thought of waiting for him to leave his house, to change his life instantly one day, as he did mine. I’ve thought of leaving him lay bleeding on a street, so he’d know what it felts like. I’ve thought it through to the point of thinking that a crossbow would be a great weapon of revenge. No sounds, just a silent arrow burning into his leg. I had brief thoughts of hiring some pain for this dumbfuck, but it wouldn’t be the same. I still wouldn’t be satisified. If I were to do this, he’d have to know it came from me in some subtle way. He’d know in his heart that the blow from the man in the mask was mine, but he wouldn’t have enough evidence to put me there. These thoughts nearly consumed me before I finally chased them from my head. I decided that too much of my life had been used up by this loser, that it was time to let go and move on. Stooping to his level, as good as it would have felt for a short time, would change nothing that had happened. I had to let go of it.
It’s now March 15th, 2000 and the weatherman is calling for 3 to 6 inches of snow for St. Patties Day. It’s been a long winter this year in Illinois, and I just want it to be over. My story is done, and I just want to ride.
Ray McCausland riverbrats@casscomm.com
Bikernet Interviews – Hells Angel Rusty Coones
By Bandit |
First of all, I am a little nervous in taking on this task. I do not wantto ruffle any feathers. On the other hand, I’m honored to interview thepresident of the Orange County Chapter of the Hells Angels. I, myself, have been suspicious and skeptical of the government and itsrole in our lives since the early ’60s, when I got involved in news worthyevents. Since then I have repeatedly seen confirmations of what I hadpreviously suspected. Now I try not to be so judgmental and allow some timeto pass to get a better view before taking a stand. Bikernet: Being a member of the Hells Angels and president of oneof its chapters, what is life like where you are? Are you treated any differently than other inmates? How do inmates and employees of the systemtreat you? RC: I was arrested on June 6, 1999, in Orange County, Calif. I was taken toSanta Ana city jail, a new facility that contracts with the feds to house prisoners who have cases in Orange County. I was segregated to what is referred to as the hole while in Orange County. Basically you are locked down in aSingle-man cell 23 hours a day, with one hour out to shower and make a phonecall. About a week later, I was transferred to Metropolitan Detention Centerin L.A. At the time of this writing, November 22, I have been in LosAngeles almost 18 months. Metropolitan Detention Center is a 10-story building that houses about 1,000 federal inmates at a time. It’s owned and run by thefederal Department of Corrections. Here I’m on a floor with 100 to 140 people,with access to a small recreation deck that has a universal weight machineon it. Most of the time, our cells are unlocked from 6:30 a.m. to 9:45 p.m.Considering the fact that all of our food is microwaved, it’s not that bad,sometimes even good. The biggest thing for me is getting used to theslowness of life here. Outside I was always busy doing things I liked to do withpeople around me that I wanted to be with. As far as how I’m treatedcompared to other inmates, in most respects the same. Except when I am transported to court, I get a marshal’s SWAT team escort. At least I don’t have to worry about getting stuck in traffic; they hit the lights and sirens and everybody moves out of the way. I get along pretty good with most of the people here. My philosophy is to treat people the way I would like to be treated, until they give me reason not to. I am not suffering from any ego problems, where you have to prove how tough you are all the time, anyway. BN: Do you have access to computers and the Internet? If so, do you doany surfin’ on the World Wide Web? If so, how does the Internet help with what you want to accomplish? What do you want to accomplish with your time in the upcoming months? ![]() No, we do not have access to computers or the Internet here. Wish we did. Athome I was on the computer and net every day. I do have a Web site,www.freerusty.com, which is run by volunteers. I can be e-mailed atfreerusty@yahoo.com . My e-mail is printed out and snail-mailed to me. TheInternet has been a great way to get my message out to people in ourculture. I have a lot of information regarding politics, discrimination, bikers’rights and the drug war on my Web site. If it is not on my site, we are linked to it on somebody else’s. The site has also generated a lot of support and donations that have helped defray some of the cost of defending myself in this case. BN: Do they have a library for your use, research and reading? RC: Yes, they have a law library here. There are also a lot of booksfloating around in the unit I’m in. I have studied and read a lot of books since I’ve been here, and will continue to learn as much as I can absorb while incarcerated. One thing that I have noticed is that our culture is far too apathetic when it comes tovoting, etc. We are the first ones to bitch about unfair laws, but if wedon’t vote or do anything to effect change, then we’ve got no right to bitch. Right now, maybe one out of three eligible voters actually votes. Our country isbasically sitting by while 25 to 30 percent of the population decides who’sdoing what. We have almost no representation. You think your vote doesn’tcount? Look at this presidential election. Only a few votes made thedifference. Any way I’m hoping I can influence some of us to get involved inpolitics and effect change before it’s too late. If you want change, voteindependent or third party. Most Americans aren’t left wing or right wing, butin the middle, that’s why we need to support third party candidates that wantto safeguard our civil rights and feel as we do on the issues. BN: How about a weight room to keep yourself in shape? RC: As I said earlier, there is a universal machine on the recreation deck here and while it is not my optimum choice for a workout, it’s better than noweights at all. I always liked free weights when given the choice. I usuallywork out about an hour a day. So far I’ve maintained my normal 280-285 pound body weight. BN: Reading the newspaper account of your guilty plea proceedings onSept. 19, it was revealed that you had a history of counseling drug and alcoholabusers. Could you elaborate on this? RC: In the ’80s, I lost a younger brother to heroin addiction, and helpedto get a few friends into programs for the treatment of cocaine and alcohol abuse. I got interested in opening a treatment center around 1987. In 1991, I opened First Step Treatment Centers Inc., with a facility in Laguna Beach, Calif., and one in Fontana, Calif. I was not a counselor; I ran the business end dealing with the paperwork, etc. I had to close the business in 1995. Insurance companies cut back on benefits for patients after Hillary Clinton’s national health care scare. It’s too bad; it was a good business to be in and helped a lot of people. We put some people through the program for free, when we had theopenings, but it was expensive to operate and we had to depend on contractswith the insurance companies to survive at that time. BN: What can be done to change public opinion concerning thegovernment’s “Waron Drugs”? It’s easy to sling bricks at the status quo, but a plan to changepublic opinion is really needed. RC: If people were told the truth about drug use and the drug war, theiropinions might change. There are mountains of information on my Web siteabout this, but I’ll try to explain a little about it here. First of all, the myth that drugs are the single most dangerous threat toour children and society in general is government propaganda. Fact: Over 400,000people a year die from tobacco use. Fact: Over 100,000 people a year die ofalcohol use. If you put all illegal drug deaths together, per year, in theU.S., you have 6,000 total. Of those 6,000 drug deaths per year, most are from heroin overdoses, because illegal heroin varies in quality, resulting inaccidental overdoses. As far as crime associated with drugs, of coursethere is crime. Any time you prohibit alcohol or drugs, you create a black market. The fact that drugs are illegal makes them expensive to obtain. Addicts have to steal to support their habits. Prohibition, also, breeds corruption. If drugs were to be somehow controlled but made available to users (legally), the violence, corruption, death, and the value of drugs would drop through the floor. With no money in it any more, the foreign cartels would collapse, the dealers would be out of business, and the robbers that prey on them would also be out of business. We learned the lesson with prohibition of alcohol already, but there are powerful lobbyists working everyday to expand the drug war in the name of big corporations. The truth is that the drug war is big business for the many government agencies and private corporations benefit by this war. If you count all the local, state and federal money spent on the drug war every year, including prison beds, it totals around $73 billion a year. The prison industrial complex is huge; the only employer in the U.S. that is larger than the Bureau of Prisons is General Motors. We have over 2 million people in prisons in the U.S. Crime has been declining for over 20 years, but we are giving non-violent drug offenders more time than people convicted of much more serious crimes. BN: What can be done to illustrate the fact that drug use is notnecessarily drug abuse? RC: Drug use and drug abuse are two different things, just like alcoholuse and alcohol abuse. Drug and alcohol abuse are social problems and should betreated that way. It has been proven that education and treatment are muchmore effective than jail, and a lot cheaper. I think that attacking thedemand side of the problem through education and treatment is far moreeffective than going after the supply side. Kids from the age of 12 to 18should be required to attend drug, alcohol and sex education classes everyyear until they graduate high school. Show them AIDS patients at hospitals.Tour hospital emergency wards with them to see the damage done by drunkdrivers. Tour prisons and jails with them to show them the end result. Todrink a beer socially is alcohol use. To drink till you puke is alcoholabuse. Anytime a person drinks or uses drugs so often to affect their health, orothers, they are abusing. Some people are more susceptible to addiction thanothers, but jail is not the answer. To get to the point, anytime drug use oralcohol use affects your social life, family, health or job in a negativeway, it has become abuse. An occasional beer or occasional joint isn’t abuse,it’s use. BN: What is there about you, Rusty Coones, that you want people to know,that possibly they do not already know? RC: It’s true that I am in jail on a drug charge, but the myth that theclub is in the drug business is just as I said, a myth. Whenever a member has been arrested on drug charges, it is always his personal business, not theclub’s. Our club is a motorcycle club, period. When a cop gets arrested for drugs, we don’t assume that the whole department is involved. BN: How are your kids taking all this, the charges, pleading andyour incarceration? What have they shared with you concerning the wholething? RC: It’s been hard on my kids. That has really bothered me, for them tosuffer because of my problems. We are lucky to have friends who have come forward to help with them. My son just graduated from high school and my daughter is still in school and living with a great family. We miss each other and I don’t ever want them to have to go through anything like this in their lives. They’re both good kids and I know they will do well in life. |
A HISTORY OF BIKERS RIGHTS IN AMERICA
By Bandit |
About 30 years ago, bikers across America got sick and tired of beingtold by a bunch of Washington bureaucrats and local politicians who’d neverthrown a leg over a motorcycle what they HAD TO WEAR, how they HAD TO RIDE,and what our BIKES HAD TO BE BUILT LIKE!!
And over the years, motorcyclists have organized themselves into a viablepolitical force. We are one of the few TRUE grass roots movements in thecountry. Others may share an avocation, profession or recreation, but theydon’t share the passion.
Bikers have succeeded in taking their passion and turning it into amovement…a “Freedom Movement,” because we have the passion for freedom.Freedom is something we believe in, and that motorcycling is just one veryenjoyable way to experience it. Well folks, that passion will always beinside you, each of you, the Harley, Honda, Yamaha, BMW or Triumph rider,from the doctor to the construction worker. And that motorcycle will remainan outlet for that passion…as long as we continue to bypass the barriers ofappearance or ego and work together to preserve our right to ride.
And that’s what our movement is all about…a diverse bunch of people,most of us staunch individualists, but with one common denominator and acommon goal…Freedom Of The Road.
The kind of camaraderie that brought the first two motorcycle riderstogether to share a ride down a country lane is the same kind of camaraderiethat formed our early motorcycle clubs and associations and, eventually, ourmotorcycle rights organizations.
Motorcycle Rights Organizations (MRO’s) as we now know themstarted developing in the early 70’s, after the first national helmet effort causedalmost every state to pass mandatory lid laws. Since then motorcyclists have never beenstrangers to political activism.
In fact, early motorcycle riders were among the first special interestgroups to lobby for better roads. At the turn of the 20th Century as Indianfootpaths and trails became rough and rutted dirt roads, motorcycles servedas a primary form of transportation, and motorcyclists became vocal aboutimproving the road conditions. Later, riders were among the first groups topush for an interstate highway system.
YOU HAVE TO KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN TO KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING!
My name is Bill Bish, and I’m the former Executive Coordinator of theNational Coalition of Motorcyclists and Aid to Injured Motorcyclists (AIM &NCOM), and have been active in bikers rights for over fifteen years. I haveserved in various state positions with ABATE of California, including twoterms as Chairman of the Board and two terms as State Director.
Sooo, for you history buffs, I’ll try to piece together some of our earlybeginnings, with apologies to those who were there from the start. I wasn’t,so this is only from my early conversations with people like Deacon DavePhillips, Ron Roloff, Keith Ball, Sherm Packard and others who WERE there, aswell as my own research and admittedly spotty memory. But, to help validatethis version of Biker History, I ran the article by most of the peoplementioned herein.
Through NCOM and ABATE of California, I have traveled across the UnitedStates to preach unity and spread information, and I will always treasure mymemories of the places that bikers’ rights has taken me and the friendlyfaces that have greeted me. Because our issue is so emotional and deeplypersonal, I have developed close relationships with many Freedom Fightersthroughout the country who I am proud to call Brothers and Sisters.
It was this deep sense of “family” within the motorcycle rights communitythat inspired me to trace our Family Tree. Much has been said of the comingnew millennium, and of the opportunities and pitfalls our future holds instore, but one thing is certain…YOU CAN’T KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING UNLESSYOU KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN!
With that thought in mind, I’d like to take you on a brief trip downmemory lane, as we open up our Family Album and retrace our History as abikers’ rights movement here in the United States. Don’t worry, there won’tbe a test, and hopefully this brief history lesson will be at least asinteresting as your High School History classes!

Easyriders magazine editor Lou Kimzey issued a plea in issue #3, October1971, for bikers to come together to fight impending restrictions from theNational Highway Transportation Safety Administration (NHTSA) by joining anew national bikers’ rights organization called the National Custom CycleAssociation, but because of a conflict with the acronym the name was changedin February 1972 to A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments (ABATE).
Irecall Joe Teresi, publisher of Easyriders, telling me that they had acontest around the office to come up with a new name, and one of thesecretaries came up with “ABATE”. He told me they were on deadline and hadto come up with a logo real fast, so they took a stylized German eagle andtransformed it into the logo used by many ABATE’s to this day.
Keith Ball was just 22 when he became the original ABATE managerin 1971, and he later became editor of Easyriders and the National Director of ABATE. He recently retired from Easyriders as the Editorial Director and Executive Vice President of Paisano Publications and went intoretirement, though he now operates an internet site called Bikernet.com whichstill focuses on bikers’ rights. Easyriders began granting state charters in1974, and ABATE’s which came into existence around this time were charteredin Kansas, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, South Carolina and New York; andalso MMA of California, MMA of Massachusetts, New Hampshire Motorcycle RightsOrganization, Rhode Island Motorcycle Association, Connecticut MotorcycleRights Association, and the Wisconsin Better Bikers Association. Easyriderspublished phone numbers, contacts and legislative news, and the bikers rights network began to grow. The Modified Motorcycle Association of California was founded at the same time as many ABATEs.
The original federal helmet mandates, which were instituted in 1966 byCongress and later repealed in 1976, were designed by the U.S. DOT (Department ofTransportation) as a means to restrict modified or customized”choppers” which they deemed unsafe. Especially extended forks andapehangers which were popular.
Deacon, founder of ABATE of California, once related to me thatthe 60’s fad of ridiculously high sissy bars came about because thegovernment started requiring “grab bars” for passenger safety, so the ridersof the day flaunted the law by building them as long and garish as they couldget by with.
Almost every state during this time began passing handlebar heightrestrictions, eyewear requirements, motorcycle licensing requirements,lights-on laws and other equipment regulations and many other restrictions. The government claimed that the restriction against our “Freedom Machines” were coming down the pike to make motorcycle riding”safer”. Funny, but back in the sixties they just wanted to force bikers offthe streets. Publicly they tooted that they wanted to SAVE US from ourselves!

In most states, before motorcyclists became politically organized, theclubs were the first to fight helmet laws and other restrictions. In manyinstances clubs founded the states’ motorcycle rights organizations.
Before MMA or ABATE of California came intoexistence, the Hells Angels M/C and Ralph “Sonny” Barger in particular hadsucceeded in keeping the state of California helmet-free even though Congresshad passed legislation in 1966 requiring every state to pass a helmet law orlose 10% of their federal highway funds, (this should sound familiar, since wejust recently faced the same type of national helmet law in the nineties).Rumors still circulate around Sacramento about 1,000 Hells Angels on theCapitol lawn, and HA’s camped outon the door steps of legislative opponents. Soon the old intimidation tacticswore thin and club leaders realized that they needed tolegitimize their efforts by creating a more sophisticated political lobbyingarm. In the case of California, the Hells Angels founded the MMA of California. Various states have similar history with local clubs which were the roots of their MRO.

About this same time, the American Motorcyclist Association began torecognize the motorcyclists rights movement and they established the AMAGovernment Relations Department, but not until 1976.
As the rights movement grew, Don Pittsley, a member of the Huns M/C inConnecticut convinced his congressman, Rep Stewart Mckinney, to introduceH.R.3869 to end the Federal authority to withhold highway funds from stateswithout helmet laws. In July of 1975, Rob Rasor of the AMA, Ron Roloff ofMMA and Ed Armstrong of ABATE of Chicago presented the House Sub-Committee onSurface Transportation with convincing testimony to repeal the mandates. California was being sued by the DOT, because GovernorRonald Reagan refused to comply with the federal mandate. Roloff helpedconvince California Senator Alan Cranston to offer the language of the billas an amendment to the 1975 Federal Highway Act, which passed withoverwhelming support from the California delegation because of the impendinglawsuit. It was signed by President Gerald Ford on May 5, 1976. Not bad fora rag tag bunch of bikers with little or no previous political ambitions.

Spurred on by many successful protest rallies around the countryfollowing the national helmet law repeal, 30 state laws were repealed. ABATE, MMA and other motorcycle rightsorganizations sprang up in every state across the country and are now afixture in state houses.
There were several failed attempts to start a national motorcycle rightsorganization, including Easyriders’. In 1985 the Motorcycle Rights Fund (MRF – later changing their name toMotorcycle Riders Foundation) hosted their first Meeting of the Mindsconference, and a few months later, in 1986, the National Coalition ofMotorcyclists (NCOM) held their first National Convention. Motorcyclingleaders realized the need for a united voice and the necessity of networkingand communications, and both the MRF and NCOM grew and have become effectivepartners with state MRO’s in protecting riders’ rights on the federal, stateand local fronts.

The concept of unity was put to the test in the early 1990’s, whenCongress again attempted to force states into passing helmet laws, andAmerican motorcyclists came together en masse, and in a coordinated effortbetween the MRF and NCOM virtually every state sent representatives fromtheir State MRO to walk the hallowed halls of Washington, D.C., in search oftheir U.S. Senators and Representatives. The grand lobbying experimentWORKED, and in just FOUR YEARS bikers were able to convince Congress to onceagain repeal their misdirected and misguided “nanny” law and return thedecision to the individual states. That same legislation also repealed the55 mph minimum speed limit! Soon afterwards, Arkansas modified theirmandatory helmet law to allow Freedom of Choice for adult riders 21 andolder. Texas soon followed, as well as Kentucky, Louisiana and, mostrecently, Florida.
Today, the scoreboard reads 20 Helmet Law States vs. 30 Free ChoiceStates!

As a result of our newfound political clout, motorcyclists havesuccessfully approached Congress twice over the past few years, first in 1996to grant federal protections against insurance discrimination based on modeof transportation because many companies (most notably Ruger Firearms and theTeamsters Union) were denying medical benefits to employees injured inmotorcycle accidents). Although this legislation was recently nullified bynew federal regulations written in the waning days of the ClintonAdministration, this nationwide effort was textbook politics at its best. The fight continues but the movement WILL succeed in reinstating the intent of Congress to protect us againstinsurance discrimination.
Then, in 1998, motorcyclists united once again to put together apro-active agenda for bikers, and succeeded in lobbying it through Congress.Included in this “wish list” for bikers was a guarantee that motorcyclistswould be included during the development of the Intelligent TransportationSystem (ITS) technology, which ensures that motorcycles are guaranteed access toany and all roads built with the use of federal highway funds (no road bans).This effort will restrict anti-motorcycle lobbying efforts by NHTSA and provides $131 millionfor recreational trails development and maintenance!

During this active span of time, many state rights groups have become proactivewithin their states instead of RE-acting to legislative threats. Minnesotapassed our nation’s first law to make it illegal to discriminate againstsomeone because they ride a motorcycle. Arizona, Iowa, Oregon and Washingtonhave successfully repealed or modified their state’s handlebar height laws.Virginia and Illinois have lobbied their states to reinforce the federallyguaranteed access to roads by passing laws to protect our rights to ride onany roads within their state boundaries. Virginia and Maryland amended theirstate’s parking laws to allow more than one bike per metered space. Andseveral states have fought and defeated “No Fault” insurance proposals thatare unfair to motorcyclists.
Also, now, through the work of the National Coalition of Motorcyclists,patch holders in nearly 40 states and two Canadian Provinces have cometogether to form Confederations of Clubs to fight discrimination and policeharassment through the courts, bringing the motorcycle rights network fullcircle with the rejuvenated interest of the motorcycle club community.

While our early bikers’ rights leaders paved our way, other dynamic andconcerned riders have come forward to take the reigns and lead us into thenew millennium.
We should never forget the efforts and sacrifices of our predecessorswho faced intimidation from law enforcement, indifference from legislatorsand animosity from a public that saw “The Wild One” one too many times.They got the job done. Were it not for their perseverance and dedication,we would not have become the respected and effective grass roots lobbyinggroup that we are today.

So, there you have it. The roots of ABATE and the Americanmotorcyclists’ rights movement run deep in the hearts of those of us who haveaccepted and, in turn, passed on the torch of Freedom of the Road. To allthose who came before, we salute you.
Where will the future take us? That’s entirely up to you. New restrictions onour freedom and our motorcycles are coming at us now from across the big pondIf we don’t increase our political strength, we may be looking at thelast days of motorcycling as we know it.
W need to protect the future of motorcycling against theupcoming European invasion! The biggest threat facingmotorcyclists today is not necessarily from our own Government. It may verywell be the EUROPEAN THREAT, as the strictest motor vehicle standards in theworld are adopted as global standards.
On June 25, 1998, the global motorcycle came closer to reality, as theUnited States, Japan and the 15 member countries of the European Union (EU)signed an agreement in Geneva, under the auspices of the United Nations, todevelop global regulations concerning the safety performance of motorvehicles and equipment. So, the UNIVERSAL motorcycle is on it’s way.
The automotive and motorcycle industries have long advocated globaluniformity of standards, because conflicting standards mean expensive designchanges for each market. Unfortunately for motorcyclists, this means thatEuropean threats such as leg protectors, air bags, noise limits, horsepowerrestrictions and anti-tampering measures, will now become global issues. There are 300,000 new bikes sold in the USA eachyear, and 1,000,000 new bikes sold in Europe. Which standards do you thinkwill apply?
Construction standards could ban:Air-cooled engines, open chain drives, 2-stroke motors, self-tuning andcustomizing. Regulations will include Catalytic Converters to reduce emissions, along with reducingpower and increasing fuel consumption, while driving up the cost ofmotorcycles.
Medium/Long Term Threats in Europe include the following:
Vintage/classics banished to museums, due to End-of-Life issues
Construction standards mandated
Using “Anti-Tampering” Sheer Bolts to prevent home maintenance andperformance work.
Armored, high visibility clothing.
Bike bans on certain roads, in certain tourist areas and when pollutionlevels rise.
Massive road tax increases and heavy-handed taxes on motorcycles.
Multi-stage (tiered) licensing to ride a motorcycle, and very expensive.
Yes, and research continues, even today, on leg protectors and air bags!
Vision Zero:There’s no such thing as an “accident” with today’s technologically advancedvehicles. BUT motorcycles will always be subject to human error?thereforethey would be BANNED under this proposed Swedish plan which almost becameofficial policy!
Intelligent Transportation System:Basically, the purpose of ITS is to use technology to achieve a moreefficient flow of traffic. But while the goal is safer, quicker travel,ultimately ITS technology will eliminate human error by taking control of thevehicle away from the driver.
NHTSA promises active public participation in the development of the newglobal motor vehicle safety standards, with public meetings and commentperiods as the plan is implemented, and Congress has promised thatmotorcycles will be included in any future ITS developments. Motorcyclistswill have to ensure that our collective voice is heard during the planningstages.
So, if we want to continue to ride free, we must spread the word toother concerned riders, to our youth, and to our legislators. Join a motorcycle rights group and support their efforts. Freedom will never die.
–Bill Bish
Bikernet Brings You The Rarest Motorcycles of All
By Bandit |

I have known Don Nowell for ten years. I’ll never forget the first time I witnessed one of his completed custom creations. It was one of those mundane days when I ran across every franchise excuse for life from McDonalds to Winchell’s Donuts, only to have Don walk into my office with something so different, so creative, so well made that I was slack-jawed for an hour. I wondered how and why a man would painstakingly build a quarter scale custom using every ability and skill he had mustered in 50 years of hot rods and riding.
“After thirteen years of designing and working for other companies, Don said, “I needed to make my own statement, create something new with my own stamp on it. So in 1994 I arrived at the idea of making a model bike. It took thirteen months from a blank sheet of paper to the first finished example. It was debuted at the Peterson Automotive Museum.”

His designs and manufacturing skills are on a level with the famed house of Faberge. Each motorcycle is hand made to the customer’s requirements and certified to be one of a kind. Don began his long successful career with models, “There is a saying, ‘Time flies when you’re having fun!” Don said, “Fifty years have gone by for me working with my hands and building neat stuff! I started at ten years old with model airplanes, coasters, etc. Then in high school I won the Rotary Club contest in electric shop with my electric motor. Winning that award was my first taste of the satisfaction you receive when you build something exemplary.”

In this case greatness is in the details. These ultra-unique, hand-fabricated, hand-assembled, hand-painted marvels require a trained eye to appreciate the depth and dedication involved in their creation. They are not plastic models or stamped-out “collector specials” made in the thousands. They are as rare as Bugatti’s.
“Unfortunately, people are used to seeing plastic models that are glued together in a few hours and sometimes give my work a passing glance,” said Don, who has spent several years and hundreds of thousands of dollars in the tooling for his two-wheeled wonders.
His story of artistic achievement stretches back some decades during which Don built and raced his own hot rods, wrenched together hypo car and boat engines, restored Pebble Beach winning antiques, and built custom motorcycles as well as prototype metal and die-cast toy vehicles.
“After school I started to hang out at Bob’s Big Boy in Van Nuys during cruise nights,” Don said, “sure there was little street racing with my ’57 Bel Air. I wanted to go faster, so I started building a B/Gas ’37 Chevrolet Coupe. In ’64 I raced the gasser. I won at the drags and at the car shows as well. In December ’66 “Hot Rod” magazine featured my car. I also set a record at the time of 121.80 mph at Irwindale drag strip.”
I took a little time away from racing to work for J.B. Nethercutt at SanSylmar, restoring cars for his classic car collection. I am proud of being ableto say that the 1924 McFarlan I put together won its class at the PebbleBeach Concourse Show in 1975.”

Don incessantly sought ways of building new products and even improved tooling to make products faster and more efficiently. He used a full-sized bike to determine his dimensions, opting for a quarter-scale adaptation. After calculating the correct ratios, his next step was figuring out how to make a laced wheel. He designed and built fixtures to hold rims and hubs in place. By hand he drilled holes and laced the wheels with stainless spokes and nipples.
“Once I had accomplished building the wheels,” Don said, ” I knew I could build the rest. But I needed the correct tires to match the wheels. I chose a tread design later provided and approved by the Avon Tire Company, down to the Avon logo and arrows indicating tire direction.” He designed and fabricated his own mold for the tires, a 21-inch scaled down front and a 16-inch rear.
In ’76 I went back to engines full-time, also working on motorcycles. I started to build disc brake rotors for flat track racing bikes. In 1980 I started to build prototype and production toy trucks for Smith-Miller.”

Work on the frame came next, a long, painstaking and expensive period of R&D. It required bending the raw tubing, fabricating fixtures to hold the sections in place, milling and metering all the joints. Try welding with a magnifying glass. The body parts also required equal effort. After making a die set for the front fender, it was stamped out of sheet metal. “I finally decided to cast the gas tanks out of thin wall investment cast aluminum,” Don explained, “and then fabricated the rear fender out of one-piece aluminum using a CNC milling machine. This guaranteed a straight, parallel finish.”

The next hurdle, a big one, was the engine and transmission. Don made all the prototype components from 6061 aluminum billet utilizing his milling machine and lathe.
In ’67 I started building engines at “Bartz Engines” for “Can-Am” cars and became shop foreman,” Don said, “I decided to start my own engine shop which opened in ’69, building engines for stock cars and circle racing boats. In 1970 I received a U.S. Patent for a valve job tool called the “Qwik-Seat.”
His model engine prototypes were taken to a foundry that was able to take molds for the engine lower ends, cylinders, transmissions, and carburetors. “Then I had them cast out of aluminum, and it was a great joy to see them come out perfect,” Don added.
As with any custom bike, the customer has the choice of engine, in this case an Evo big twin or a classic Knucklehead power plant.

Take a look at the seat. It’s fashioned from soft foam rubber covered with glove leather. The tiny speedometer features the correct red tip on the indicator arm and last odometer number. The shifting levers all function and feature a ball detent on the transmission so that it clicks seemingly into gear when the shift lever is moved up or down. Don’s scale model seems more true than real. The hand levers are fitted with springs, with a piece of rubber inserted on both the clutch and brake side to simulate the real feel of their operation. The bike features a working suspension, both front and rear with 3/8-inch travel, again mimicking full-sized machines. The front end sports down tubes cut from ground stainless tubing. Don’s gone so far as to make molds for the headlight and taillight lenses, again made from plastic like the real article. Even the derby and inspection covers are separate pieces and literally bolted on. The fasteners are created from special stainless hardware. You can see them on the swingarm pivots, triple clamps, axles, and elsewhere. Some 152 individual, very tiny bolts.
Paint is of utmost importance, and Don offers a list of pearl tones including candy orange, blue, red, and black with hand rubbed custom paint available to match corporate colors or even a real bike. As for the metal finish, all are polished aluminum other than the castings, which are also polished to a spectacular shine.
“As I was doing design work full-time,” Don explained, “I would see a story or photos of high-end car models from around the world, and that planted the seed in me to do that same kind of work. With my passion for motorcycles that has lasted until this day, I decided to build 1/4-scale custom motorcycles.
As of now Don has six bike styles available:Softails, Fatboys and Choppers plus a Springer front end and three-spoke Billet wheels. He can build custom bikes to match full-sized ride or whatever a client would dream of. Each hand built custom is 24 inches long, 8 inches wide and 13 to 15 inches tall depending on the bars. The bikes weigh 12 pounds and you can check his operation at http://www.motorcyclefineart.com or call (818) 363-8564.

Sonny Lives In Biker Heaven
By Bandit |
The legendary Hell’s Angels patriarch, who helped found the motorcycle clubalmost 50 years ago, has battled cancer and heart disease as fiercely as thelaw, but has no intention of allowing age to mellow him — or giving up thefree-wheeling lifestyle he loves.
“I’m not going to change. I’m not going to slow down. Riding a motorcycle isjust about the most fun thing in the universe,” 64-year-old Barger toldReuters during a visit to a Hell’s Angels clubhouse in London’s East End.
“Hell, most guys would love to retire to have this kind of life so I don’tneed to retire. Plus I just bought a new bike last week.”
The grizzled, tattooed Californian is the kind of rough, tough, unrepentanthard man that country and western songs are written about.
His reputation as grand-daddy of the world’s 50,000 Hell’s Angels has spreadfar beyond the biker community, attracting both hero-worshippers anddetractors on the way.

ROLLING STONES
Barger said he was constantly being asked to tell his stories about theAngels’ history, particularly during the 1950s and 60s when theirhell-raising exploits shocked “straight America” and branded them asoutlaws.
“But probably the question that I get asked the most is what happened atAltamont,” he said in reference to an infamous Rolling Stones concert nearSan Francisco in 1969 when the Angels’ provided security in return for a fewkegs of beer.
During the concert, which started after the crowd was kept waiting forhours,a fight broke out and an Angel stabbed a man to death. The band decided topull the plug.
“Keith Richards told me the band wasn’t going to play anymore until westopped the violence. I stood next to him and stuck my pistol in his sideandtold him to start playing his guitar or he was dead. He played.”
The writer Hunter S. Thompson was among those celebrities who sought him outin the 60s, intrigued by the bikers’ outlaw life.
Thompson hung out with Barger’s Oakland chapter before writing abest-sellingbook about the Angels — which Barger still angrily dismisses as an”inaccurate piece of junk.”
“A lot of the myths about the Hell’s Angels came from that book and stayedaround for years,” he said.
“(Thompson) was a pain in the butt. He ended up getting beaten up and sentdown the road.”
Barger makes no concession to age or illness, brushing off cancer and aheartattack with a wave of his hand.
His leathery tanned skin is testament to the 40,000 miles (64,370 km) heputson the clock of his Harley Davidson Road King every year and the time spentoutdoors working on his small Arizona property.
Reared by his older sister after his mother ran off with a bus driver andhisfather drowned his sorrows in drink, Barger joined the U.S. army at 16 afterforging his birth certificate.
“I learned things in the army that I found interesting. Like how to takeweapons apart.”
He was kicked out with an honourable discharge in 1956 when his deceptionwasdiscovered and soon developed a hankering for another type of uniform –thatof the wild leather-jacketed bikers who were just beginning to band togetherin clubs.
One such fledging group was the Oakland Hell’s Angels. Barger swiftly becameleader of the pack and helped oversee the formation of independent chaptersaround the U.S and abroad.

LEADER OF THE PACK
He is now regarded as the unofficial leader of the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club worldwide and wears his distinctive Death’s Head patch on his leatherjacket with pride.
“We’re stronger, we’re bigger than ever and I can see another 50 yearscoming.
“The motorcycles are the best thing about the club. But the brotherhood is agreat thing too. We take care of each other.”
Barger’s autobiography was an international best seller when it waspublishedin 2000 and launched him into a new globetrotting career as a celebrityauthor, signing books and making personal appearances.
A second book, of biker stories, was published this year and two more are inthe pipeline. A movie about his life is in the works and Sonny BargerPremiumLager is on liquor store shelves.
Courteous and polite in person, it is easy to forget that the “loveablerogue” — as one fan described him — is a criminal with a long record forviolent assaults, kidnapping, firearms offences and conspiracy.
But Barger shrugs off any questions about his past and says he has only oneregret in a life filled with battles, jail, drugs and divorce.
“If I had to do it all again, I probably wouldn’t smoke,” he said with ashort laugh, speaking through a hole in his windpipe after his larynx wasremoved during cancer surgery 20 years ago.
“People have misconceptions about things they don’t know about and a lot ofpeople don’t know a lot about us. The biggest misconception is that we are acriminal organization.”
Barger said the club had a strong code of honour and its members abided bystrict rules, which he was reluctant to reveal.
But his book lists them as including no stealing from other members, nomessing around with another member’s “old lady,” no spiking the club’salcohol with dope and, more tellingly, no throwing ammunition onto livebonfires.
Barger’s stories do little to quash any prejudices about the Angels. Hisbooks are packed with tales of battles with the law, murders, violentassaults, drugs, booze and general mayhem.
One story recounts the theft of his beloved hand built bike “Sweet Cocaine”in 1968. The culprits, prospects for a rival club, were rounded up andpunished.
“One at a time we bull-whipped them and beat them with spiked dog collarsandbroke their fingers with hammers.
“Moral of the story — don’t get caught stealing a Hell’s Angels bike,especially if he is the president.”
Bikernet Reviews “STURGIS” A Photographic Book By Michael Lichter
By Bandit |

A two-wheeled tribute, to the life and times, of the Black Hills Rally, is also a homage, to a man’s vast talents, with a camera. The hard-bound book is 10.25 by 10.25 inches and contains 168 pages, of heavy glossy stock, with a forward by Peter Fonda. Each image is handled, as if fine art, with grand white space to mat each photograph. Over a decade was dedicated to this odyssey, by Michael, to transform his art from the plentiful pages of Easyriders to an austere book devoted to Sturgis and his abilities with a Nikon Camera.
Each page reveals the history of the Black Hills motorcycle rally, over a 20 year period, during which Michael was sent to cover the event. Beyond the photo-journalist aspect, through the carefully scribed text, the personalities, the history and the riders’ feelings for the road, burst to life. It’s a tribute to all who have ever peeled through sizzling Avon tyres to reach the party in Sturgis. It’s a guide to anyone who has never attended a biker celebration of such magnitude or felt the exuberance and freedom of the open road.

As Peter Fonda put it in his forward, “I finally made my pilgrimage to that Valhalla in 1990, for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the classic motorcycle rally of our times. But in 1990, there were 500,000 motorcycles, maybe more. And it was awesome. I rode up and down Main Street, rows of bikes lining each side of the road and a row two-deep running through its middle. Truly awesome. At least three concerts were going on at the same time for a full week. There were races, hillclimbs, and well-endowed women pulling their tops up and showing their beautiful breasts to anyone who asked. And cookouts at fields full of tents from Sturgis to Rapid City. Someone was always ready to help a fellow rider with whatever problem he or she had. It was a circus of delight for an enthusiast, and I was certainly, at the least, an enthusiast.”
The history, of Sturgis and the Badland, reaches way beyond the biker according to Michael, “Before outsiders came searching for precious metals, these Native Americans had a long and rich history, albeit not written. Acknowledging this, General William T. Sherman, representing the U.S. government, and Chief Red Cloud of the Oglala Sioux signed the Fort Laramie Treaty in 1868 to insure that the Native American way of life could continue as they knew it, uninterrupted. The following year, the treaty was ratified by the U.S. Senate and signed into law by President Andrew Johnson. According to the treaty, other than Indians, only U.S. government agents and the military were allowed into the area. Guaranteeing government protection of the Black Hills as a homeland for the Sioux, the treaty expressly prohibited trespassing by anyone else under penalty of removal and arrest.
“All seemed well until July 1874, when Colonel George Armstrong Custer led a 7th Cavalry expedition through the Black Hills to establish an army post and to see if rumors of gold were true…” You know the rest.

The biker lifestyle blossoms in the photo captions, “When I was 16 I was going to jail and the judge said, ‘Jail or service, boy,’ so I went in the service,” Puppy said. “And I fucked up there, too. Steady. I got an honorable discharge, but by the skin of my teeth. I stayed in trouble the whole time I was in the service and I rode my motorcycle.” That’s an excerpt from Puppy’s words below Michael’s photo, “Coming At You, Wyoming, 1994”.
Motorcycle club life and style is revealed in the shots of brothers strolling down Main Street in Sturgis. “When I first got my “Property of” buckle, I hated it, “Donna said. “l wasn’t going to wear it, so it hung on the back of my chair for three weeks. I got the impression that this guy thought he owned me and controlled me, but I knew I was a single, independent woman and I wasn’t any body’s property. My man wasn’t happy. I didn’t understand that it meant more, to him, to give me that buckle than to give me a diamond ring. Eventually, I started getting to know more people and realized that if you wore the buckle, you were more respected by the brothers in the club. It also provides protection, to a certain degree, because people realize you are with a club and they leave you alone. I’ve been wearing my buckle for almost six years now. I feel naked without it. It’s a part of me and I wear it with pride.”

If you don’t feel a sense of cavern-deep freedom and pure adrenaline joy from this book, you’re missing a link. “Once you get on the bike, it’s like heaven. It’s the best thing in the world,” said “Crazy John,” a B-fuel Harley pilot while at The Sturgis drags.
“Cowboys and bikers have always been connected in my mind, ” Michael professed in one of his captions. “What you see is the full frame, from edge to edge, as canted or cocked as it was in the viewfinder,” Michael added about his images. “While it would be easy to move or eliminate elements to improve a photograph, I have chosen to show it, as it is, or not show it at all.

“Almost all of the images were taken with 35 mm cameras, the exception being some medium format black and white film that I shot with a $10 plastic lens camera in 1999,” Continued Michael about his craft. “In the 1970s the cameras were manual focus, manual exposure, fixed lenses like the Nikon FM and F2. I moved to the F3 and F4 in the 1980s and then to more automatic cameras like Nikon F5s in the 1990s. More recently, I have started to use digital cameras like the Nikon D1 and D1X. Even the automatic cameras were set on manual exposure for the most control, and to this day, regardless of camera, I only use manual flashes.”
If a picture is worth a thousand words this book is worthy of 165,000 at the bare minimum, plus the quotes, Peter Fonda and Dave Nichols input and Michael’s impressions of his many years relishing each shutter-snap from the bed of a pickup, the seat of a sidecar, or in a downpour, as longe as it was taken in the Badlands. It’s more than a photo book, but a memorial to a leather clad and chromed lifestyle representing one of the last American freedoms–Ride Forever.
–Bandit

This book is available through any major bookstore, Motorbooks Int. or through Mike’s site by clickin’ on his banner.

The Art Of Harley-Davidson
By Bandit |

I recently had the opportunity to roll in to Rancho Santa Fe,California and witness the unveiling of Scott Jacobs latestpainting, “Photo Finish”. All three champions depicted in the painting,Chris Carr, Scott Parker andJay Springsteen knelt down for a photo opportunity in the setting Californiasun in front of Scott’slatest masterpiece. The crowd of media representatives was dazzled by hisprecise workmanshiponce more.

That did it. I felt that I needed to share with the brothersand sisters of Bikernet the history of Segal Fine Art and themotorcycling eye-candy that accompanies it. The story is one of apassion for Harleys that comes alive in so many creative forms. Perhaps I cansimply give you a taste of some of the aspects of this wonderful history inwords, like a man separated from his woman for a long period, thesensation he has when he first touches the delicate fuzz on herforearm and feels the comforting sensation rush through him. A custom bike or the art that represents it can afford me that rush.

Ron started this business in 1984 representing two talentedartists Ting Shao Quan and Marco Sassone. By the early ’90s Ron hadacquired 60 employees and established Segal Fine Art and GregoryEditions. When I asked Greg Segal, Ron’s son, the ingredient to Ron’ssuccess he said, “He is a very good businessman and he treats people fairly.” Thebusiness consisted of representing these art talents, selling theiroriginals and determining which art pieces would be good material forlimited edition prints or lithos.
Ron was riding an eye-candy wave that began in his Woodland Hills, CAgarage, but the professional art world wiped out in the ’90s.Segal split off from Gregory Editions and began to ride out the pooreconomic conditions.

In 1993, Scott Jacobs owned an art gallery and was a Segalcustomer. His representative was Ron Copple who visited Scott fromtime to time. Scott owned a Fatboy and had been a dirtbike competitor since he was a kid. Scott painted portraits of famouspeople, when Ron suggested that he paint his passion, motorcycles. Hedid and his second piece was “Live To Ride” which the Segal groupdecided to print. They hit on the road and went to Sturgis where they setup a 10 by 10 booth on Main and woke up to a 9:00 a.m. opening,working the booth until midnight. Amongst their visitors were a few H-D execs who were moved by Scott’s abilities and the Segalpresentation. That helped open a door at the factory that had never beenajar in the past. Scott became the first Harley-Davidson licensedartist.

“FatBoy 2000” by Jacobs
An evolution began to take place throughout the dealernetwork. In the beginning, dealers did not purchase the prints forsale, but generally to decorate their dealerships. The Segal groupbegan a training process to teach dealers how to sell prints of limited edition, finemotorcycle art. It wasn’t until ’99 that 400 dealers carried theirart. There are 85 pieces currently available, some dealers carry a stock of 30or more and some buy every new piece that becomes available. As youreyes wander through some of these works you’ll understand why somedealers want at least one fine example of each creation. Theycurrently have three motorcycle artists creating masterworks ofHarley-Davidson related art. In a standard edition they print 100 smallsized prints, 150 medium sized prints, 100 large and an additional 100 deluxe prints on canvas.

You can imagine that with each creation comes a certainamount of notoriety. The launching of each piece is tantamount tohaving a child or building a new bike and having it recognized with afeature. I don’t know if I can explain accept by example. If a dealerannies up to buy a particular package of prints, a representative ofSegal and one of their three artists will hop a flight out to thedealership for a special event. Recently, such an occasion took placeat the Wild Boar H-D in Hudsonville, Michigan near Grand Rapids. Greg wasimpressed by a every day looking rider who entered the shop with his wife. They immediately fell in love with David Uhl’s Enthusiast and withoutblinking plunked $2,550 for the 100th anniversary canvas. Before the night was over, they purchased another piece of art and an ’03 two tone Heritage Springer. As it turned outthe man has been fighting bone-marrow cancer for years. The treatments had rendered him too weak to handle certain situations on his bike. Instead of giving up on riding, he switched to a side car. Now his cancer is in remission and he feels strong enough to ride, thus the Springer. “That was a couple was everything that I love about this job in a nutshell. They were passionate about life, riding, the artwork and each other.”

That same night another couple came into the dealership andthe mister was moved by one of the pieces on display called “Catch ofthe Day”. As a matter of fact, he must have stared at it for half an hour. Uncomfortable with spending the $700 plus for the piece he shrugged his shoulders andleft the dealership. His wife snuck back in and dropped a creditcard on the counter. Scott made a point to personalize the print, andlater that evening the couple returned to the dealership. When he saw the “Sold” sign on his piece, he was crushed. Upon looking closer he noticed that the sign was actually an anniversary card from his wife. He was so moved by the inscription, the art and his wife’s efforts that he and everyone around got a little emotional.
Another time Greg flew to Oaxaca, Mexico to celebrate a oncein a life time HOG rally in the small mountain community. Each yearthe Mexican HOG Group travels to another city to celebrate the rally. The

Segal group shipped lithos and canvas prints unframed to thedealership. The locals framed each selection in the traditional bold, bright green andblood red frames. “The choice of the frames had nothing to do with bringing out subtle highlights in the image,” Greg said cringing, “but the people lovedthem.” Willie G. and Jeff Bleustein rode in the parade through townwhich drew people out of the hills who had never seen a Harley in the community that was home to Mayan ruins. “The response was an incredible experience. Everybody on a bike was treated like a celebrity.”Greg said.

As you will see, we have examples and biographies on eachartist. This year is obviously special with the 100th anniversaryand four fine art lithographs to represent this historic birthday. “Growing up around the art business, I got to know the stereotypical artist…high maintenance, egocentric, a little nuts,” Greg said of the typical artists’mentality, “It is a priviledge to work with Tom, David and Scott, who don’t fit the artist mold. Each one is good people, down to earth and a delight to work with.”
For the 100th anniversary each piece was printed on 250 framedcanvas presentations graced with the 100th logo–all of which have sold out.Still they printed 1200 lithos of each creation in one size. They areall triple matted and framed with a 100th anniversary logos and onlyavailable through Segal or your local dealership.
Segal Fine Arts is now housed in a 60,000 square footbuilding in Louisville, Colorado. Doug Komhyr of Van Gogh Again Editions handles all of their printing and happens to be their only tennant. They are located under the looming ContinentalDivide between Boulder, Colorado and Denver. Five dogs and twoHarleys accompany the crew of 11 on a daily basis. While they makea living in one of the most beautiful areas of the country,it’s representing motorcycle art that makes a grown man cry, others wish forthe open road and women understand why we ride.
–Bandit

Scott worked closely with Willie G. on project: Willie selected allbikesfrom the archives. Each bike has special significance in H-D’shistory.Scott used 000 brush (pencil point size) resulting in over 400 hrs.time spent on actual brush to canvas.Prospective is that all tank logos and tops of engines exposed forhistorical accuracy.Scott’s most challenging work to date with detail so acute he even usedMetallic inks on some of the tanks for visual accents.This work is considered a major accomplishment in the Photo-RealisticStyle of fine art. Given the complexity of the detail of the bikes,this painting is the benchmark by which all other photo-realisticworks will be judged.(Note: Years of the bikes from earliest; 1905, 1915, 1921, 1933,1936, 1981, 2002.)

Depiction is from H-D’s archives; circa 1914. Scene shows first racebike, which had just won its maiden race. Important from thisstandpoint: Bike models that won races = bike models that sold well.Discussion around bike is by H-D execs and Press praising innovationsof bike and talking about how to improve capabilities.Difficulty from a technical standpoint: Lighting on an indoorpainting is crucial due to its refraction off the different objectsin the room. Painting from a poor quality black and white photopresents no keys to the artist as to gradations of shadows orintensity of light. Notice that a subtle light embraces each of thesubject’s expressions constituting the character of the painting.The best part: “SEPARATE FROM THE PACK”, the modern mantra ofToday’s rider can be traced back to 1914. Notice that every personis wearing a different style of hat; a commentary on individualism.

Tom’s palette is rich with color and imagination. Depiction is afather and son at a board-track race. Strength and determinationare the themes of this work.Lighting is key to the composition; Looking off into the sunset, feelthe warmth as it is absorbed by the central subjects. Tom usesshadow to accentuate the rays of sunshine gleaming from the bike.This is a painting that could easily be over-explained so we’llsummarize: Harleys, racing, lineage, patriotism, awesome painting,good job Tom!

Classic “Light and Shadow Painting”; main subjects (woman and bike)are enveloped in warm sunshine as the background serves more as asuggestion to the story. Colors dance in the shadows and disappearinto atmospheric shapes.Out for a ride on a splendid day, she stops by the post-office andpicks up the latest edition of ENTHUSIAST magazine. As she kicksback, the viewer is reminded of what it’s all about: Sunshine andHarley-Davidsons. The issue is circa 1953 so we are at the mid-pointof the centennial.As we begin to gravitate from the main subjects, the focus becomesthe diminutive gas attendant cowering next to the pump wondering whatto do now. Or maybe he’s just admiring her from afar; we are simplyleft to wonder. All good art is just a window to our imaginations.Masterpiece of epic proportions; enough said.
Bios on the artists:
TOM FRITZ
For those who are not familiar with this award-winning artist, it iseasily seen that he is extremely passionate about his work. Tom has aparticular style and brushstroke, which allows him to bring his subjects tolife. The way he integrates intense colors and soft lines makes his imagesjump off the canvas.
His work can be found in many private and corporate collections aroundthe world, including General Motors, Ford Motor Company, Pittsburgh Paintand Glass, and Petersen Publishing Company. In 1999, Fritz completed afour-painting commission for Harley-Davidson Motor Company, depicting theircolorful history. The finished works were published in the 1998 AnnualReport and were later reproduced as a highly successful limited-editionseries of prints.
Tom draws much of his inspiration from his family. He shares a home withwife Molly and their two children, daughter Emily and son Wesley. Withouttheir support and encouragement he could not jump on board the wild ridethat an artist’s life seems to dictate.
DAVID UHL
David Uhl is an artist’s artist. His technique, realistic with animpressionistic flair, breathes fantastic life into even the most ordinaryof subject matter. He is now among the select few officially licensed fineartists of Harley-Davidson Motor Company.
An avid rider since 1988, Uhl’s passion finally coincided with hisartistic talent. Upon viewing his work, Harley-Davidson allowed him intotheir guarded archives, to research vintage photos for his paintings.Captivated by Harley’s extraordinary history, he has set out to memorializethe legacy. David Uhl’s work reflects his ability to place himself into eraspast and capture the prevailing pioneer spirit witnessed throughout Harley’srich history. Some day we will all be saying “I knew him when…”
SCOTT JACOBS
Although Scott Jacobs drew pen-and-ink illustrations for his schoolnewspaper, he actually began his career in art by purchasing a failinggallery at the age of nineteen. At twenty-one, Scott opened Reflections onCanvas Gallery in Westfield, N.J., a gallery that he turned into a stellarsuccess. After receiving a set of paints from his wife for Christmas, Scottbecame passionate about painting. He now has a body of work that confirmsthe wisdom of that gift.
Scott merged his love of motorcycles with his tremendous abilities tobecome the first ever officially licensed Harley-Davidson artist. Scott’smotorcycle work as been featured in VQ Magazine, American Iron, Art BusinessNews, Easyriders Magazine, U.S. Art, Art World News, as well as a host ofother publications. Jacobs is one of todays most sought after artists andhis work sells throughout the United States, Canada, Europe and Asia.

Century Canvas Available From Segal
Just a quick note to say we have a few Phase I canvases available onDrae’s 100th Anniversary artwork: “Century”. Any customer with a2003 Fatboy is a prime candidate for this very limited piece. Itcomes with 100th frame package; while they last.
–My best, RonCopple 800-999-1297
For information on ordering, contact your local Harley-Davidson(R) Dealer or Segal Fine Art directly throughtheir website: www.motorcycleart.com or at 800-999-1297.
Traffic Stops – What Are Your Rights?
By Bandit |
There was a time, during the civil unrest in this country due to race riots and anti-war demonstrations, that personal appearance or vehicle type was enough for an officer to form an opinion about you and stop your vehicle. Numerous court cases challenged those arbitrary stops and the tide seemed to be turning for the Constitutional rights of the citizen. In our February Newsbrief, we listed three of the cases that helped define what a legal and Constitutional police stop was: 1. Beck v. Ohio, 85 S.Ct. 223,225 (1964) These cases affirmed the belief that probable cause consisted of facts indicating that a person had committed or was about to commit an offense. In our newsbrief, we discussed a case in Minnesota in which a biker was stopped on his way to Sturgis. The basis for the stop was a suspected illegal headlamp configuration (on a stock Harley). Although some contraband was found, the search was deemed illegal in an appeals court decision due to the fact that the officer had no real probable cause to stop the biker, and that he used tactics to intice or fool the biker into thinking he had no choice but to submit to a search. Our U.S. Supreme Court, led by the conservative thinking Justice William H. Rehnquist, has in recent years moved back toward allowing broad and arbitrary discretionary powers to police. Once again, the color of your skin, the length of your hair, or even your choice of transportation could be enough for an officer to suspect you of being guilty of something. This broadening of police power is supported in three recent cases heard by the high court. Whren v. United States, 116 S. Ct. 1769 (1996) Pretext stops, stopping for vehicle or traffic offenses when the real reason is to search for contraband, are not unconstitutional under the Fourth Amendment guarantees prohibiting unreasonable search and seizure, according to the U.S. Supreme Court. The officers intent in making the stop is irrelevant. If he believes a violation has taken place, the stop is valid. Whren assures that police will be able to stop, based on race, appearance, transportation or their whim. Ohio v. Robinette, 117 S. Ct. 417 (1996) This case addresses one of the issues brought out in the case of the biker on his way to Sturgis. He never stated out loud that he objected to a search of his vehicle, nor did he ask to leave. In Ohio v. Robinette,the court ruled that the Fourth Amendment does not require that the officer inform the detained person that they have a right to leave before consent to a search is recognized as voluntary. Maryland v. Wilson, No. 95-1268 (Feb. 19, 1997) This case affirms that officers can legally order you out of, or off of your vehicle during a traffic stop. It also goes beyond the authority of a 1977 case, allowing officers to ask the driver of a vehicle to step out of a car. Wilson allows the officers to also ask passengers to step out of a vehicle, and to detain them, as well as the driver. Officers may ask for permission to search your vehicle, but you do not have to consent. In fact, if you do not want to allow a search of your vehicle, you must vocalize that objection. Simply saying nothing is not the same as refusing to consent. The same holds true for asking if you are free to leave. You must ask if your are free to leave, because the officer is not under any obligation to inform you that you are free to leave. According to an article in The Lawyer’s Magazine, July 1997, figures on police searches in South Carolina in 1991 showed that less than 15% of the 4,000-plus vehicles they searched turned up any drugs. It must be remembered that the officer has discretion to decide whether to pursue the search or not. He has the option to further detain you, and call for drug sniffing dogs, for instance. Asserting your right to be free from unreasonable search (knowing you are innocent and have nothing to hide) could turn out to be a situation in which you are detained for a long period of time. The soft spoken, friendly officer, trying to obtain your permission for a search, could turn into an angry and determined individual not worried about keeping you on the roadside for an hour or more. Random stops are still not permissable, but the recent court decisions, especially in Whren, move closer to random stops becoming a reality. In describing his concerns over this type of stop and search in the case of the biker in Minnesota, one of the justices hearing that case, Justice Tomljanovich, stated, “Our decisions in this case and in Dezo represent what I believe will be an ongoing attempt to come to grips with the increasing use by state troopers and police officers of subtle tactics to get motorists and others to consent to searches. It appears state troopers and police officers are receiving training on getting consent to search, similar to the training sales people receive in getting people to agree to buy things they do not want. We are not dealing with vacuum cleaners in this case but with the liberty and privacy interests of all the people of the State of Minnesota, and we have an obligation to ourselves and to the Constitution of this state to do what we can, in our limited role as a court of last resort, to provide reasonable protection to those interests.” Michael F. Hupy & Associates, S.C. Rights Cards.You can receive your personal statement of Constitutional Rights, on a plastic, wallet sized card at Michael’s web site.–
2. Florida v. Royer, 103 S.Ct. 1319, 1324 (1983)
3. Lankford v. Gelston, 364 F 2d. 197 (4th. Cir. 1966)
Trick Parts From Trick Paint
By Bandit |

www.Trickpaint.com home of the coolest custom paint on the web is expanding to offer the coolest custom billet parts for your “harley” based v-twin.Jesse of Trickpaint has joined forces with Brad Beckmann of Beckmann Machine in Cashmere Wa. Brad Brings over 3 decades of experience with him.



Freedom Stands Tall
-Jess
JW Design
(509) 664-1051
Jesse@Trickpaint.com
You can see a LOT more of Jesse’s work here on his gallery page. It’s worth a look.
The Chris Tronolone Story
By Bandit |


The guy who makes our stickers, Chris Tronolone of ExpressiveDesigns, also makes the stickers for Jesse James’ shop West CoastChoppers and dozens of other semi-profitable companies.

He pulled up in front of the headquarters recently in a double stretched Hum vielimousine and stormed the doors of the Bikernet Headquarters. Eventhough his bodyguards were heavily armed, he was a sweating nervouswreck. I couldn’t figure it out and got sorta shaky myself as his menopened their coats to flash their stainless steel Browning autos.


“Chris, you don’t need to go there, man. Bandit generally pays hisbills. Hell, I’ll pay it again,” I said trying to figure out what thehell was on his mind. “How about we write a glowing article aboutyour company on Bikernet.” That seemed to make him smile some, but helooked around the headquarters as if it was a solitary confinementcell at the Los Angeles County Jail. The guy was as touchy as a shortfused firecracker. “Can I get you a girl, Chris?” I said it with puresincerity. Either we were in a lot of trouble or he was on drugs.


He shook his head and stood up abruptly. He held out hissweaty palm and I shook his hand in greeting, fearing that Bandit hadsomehow ripped him off and I was going to take the slug for anotherdeal gone south. He continually looked at his watch. He moved aboutthe headquarters like a kid who was forced to go to a museum ofancient kitchen appliances. He looked at the antique motorcycles, theDavid Mann paintings and old motorcycle photographs as if he couldcare less. With each abrupt irritable move he glanced at his watch. Abig Samoan looking body guard stepped up to him in the garage as helooked at the various stickers on Bandit’s rusting tool box, “It’stime to go to the airport, Boss.”


Suddenly he turned to face me, a slightly overweight man whowasn’t particularly tall, about 45, he held out his sweating palm onefinal time and I was sure I was going to give the ultimate gift toBikernet, my life. I shook his hand and for the first time he smiledin touchy fashion as if he was about to be involved in somethingreally bad. “I can’t stand the mainland. We’re headed back to theislands. Thanks for showing me around,” he muttered and headedbriskly for the door.


I stammered like a kid caught with his hand in the cookiejar, but I was glad to show him to the door and watched the twomuscled guardians depart.


Sure as shit, just after the long black vehicle pulled away,Bandit rolled up on a new V-Rod, then I got the story on Chris. Idiscovered that Chris had escaped the mainland right after graduatingfrom High School in 1977. He had been riding and surfing most of hislife and as the salt water fever grew inside of him he looked for theultimate spot on the earth to surf. A land with constant warm waterand rippling waves.


“He wanted to live in a different place withgreat weather and warm water year ’round,” Bandit confessed pushingthe V-Rod into the garage. “He started working at a silk-screen shopon the North-Shore of Oahu printing T-shirts in the evenings, so hecould surf all day. It was great back then, he made just enough moneyto get by, no responsibilities. His rent was only $100 a month, andhe rode around on a Yamaha 250 enduro. He later started working for afriend who had a sticker business, so he worked some days printingshirts and other days printing stickers. His buddy flew to Bali forthe summer’s to surf, so he took over the business, soon after hebecame a business partner,” Bandit said pulling a welding glassesover his head and firing up his old beat up torch.


Bandit fired that torch and send sparks spraying around thegarage as he told me that we got hooked up with Chris through hisbrother Bob Tronolone who had ridden with Bandit in the mid ’70s on thecoast. Just recently after a 25 year absence, Bob found Bandit on theInternet and they got to talking. Bandit needed stickers and washaving his usual bad luck with goofball companies that told him onething and did another. Bandit traded books and a dayroll for hisfirst batch of stickers. “They’ve produced some wacky stickers overthe years,” Bandit said while staring at a glowing belt buckleproject. He hadn’t hand fabbed a buckle in a couple of years andafter slamming into that deer his eyesight was mostly toast. He wasburning everything on the bench. “Most of the stuff they printed forcompanies was tame, like stickers for Walt Disney’s new movie, Lilo &Stitch. On the other hand they just did some for a Mud Bog race wherewomen were competing and wanted ‘Powered by Pussy’ and another onethat said ‘Pussy Power’. They also produced some for a diving teamthat said ‘Muff Divers Go Deep’.”


According to the welding Bandit, filling the garage with smoke,Expressive Designs has been in business since 1979 in Hawaii, butthey also opened a location in Torrance, California in ’87 which hispartner runs. They manufacture Mylar window stickers, Vinyl bumperstickers, and they also print on a material called rice paper whichgoes under the glass and resin on surfboards and disappears exceptfor what they print. All major Surfboard companies have their logoson all boards made. All pro surfers have all of their sponsors ontheir boards which is printed on rice paper. That paper is so rare,Chris imports it from Japan and export it to the states.”


As Bandit continued to mumble and catch his bench on fire, Idove for the rusting fire extinguisher in the corner. Bandit leanedback on the bar stool at the bench and blew a hole in the drywallbehind the bench as I sprayed the flames with near empty fireextinguisher. “Pay attention, Snake!” Bandit mutter trying to find mein the dark garage wearing number 10 welding lenses. “Chris also hasanother business he started as a joke when the GOT MILK commercialscame out. He started doing sticker’s like GOT SURF? GOT PAM? and GOTGOLF? etc. He started getting a lot of calls from other companiesthat wanted there own ‘Got’ stuff. He fabricated Got Miller Litestickers for the Pro Bowl, Got Blood for the blood bank, Got Choppersfor Jesse James, Got Duracell, Got Crabs for a fish market on Maui,and several others. They still get orders for the ‘Got’ thingsat http://www.gotstickershawaii.com


“Goddamnit Snake, didn’t you know that sticker’s are thecheapest form of advertisement there is?” Bandit said showering me inmelting brass. I decided that this conversation was futile anddangerous as I splashed a bucked of corrosive water next to thegrinding wheel on my Levis to put out the fire. As he continued tomumble, I stumbled back into the headquarters and grabbed Chris’s cardwhich fortunately contained his cell number. I dialed quickly, tryingto wrap up this mess and get to the bar before Bandit discovered Ileft him alone in the garage.


“Mr. T, it’s Snake from Bikernet, how the hell does a guyorder stickers?” I said my Levis still smoking as I glanced out atthe smoldering garage. I could still see sparks flying out of thegarage door.


“Best way to get a hold of us is to either call 808-638-9090 or wehave two Fax lines 808-638-9090 or 808-638-0171 or e-mail us @expd@hawaii.rr.com or expdart@hawaii.rr.com, Chris said running tohis plane. “Anybody can fax or e-mail art toget price quote. Tell us how many colors and what size and a roughquantity they are looking at. That way we can tell them best way toset it up. I hate the fuckin’ mainland. Sorry, but I’ve got to getback to the islands. Oh, also, if they want it die cut or straightcut we can also tell them how to send art over e-mail or mail it ondisk. We get art from all over the world and we can deal with any ofit as long as we can talk to or e-mail the customer. See ya.”

He shut off his cell phone as he reached the terminal, buthis card listed their address:
Expressive Designs 59-740 Amaumau Pl. Haleiwa, Hawaii 96712.
Suddenly the Bikernet cell rang as I was about to set itdown, and grab another fire extinguisher and head back to the glowinggarage. “I have a sense of humor,” Chris said in his scary straighttone, “just don’t make me sound like a corn ball.”
The phone went dead, as dead as I thought I was going to bewhen I first met the man. Now each time I look at our stickers orJesse James, I have new respect. I gotta get a drink.
–Snake