Mick grew up on the South side of Chicago on the edge of a coal mining district. His folks were poor, and dad died of cancer at a young age. He didn’t have much choice except to join the service directly out of High School and send half of his paychecks home.

His dad didn’t leave him much, except a dirty Softail springer classic. He rode it everywhere as if it was his tool box to his future. He changed the oil, adjusted the clutch cable and rode. It helped him send more coin home for his mom and younger sister, who did nothing and complained about everything.

Mick rode to boot camp. He rode to his first duty station, but he rode it home for safe keeping when he was shipped to Iraq. IUDs killed some of his buddies, but he survived and returned with his sand coated camo uniforms, and even a large gathering of sand in his desert boots.

When he returned, he stashed his uniform into his seabag, tucked it away, donned his desert boots, Wranglers a flannel and a leather vest and rode the Softail to a local bar.

He sat in the grungy industrial area saloon, named Iron Bar and ordered Jack on the rocks. He stared across the slick, but nicked and dented bar top to the array of whiskey, tequila and Rum bottles reflecting the dim light in the smokey bar to the dusty mirror beyond and his own reflection.

He still sported the military haircut, but his deep green eyes held a sullen, clouded nature. He ordered another Jack and pondered his future. His mom still lived in the same crummy block apartment building surrounded by rusting steel railings, and in three years his sister hadn’t progressed one iota. But she complained even more as if her bitching level reached a new stage of despair.

“What the hell are you going to do now?” the same bartender who served his dad, said.

Mick looked up from the glistening amber in the glass. He thought about Jack Daniels and what it represented to so many local guys. It was the perfect escape elixir from whatever tortured them.

“One thing is for sure,” he said and his green, emerald pools glinted just a tad as a skinny meth-head broad slid up onto the seat next to him and lite a cigarette. “You won’t see me ordering a drink here again,” Mick said and the teeth grinding street girl stopped her forced smile and moved away.

The bartender stood up slightly and looked around at the handful of regular patrons playing pool or hunched over the escape drink of their choice. An old biker turned from the pool table and nudged his shoulder.




“Time will tell, and shit will smell,” he said and puffed on his cigarette for the final time and tossed the butt to the grimy hardwood floor and stomped it.

Mick looked at the worn-out biker, three sheets to the wind, with long salt and pepper hair and a scraggly goatee but recognized the sadness in his eyes. He nodded, stood to his agile 6-foot height and dropped a sizeable, final tip on the counter for the bartender and strolled out of the neon framed front door.

The next morning, he rolled onto a freeway heading Southwest. He liked that word freeway. He thought about the west and aimed the Softail onto Interstate 80 all the way to Denver, where he headed south on 2-lane highways into Monument Valley, a red-sand desert region on the Arizona-Utah border, known for the towering sandstone buttes in the Navajo Tribal Park. He continued south into Flagstaff. Riding into the summer heat surrounding Phoenix, brought back memories of Iraq but with an upscale western twist. Everything seemed clean, trimmed and comfortable. And the sun seemed unincumbered most of the day. He researched the community college trade curriculum. He could attend classes supported by the GI Bill.

He found a small room to rent and a place for his bike, but during the college indoctrination he was confronted by an angry woman who had a tough time with genders. Mick listened and looked to his left and came eyeball to eyeball with a blond knockout with curves that made his eyes water. He turned back to the dictator/instructor and his eyebrows scrunched into a questioning frown.



He got the girl’s number and ran across a quirky speed shop where he bought a chromed naked hood ornament and had just enough tools to mount it on the big, stock, metallic blue, front fender. He stroked her silky-smooth body every morning before he threw his leg over the Softail. “Women are alright with me,” he said.

He quickly noticed a divide at the school between the liberal students and the shop guys trying to learn a trade. He also noticed the growing homeless population in downtown. In a glitzy downtown bar, he listened in on conversations, which turned acronymous between a guy and his angry girl who blamed homelessness on hardworking folks who owned homes. She called her notion undoing harm. Her bow called it disrespect, drug addiction and mental illness.



Mick started a welding class while taking required courses. He also stumbled across a bike shop, called Lane Splitters. His bike needed some attitude and the owner, Miguel, let him sit on a sharp scooter with high-bars.




Suddenly, Mick’s notion of himself was transformed and his hair grew. They immediately negotiated the installation of sharp chromed bar to the stars. His Softail seemed suddenly a silver sword against the homeless population in Phoenix, but folks somehow wanted them to take over and shoot up on the streets and shit in hardworking folks’ yards.



That didn’t seem to fit with the biker population.
He noticed other bikes screaming through the streets making their voices heard through their fiery exhausts. Nobody fucked with them and the homeless stayed out of their way.

Mick continued his welding studies and attending classes, but if one college notion wasn’t strange the next one was off the charts. He was told that everything bad that happened was due to man driving cars. There were groups on campus who were paid to protest basically against man.



If he asked, he was called a denier. He tried to keep his head down and focus on welding. He enjoyed the solitude of the arch-welding sparks and the tight nature of TIG welding patterns. At night he cruised into Scottsdale to the Billet Bar and witnessed choppers of all breeds, like freedom machines screaming in the night with deep metalflake flamed paint jobs, chrome, loud pipes and radical shit to the moon. He was blown away.

The campus appeared to be a completely different world of strange ideologies and supreme negativity, as if everything was bad and needed to be broken. Mick reacted and tore all the sheet metal off his bike and through Paul Yaffe at Bagger Nations, bobbed and narrowed his tanks and fenders and then got his bike painted flames in radical colors.



He started to cruise the college campus with a couple of other welding students. He also bought a rigid frame and started to modify it. He added to the rake and studied front end geometry. He noticed that the protestors didn’t work or study for a career. They just disrupted anything positive.



Mick worked on a program with a couple of other chopper riders in the Phoenix area. If radicals started a problem, riders and hotrodders would show up on their most radical shit and raise hell.



Mick got a parttime job welding at Lane Splitters, but he learned more from the team than he contributed. He spent time with Paul Yaffe and was blown away by Paul’s Suzy Q chopper.



Mick just wanted to live and create. He learned the creative side of the equation from Miguel, Paul and all the Phoenix chopper riders. He absorbed the chopper scene, as if he was dropped into the golden empire of metalflake madness. He learned everything from machining to performance, fabrication, truing wheels, you name it, it was available in the desert shops and garages. And the girls were amazing, active, fit, creative and hardworking, except at the college. Then they were morose and radical.



It was a night and day experience, and Mick was one of only a few riders who experienced the college dark side. Generally, the brothers who worked hard and played in the streets at night didn’t confront the lack of free speech on campus, but he knew that would change and it did.

While on campus Mick witnessed a radical group posting fliers. He strolled over to the notice board in the administration office to check it out. The flier announced the city council meeting and a ban on loud pipes and another ban on cars and vehicles in the Scottsdale downtown area. Like so many of their proposals they crossed paths with themselves. The third proposal demanded defunding the police and allowing the homeless to rob and steal without consequences.

Mick just wanted to learn, work his ass off and make a life for himself. He didn’t need this angry bullshit. He took a photo of the flier and shared it with the shops and brothers he knew in town. Mick tried to take a break, breathe and go about his business without undue stress, but it dug at him. His deep brown hair grew, and he pulled at the soul patch sprouting under his lower lip.

Morose, he attended a couple of classes and thought about the blonde knockout he planned to hook-up with, but his plans changed. He had to show up at the city council meeting and do something even if it was wrong. He shared the flier on the internet.

His phone started to ping with messages. He shared info about where the meeting was. Interest grew, but he was anxious about public speaking. And fuck it, he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.

The city hall was a massive foreboding concrete building, and when Mick arrived, he was blown away. Hundreds of choppers and hot rods lined the streets. Brothers and sisters from all over the region filled the halls. A line of guys and girls filled out comment cards in opposition to the proposals.



Even a handful of college kids protested the movement. Mick nervously approached the podium when called upon. “Before you enact any war on internal combustion vehicles you must prove your Climate doom in open court. In the meantime, we want to ride free.” The crowd when nuts and the issues were dropped, for the moment.



The party at the Billed Bar in Scottsdale was wild and Mick’s blonde bombshell met him and added to the fiery emerald glint in his eyes. There were choppers and folks who supported freedom everywhere! He sensed the hope in the night air.

This tech will be amazing. I built this 1950 Panhead during the Covid thing, so we called it the Pandemic. We fought with a magneto for a year and finally slipped in a used automatic advance distributor and it started first kick, with a Mike Egan R.I.P. rebuilt M-35 Linkert.

We ran into another issue. The clutch dragged. This bike, a poor basket-case roller came with lots of trashed parts. It did have a belt drive of sorts designed for running in tin primaries. But the clutch internals were made up of stuff I had laying around the shop.

I had issues with the clutch arm pivoting across the top of the transmission and running into the plate under the semi-stock oil tank. Like I said, nothing was exactly stock or correct. I shaved the arm, re-drilled the cable hole and notched it to align with the clutch cable bracket mounted to the frame.

I felt safe with my modified clutch arm since the relationship was working in my favor. The shorter the arm the more pressure plate movement from the handlebar lever. Although, it could add tension to the lever. But lever seemed cool and pulled easily. We didn’t dig into the spring tension discussion much.

I watched a Youtube with Bert Baker. He pointed out that your pressure plate must move .070 for your clutch to disengage. He demonstrated with a completely stock late model Harley, which moved .088. My clutch pressure plate seemed to move .090, so I was golden in that respect—I hoped.

At first, when I dropped it into gear it would kill the engine with a jerk. I took the clutch apart, cleaned and serviced it. Slightly better, and when I adjusted it, it improved, but only a skosh. Now, I could ride it a mile before it attempted to pull me into the intersection at the highway—duck.

Buck Lovell received an assignment by the supreme Cycle Source staff to shoot the Pandemic for a feature. I needed to repair the clutch, pronto. It had to be a running, riding old Panhead or die trying.

Buck said, “Those belt drives heat up and the tension on the clutch increases.” Sounded good to me and we loosened the transmission and backed off the tension on the belt. He even brought over a BDL tool for measuring belt tension.

We also looked into a new set of clutch plates and another solution jumped out at us. BDL makes a complete Belt drive, clutch system for early Harleys, but that would fuck with the Pandemic patina. Barnett makes replacement plates and springs. Buck knew someone at Energy One and we ordered their set of fibers, steels and two tensions of springs.

We were careful to remove all the cable tension on the throw-out bearing before adjusting the pushrod. It must completely release, when the clutch is disengaged.

Although this is a dry clutch situation the directions called for a brief soak in ATF before installation. Okay, the new Energy One clutch system with reduced pressure springs didn’t do the trick, and I spoke to Micah McCloskey who is a master, traditional chopper builder and engine builder. He said, “You must find a Roger Ramjet R.I.P., clutch retainer plate. They still make them but call them clutch retainers.”

I went on the hunt and ordered one from J&P, which my mail person lost, and J&P sent me another one—thanks. I pulled the clutch apart again and took out the bearing support anchor springs and plate. I replaced the plate with the clutch retainer and three small clip rings, which were a bear to install. This plastic plate has three adjustments to prevent the clutch basket from moving with the plates preventing them from disengaging.

J&P directions called for only .018 to .035 clutch basket movement. My first setting was too loose. I turned it two more holes to the tightest setting and installed the clip rings. This immediately made a difference. I could pull on the clutch lever with the bike idling and it wouldn’t move when I popped it into first. But once I rolled down the street shifting into 2nd was still a chore.

I had a date to ride the Pandemic to the photo-shoot location about 15 miles away. I barely got to the top of the hill, and it started to run on one cylinder and died. I goofed with the sparkplug wires, and it came to life.

Low on fuel, I decided to ride into Deadwood and refuel. It died again and I got more aggressive with the sparkplug wires. It fired first kick and I rode it a half mile to the Dinosaur gas station and filled ‘er up. If it acted up again, I was prepared to throw in the towel, but it didn’t, and I started riding out of the winding hills toward the interstate.

The bike handled good and ran like a champ. The clutch was fine as long as I was in 2nd, 3rd or 4th. We took the shots and riding shots. Every time I kicked it, it fired, but I wasn’t done with the clutch.

I attended a 50th Anniversary party, celebrating the Fucking Asshole and the Dream Girl’s marriage with a bunch of AMCA guys riding stock Knuckleheads, Pans and Indian fours. They know their shit when it comes to these models. Charlie told me to drill out the fiber plates with a 25/64s bit to allow for more flexibility.

Mike Kane explained that aftermarket metal plates are stamped out and the rough edge can catch on the clutch basket rails. Cabana Dan, a Hamster who works on early bikes explained that when stamped the metal plates have a smooth edge and sharp edge. The smooth edge should always face out, and he agreed with Mike. The sharp edge should be filed or smoothed slightly.

That turned into my next move, and we tore the clutch apart again. We carefully filed each metal plate and drilled out the fiber plates. It worked like a champ.

Dr. Hamster said seriously after road testing the Pandemic. “So, each clutch adjustment gave you 5 percent improvement.”

Who the fuck knows? After working on old Harley 4-speed clutches for over 50 years, I was blown away to find out so much about the bastards. This tech is currently running is Cycle Source Magazine. Get your copy today…

–Bandit

Sources:

Baker Drivetrain

Barnett Cables

Energy One

American Prime

BDL

J&P Cycles

Twice a year I make a run to Daytona and Sturgis to co-produce the Flying Piston Benefit Builders Breakfast with Marilyn Stemp, Managing Editor of Iron Trader News.

My first big decision concerning the trip was Sporty or DYNA? I chose the Sporty for the 2,000-mile roundtrip from Indianapolis. Three weeks before the event, I heard a ticking sound in the engine, so I slid it into a “new” local shop. I check with them two weeks later and the mechanic says, “I’m not sure if I can work on Sportsters.”

Huh, I’ve never heard that one before. No Sportster, so Plan B.

Plan B included my 1995 DYNA. I don’t like it as well because I don’t have the ergonomics right, but I had a plan.

I yanked the cover off the ’95 DYNA. I traded an Indian PowerPlus engine for the very used Dyna at Sin-Central Garage in Iowa. I scrambled to install a set of D&D Pipes, tighten all the bolts, run a tank full of gas through it, and start stuffing my Leatherworks INC. saddlebags with necessities.

Four days before blast off, I rolled my worn hotrod out of the shed and got it stuck in the soft grass. After fighting it for an hour, it stuck further in the mud as rain arrived in sheets. I take a break and call Atomic Bob from Ohio for advice. He gave me two words. Kitty Litter.

Kitty Litter To The Rescue – I head to Kroger’s for kitty litter. I spread it around the wheels, and in no time the bike is moving – only I can’t make the turn quick enough and run it into the 6-foot wooden fence. Even with the kitty litter, I can’t budge it backward. Stuck again.

A week before I spent $170 for AAA road service. I call them on the Bat line and they let me know they can’t help because they’re busy. “You know, it’s raining, for god’s sake.” They recommend following up the next day.

What to do? I call the new shop and they have time to come out for a rescue. They snatch the bike and haul it to the shop for an oil change. I was rapidly burning daylight.

They noticed a groove in the rear tire. I speculated that while trying to get it unstuck, my mudslinging found a sharp rock and it sliced a line in the center of the tire. SAD!

So, along with the oil, I put a new Metzeler ME888 on the back because they don’t have my Bridgestone donuts in stock and the clock was ticking violently.

And in a blink of an eye and just $376.01 dollars later, I am riding again with new hooves on the rear.

Based on previous rides, here’s my Daytona pack list:

Check weather
Check credentials
Select primary credit card
$50 cash, $100 hideout
Battery charger
Credentials in plastic
AAA membership
Smart wool t-shirt
Smart wool high-collar shirt
Smart wool socks
Venture Heat heated glove liners
Regular glove liner
Ski Gloves
Knuckle dragger wrist gloves
5 Ball Leather Shirt
Motorcycle tools
Wire
Full face helmet
Balaclava
Insulated jeans
Insulated underwear
Rain gear
CBD & Advil
Velcro bags from Aerostitch
2nd Wallet
TCX riding boots
Velcro strips
Bunge cords
(2) iPhone cords and chargers

My first stop is in Columbia, SC, to meet up with the Flying Piston Benefit Builders Breakfast social media photographer Greg “Edge” Scheuer and event volunteers George Miller and Mike Ludlow.

197 miles to a Winery – The next day we took all day to jam 197 miles to Watermelon Creek Vineyard in Georgia. That day our motto was, “Eat to ride, and ride to eat.”

Even though we have a light day of riding my back screamed, remember the ergonomics. I pull out some Delta 8 gummies and CBD capsules and pop them at our first Waffle House stop. These are water soluble natural goodness that start working in 20 minutes. They put a smile on my mug and a bounce in my throttle.

The winery proprietors, Charles and Deborah Tillman, produce 11 muscadine and blueberry wines. The wines lean to a sweet taste and a promise of adventure.

The Wine Story – Watermelon Creek Vineyard began on the banks of Watermelon Creek in 1820. Three members of the Padgett family settled there and began a legacy forging an influence on agriculture, business, and spiritual life in Tattnall County for over 150 years.

Once the site of a sawmill, grist mill, turpentine still, barrel making, general store, post office, and the Padgett home place, Watermelon Creek Vineyard flourishes as a testimony to the love, labor, and devotion that the Padgett family dedicated to this area.

Pin-up girl – Charles Tillman spoke with us about his Ohoopee Whoopee label design. “After purchasing the 1820 Padgett homeplace, various artifacts and memorabilia were uncovered during its restoration. One item that caught our attention was a calendar print Aunt Lawana had saved. It’s a 1940s illustration by Rolf Armstrong, entitled, ‘SURE ENOUGH!’ It’s our pin-up girl for our ‘Whoopee Series’. Model Jewel Flowers embodies the pure satisfaction of just being herself and enjoying life’s simple pleasures.”

We spend the night in Glennville, GA, and early Saturday morning, I’m motoring to Bruce Rossmeyer’s H-D where I meet my partner-in-crime, Marilyn Stemp. We do a walk-through and meet up with the owners’ Mandy and Shelly Rossmeyer. Their advance person, Carrie Repp, does a good job of the setting up and we were good to go for the Sunday event.

Fortunately, there were only two times during the trip I was forced to show up clean and sober. I was bright-eyed while walking the facilities at Bruce Rossmeyer’s Harley-Davidson dealership with owners Shelly and Mandy Rossmeyer, on Saturday morning at 10AM, March 5th and Sunday, March 6th at 6:30AM to kick off the event.

Proceeds from the event teach kids to ride on 2 wheels. Last year we helped to train over 70,000 kindergartners through their P.E. department. This year we funded the Ormond Beach Elementary, the same school Mandy Rossmeyer attended when she was a little shaver.

The event went off without a hitch. We enjoyed meeting and seeing the builders, including Cory Ness, Chop Docs, Brian Klock, Rusty Wallace, and a host of others.

After setting up the online silent auction and getting the products to the winners physically at the Benefit, we ship the remaining products to the out-of-state winners.

I stuck around until Tuesday morning and at 8:00 a.m. the three amigos, Bear, Edge, and myself, headed North. We shot up 95 North and over to Columbia, SC. Bear and Edge peeled off for home, and I mistakenly stopped for lunch.

During this late lunch, I added some Delta 8 and CBD combo to take care of my back, and then jumped on the DYNA. Five minutes later the bike shut down, and I coasted across three lanes of rush-hour traffic to the shoulder of the road.

It turned out my starter stuck on, and with the combination of the throaty growl of the D&D Pipes and the earplugs, I didn’t hear it. It burned out the starter and blew a fuse.

I got on the horn and called AAA. They said I don’t have the correct membership level (WTF), but I could get a tow at commercial rates. They also suggested I could get an upgrade but would need to wait 72 hours to use the service. Which was a polite way to say, “Boy, you’re screwed.” They quoted a commercial rate of $350 (WTF). By the way, after you finish Monday and Tuesday, what you have left are the (WTF) days.

I called the local Harley Dealership: No Joy –Thunder Tower Harley-Davidson, only work on vintage bikes in the offseason. Vintage? I didn’t think a ’95 was that old. But 27 years old does make it an antique. It doesn’t look that old. You remember the story about how exotic dancers and Harleys are the same? When you stop spending money, they quit.
The dealer was polite but hemmed and hawed about when the bike would see the light of day. Maybe next off season– certainly not in a mood to help a brother out.

While I’m on the side of the road, Derek stops in his work truck, ambled up and we talked about DYNAs for 30 minutes.

Again, I was burnin’ daylight. What to do? I called Commander Edge for a rescue.

He hooked me up with Joe Licketto of Madness Motorcycle. Joe hauled my bike in and then and home because he’s sick.

Plus sick the next day. Finally, on late Thursday afternoon, Joe and the bike were good to go. And in a blink of an eye and just $475.31 dollars later, I am riding again with a new starter.

At lunch, I noticed in the reflection in the Waffle House window, my brake lights work but not my running lights. So, I keep an eye out for a dealership off the Interstate. I stop at in Tennessee at Smokey Mountain Harley-Davidson and pay $10 for a $2 bulb. While I’m there, Jackson ambles up and we talked about DYNAs for 30 minutes or so.

A few miles outside of Lexington, KY, the Polar Vortex that was racing to the East Coast sweeped through the area and created a whiteout on the road. I head for the nearest exit to find The North Star Inn and Cafe.

The registration desk was in the Cafe. Only the Cafe doesn’t serve food. They have a dress shop. And the dress shop was actually a buyer’s club that is accessed on Facebook. But they do have rooms, rooms for travelers.

I’m not the only one with the idea of getting out of the cold. The only room left had a jacuzzi. Sweet Jesus! Cold to the bone, my hands felt like needles were piercing my fingers.

I parked the DYNA next to the motel door out of the elements, or so I thought. Two inches of snow found the black beast.

I like the Leatherworks saddlebags. They lock on the bike, and the bags themselves also lock. This means I can set them, forget them and unlock them and take them into the hotel. Another benefit is if I go down, these heavy 10oz leather bags take the road rash and not the painted pieces.

LINK – https://leatherworksinc.com/

The next exit up held a path to the Ark Encounter Museum.

The Inn was full not just because of the weather. The next exit up held the magnificent Ark.

The Ark Encounter is a Christian religious and Young Earth Creationist theme park. It opened in Grant County, Kentucky, in 2016. The centerpiece of the park is a large representation of Noah’s Ark based on the Genesis flood narrative contained in the Bible. It is 510 feet long, 85 feet wide, and 51 feet high.

Weird. Who goes to these things?

Turns out, people from across the world come to visit the ark. It must be a satisfying experience as each year the exhibits grow.

The next day was cold. A thin layer of ice laid dangerously under the deceiving snow. The temperature hovered around 20 degrees. I planned for sun, rain, and cold. But not 20 degrees and ice. So, I stayed the day and bought a pizza at the gas station – which gave me a mild case of food poisoning a few hours later. It was a tasty pizza with dubious origins.

Sunday morning, I’m up early, packed, and ready to go. The bike turns over a couple of times and then won’t fire. I unpack the saddlebags and locate the Battery Tender.

I roll the sled into the sun and hook up the juice. At 30-minutes past check-out, the Inn, dress shop, and Facebook promoter /owner gave me the hairy eyeball. So, I attempt another start… it almost fires. SAD!

Voodoo Hoodo – When I lived in California my hippie girlfriend nicknamed Lisa Armbong, (she had a thing for herb), took me to a Reiki class where we moved energy with our hands. So, I dusted off the instruments and laid may powerful paws on my battery.

I said a mystic incantation and then told the Della DYNA I’ll take a hammer to her tail light if she doesn’t start. I hit the power switch.

She fired right up.

Now cooked! I threw a leg over her and headed to Indy.

Event Recap – The ride was excellent. Enough things happened to make it memorable. I planned a 7-day trip, it required 12. I got to hang out with cool people and had lunch with Donnie Devito, President of KIRSH Helmets. It took 5 days to make it back to Indy—a one day run, usually.

LINK – https://rallytickets.com/2021-flying-piston-breakfast-benefit/

From the early days of Annie Oakley shooting the ashes off cigarettes in the mouths of wild west show volunteers and Calamity Jane gunslinging and scouting on the early frontier through the decades to today’s world-renowned women competitive shooters for Team USA, women have held an integral and rightful place in the industry supporting Americans’ Second Amendment rights.

What’s more is that women are leading the charge in growing and diversifying the gun-owning community in America by the millions.

The Past

Even before those women achieved renown, women were instrumental in the firearm industry and gunsmithing that helped propel a young America to victory and independence more than a century before. Among the earliest gun manufacturers, women often helped their husbands operate successful gunsmithing businesses, producing firearms for militia units and private sales dating back to the 1650s and 1700s.

The Nicholsons were a well-known gunsmithing family in Philadelphia in the early 1800. When John Nicholson passed away, his widow Rebecca took over and grew the family gun manufacturing business. It was somewhat uncommon, but women were noted trailblazers in the firearm industry centuries ago.

The Present
A flourishing firearm industry requires leadership within as well as among those charged with protecting and upholding the Second Amendment, providing for the exercise of the right to keep and bear arms.

Joyce Rubino is the Vice President of Marketing at Colt’s Manufacturing Company and previously served on NSSF’s Board of Governors. Kelly Residorf is the Chief Communications Officer and General Manager, Venor, responsible for all facets of external communications at Vista Outdoor. Kirstie Pike is the Founder and CEO of Prios Hunting Apparel for Women.

These are just a few of the women leading the firearm industry and hunting market into the 21st Century.

Alabama Republican Gov. Kay Ivey recently signed constitutional carry into law in her state and South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem and Iowa Gov. Kim Reynolds have unquestionable Second Amendment credentials and the political track record to prove it.

Lanny and Tracy Barnes are Olympic biathletes. Tracy once gave up her spot on the Olympics so Lanny could compete. Lanny, a three-time Olympian, is also a 3-gun competitor. Gabby Franco shot for Venezuela in the Olympics before immigrating to the United States where she continues to shoot competitively.

Today there are numerous Second Amendment advocacy groups focused solely on women firearm ownership, training and education, helping to cultivate current and future generations to keep women gun owners thriving and growing.

The Future

For comparison, in 2003, only 13 percent of women identified as gun owners. Fast forward to 2020 and that number totals nearly 25 percent. What’s more is the figure is definitely even higher today, as women have accounted for 40 percent of firearm sales over the past two years as law-abiding Americans have purchased guns in record numbers – totaling nearly 40 million. According to a recent Pew Research Center survey, 25 percent of those female gun owners say self-protection is their main reason for owning a gun, and 70 percent say owning a gun is essential for their personal freedom.

Ladies’ Night training and practice courses at local shooting ranges are jampacked. Hunting excursions are looking different as more women head afield and into the woods. And the face of the American gun owner is quickly changing and in large part it’s due to women taking up their Second Amendment rights.

About the Author: Larry Keane is SVP for Government and Public Affairs, Assistant Secretary and General Counsel of the National Shooting Sports Foundation.

A brother from Long Beach, California can’t leave his 1950 Chevy truck alone and somehow it involved a Sportster gas tank. On top of that he’s been helping other Sportster riders with their clutch lever pull problems.

“I told a friend of mine,” Zack said, “I had his car (1952 Chevy Style line Deluxe), and he had my truck, a 1950 Chevy 3100 pickup truck.”

The truck set in the owner’s Pedro driveway and hadn’t run for years. It was the notorious Jeremiah’s brother’s, and he turned down hundreds of previous offers to sell it. His family had outgrown the pickup. “We traded even up,” Zack said. But that’s not all.

Recently, Jeremiah challenged Zack to a race on Anaheim Boulevard near the Port of Los Angeles. At 68 years of age Zack found himself flying at over 100 mph in his Mini-Cooper S, the last year with a factory Supercharger, on a boulevard packed with semis and potholes next to the richest harbor in the country. He beat the younger man’s silver Dyna, and fortunately the cops in Long Beach can’t ticket him. They’ve got bigger fish to fry, and the city won’t let them arrest folks. They can only talk to them nicely and get out of their way, while calling the EMT’s to clean up the AIDs infested blood.

If a cop pulled him over, he might say, “You’re doing over 100 mph on a city street. Can’t your vehicle go any faster? Have a nice day.”

Your woke response should always be, “You’re a racist. I’m going to call the mayor.”

The Governor of Washington recently banned fossil fuel vehicles because we are all doomed, except China. Apparently they didn’t get the memo. They are building more coal mines. Makes perfect sense, right?

So, Long Beach riders are scrambling to ride as hard and fast as possible. Tomorrow they could be doomed or banned, pick your poison. If you’re going to relax with a book ever again, read Sam “Chopper” Orwell quick.

I don’t know where the hell I was going with this, but you can guarantee I was headed somewhere. Oh, yeah, Zack’s truck and Sportster tanks and tips. But there’s more.

It all started in Zack’s downtown Long Beach building, when he decided to cut the noise in the old truck cab with Dyn-mat and then a new seat mounted to move slightly farther back, which meant removing the gas tank out from behind the seat. “I shot the interior with lizard skin sound Deadener,” Zack said. “The raw truck rattled like it was steel drum as you drove down the road.”

While he told me the interior story a clatter interrupted us in the alley behind his building. “It’s homeless folks climbing in and out of the dumpster,” Zack said. “Ignore them. It’s only when they set up tents in the alley, I need to go out there.” He collected a line of canes and baseball bats stored just inside his steel roll-up door. The alley was too narrow for folks to live. He wasn’t being a bad guy…

After he topped off the lizard skin with Dynamat sound deadener and additional sound deadening insulation, he reupholstered the seat and finally added new rubber on the pedals and new floormat.

“I finished the dashboard off with necessary accessories,” Zack said, “and a beer opener on the side of the bed.”

Just then there was a clammer at the back of the building and Zack made a beeline for his arsenal of bats and canes. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He made his way up a wrought iron spiral staircase across a handmade steel catwalk and up another set of stairs to his roof access, where he discovered a homeless cat crawling up an adjacent telephone pole and jumping onto his arched wooden and tar-paper roof.

It was showdown time, Zack stood, feet spread, with his stout wooden weapon facing a drug addicted homeless trespasser. “You’re going to get off my roof one way or another,” Zack said but thought about all the consequences of open conflict on his teetering roof. The druggie freaked and ran across the corner and jumped into an open window in the adjacent building, almost missing his mark and falling three stories to his certain death. Zack breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the shop. “No sweat,” he said, and we returned to our discussion of his truck mods.

The truck is a 1950 with a 1957 235 straight six engine. Unfortunately, the truck gearing was designed for stump-pulling and not 70 mph on the freeway, while escaping to the Badlands with his Sportster in the back.

He needed new gearing for the rear-end. I thought he would need a newer 4-speed transmission, for the straight six. He did his homework and ordered a gearing kit and researched a shop in Long Beach that is still allowed to work on fossil fuel vehicles. The owner painted, “Joe’s High Gear Donuts,” on the front to keep the man away. It didn’t work.

“I’ve got to run the truck to the shop to change the gearing in the rear differential, so I can cruise out at 70 miles an hour, rather than scream at 50,” Zack said. He is going to change the ring and pinion in the rear differential from a 4:11 to a 3:55 gear ratio. “So, I can drop the RPMs at cruising speed.”

He yanked the gas tank out of the cab and bought a new one. “It’s gonna mount under the bed in the rear,” said Zack. The new tank will hold 15 gallons. “I figured I’d get that work done on the differential before I drop the gas tank right in the way.”

“So, I mounted the Sportster gas tank temporarily so I can move the truck around,” Zack said. “My biker roots showing.” The truck currently gets about 15 mpg and the tank holds 2.3 gallons. Just enough, hopefully.

Hopefully the truck with fit on the donut shop lift after being lowered. We will see. You know the drill: Time will tell, and shit will smell.

We heard another noise, but this time out front. Again, he hit his weapons stash and headed to the front of the building where another drunk or stoned dispossessed dude knocked over one of his ceramic planters and scattered planter soil and the struggling-to-survive, wounded succulent across the stained sidewalk. Zack worked hard to give the neighborhood a facelift, but it was an ongoing battle between rioters and uncaring homelessness.

This time he was mad and ready to act against the small man curled and prone in the grime on the sidewalk. I can’t go into what happened next. But he finally returned to the shop.

We shared a joint and relaxed for a minute. “The previous owner was also a biker,” Zack said. “He had these old fish tips welded on the exhaust. They’re going to stay. I do need to move them inboard a bit, as they’ll slice your ankles sticking out like that. They’ve got me a couple times.”

“I’ll dive under the hood soon,” Zack said. He bought this awesome polished aluminum valve cover for the engine and a chrome side plate. “It’s a strong running engine, so I’m going to replace all the freeze plugs and gaskets everywhere, as it leaks like a pig. I’m going to add an aluminum radiator with an electric fan. I’ll slap on that Offenhauser valve cover, get all the wires run through fabric wire looms.” It has a stock three speed manual transmission with three on the tree. He will finish off the bed with new stainless steel bed strips and wood. “I will drive the piss out of it. Got the Bikernet sticker on the cargo box, which will mount in the bed.”

We will bring you a finished, done, kaput report, when the Sportster tank is gone, and the new tank is carefully mounted under the bed.

Once more someone banged on the back door and Zack headed to his armory. “This is how we roll in Long Beach,” Zack said.

My baby bed, was built by Mopar, and colored Plum Crazy and Big Bad Orange. My dad bragged that I could tell a Ford from a Chevy by the time I learned to walk.. and when i did learn to walk, I left tiny handprints in the dust of an old yellow Volkswagen bug in the corner of the shop.

I. Hate. Electric. Cars. I mean, I knew in second grade that my little sister’s Barbie Jeep was a piece of shit next to my Daddy’s Silverado.

I am blown away with how many morons are on the news sites defending electric cars today. One of these green new dildos mouthed off ‘my local Hy-Vee grocery charges cars for free.’

I asked her how many it can charge at a time. She says, ‘ 2.’ Sooo.. since it takes a few hours to charge… maybe four people can charge their car at her grocery store, over the course of a work day?

Another dude says they won’t stress the energy grid because people charge their cars after midnight ‘ when nobody is using much electricity.’

That’s not what happened in California last summer. I mean, first of all.. EVERYBODY charges their cellphones after midnight, right? Why would you think they do better with their cars?

This Dirty Dozen started off in Winslow, Arizona, for a spirited ride down the canyon pass of the BeeLine Highway. Funny to see brand new bikes exceeding 100 mph but like I said, the desert makes you do crazy things. They all entered the city and the celebration culminated at Yaffe’s booth inside WestWorld.

 
ARIZONA LEGALIZES LANE FILTERING
Arizona Governor Doug Ducey (R) has signed Senate Bill 1273 into law on March 24, 2022, that legalizes lane “filtering” for two-wheeled motorcycles under specified conditions.
 
SB 1273 was sponsored by Senator Tyler Pace (R-Dist. 25), an avid motorcyclist himself, who clarified that lane filtering and lane splitting are not the same thing, and this new law will only allow for low-speed lane filtering in certain situations, like in Utah and Montana, not “lane splitting” on highways as commonly practiced in California.  It was crafted to resemble a similar lane filtering measure enacted in Utah in 2019 that was just recently extended by their state legislature for another 5 years.
 
According to the bill as written, amended, passed through both chambers of the State house with bipartisan support, and signed into law effective in 90 days after adjournment:
 
“The operator of a two-wheeled motorcycle may overtake and pass another vehicle that is stopped in the same direction of travel and in the same lane as the operator and may operate the motorcycle between lanes of traffic if the movement may be made safety and it the operator does both of the following:
 

(a) is divided into at least two adjacent traffic lanes in the same direction of travel.

 
2. Travels at a speed that does not exceed fifteen miles per hour”
 
Other provisions in the bill spell out the fact that, under Arizona state law, motorcycles are entitled to full use of a lane on the road. They may also ride two abreast — but no more than two can ride in this configuration across a single lane. Furthermore, motorcycles may not pass other vehicles within a single lane except in the specific situations outlined by the language above. Riding in between lanes is also not allowed by motorcycles in most situations, except in the specific circumstance outlined above.
 
It’s also important to note that this law specifically addresses two-wheeled motorcycles, as trikes and sidecars are prohibited from performing such maneuvers under any circumstances.
 

 
STANDARD DRIVER’S LICENSE APPROVED FOR THREE-WHEELERS IN NEW YORK
After both the reclassification of the three-wheeled motorcycle as a three-wheeled motor vehicle and providing operator licensing requirements similar to nearly every U.S. state, residents in the state of New York can now operate 3-wheelers such as the Polaris Slingshot with a standard driver’s license.
 

 
‘EXPANSIVE REMOVAL’ OF TARIFFS BENEFITS HARLEY-DAVIDSON
A deal has been made between the United Kingdom and the United States to suspend retaliatory tariffs on imported American products such as Harley-Davidson motorcycles, leading to potentially cheaper bikes.
 
Back in 2018, following a dispute with the European Union (of which the UK was then a part) the Trump administration imposed tariffs on imported steel and aluminum.  In response, retaliatory tariffs were imposed on US imports such as Levi jeans, whiskey and… Harley-Davidsons.

However, following a meeting between the UK and US trade officials in Washington, DC on March 22, an agreement was reached whereby the US will partially end tariffs on British steel and aluminum.
 

 
CYCLE SALES CRASH IN WORLD’S LARGEST MOTORCYCLE MARKETPLACE
Spiraling cost of fuel prices and rural distress negatively impacted the Indian two-wheeler segment, the largest motorcycle market in the world (China is 2nd) and home to the largest manufacturer of two-wheelers, with sales last fiscal year falling sharply to pre-2012 levels.
 
Two-wheeler sales in India crashed to a 10-year-low, falling to 14,466,000 units in FY22, as per the latest data from the Society of Indian Automobile Manufacturers (SIAM), down from a high of 21,180,000 in 2019, and it was in 2011-2012 that two-wheeler sales were close to this low at 13,409,000 (India’s Financial Year is calculated as from 01-April-2021 to 31-March-2022).
 

 
BRITISH BIKERS DECLARE ‘DECARBONIZATION’ POLICY; OPPOSE BANNING ICE BIKES
The British Motorcyclists Federation (BMF) have detailed three key points in their recently announced decarbonization policy; “regarding the use of internal combustion engine (ICE) motorcycles, the sale of ICE bikes, and the idea of electric battery technology as the only solution going forwards for motorcycles.”
 
Specifically, following the BMF Council meeting on April 9th, the Federation’s position “is opposed to any proposals to ban the use of motorcycles powered by internal combustion engines (ICE) while such vehicles are still capable of being run,” meaning gas is available.
 
Additionally, the Federation “is opposed to a ban on the sale of new ICE-powered motorcycles while there is the possibility of providing alternatives to fossil fuel and while the electric vehicle charging infrastructure does not adequately support electric motorcycles.”
 
The BMF’s third and final point is that it “supports a technology-neutral approach to powering new motorcycles; we do not accept that electric battery technology is the only approach.”
 

 
ITALY INCENTIVIZES ELECTRIC VEHICLES IN NEW LAW
All over the world, governments are taking huge steps towards the incentivization and mainstream integration of sustainable, low-emission mobility.  More than ever before, alternative modes of transport which were once seen as leisure activities, i.e., cycling and electric scooters are now being integrated into the mainstream transportation framework, with infrastructure being developed to accommodate these vehicles.
 
The latest country to roll out some form of new incentivization program is Italy, wherein a law supporting electric vehicles (EVs) will soon be implemented, and isn’t just centered around automobiles, but includes lightweight electric vehicles such as motorcycles, mopeds and e-scooters, too.  In fact, list prices could be slashed by up to 30% due to the incentives.
 
Mario Draghi, Italian prime minister, has signed a new Ministerial Decree which is set to finance incentives for the purchase of electric and low-carbon vehicles. The government seeks to allocate sizable resources towards the project, with 650 million Euros per year being set aside until 2024, which translates to a total of nearly two billion Euros until 2024, and a staggering 8.7 billion until 2030.
 

 
STUDY IDENTIFIES EIGHT CATEGORIES OF MOTORCYCLIST
Vias, a research group from Belgium, has conducted a study into motorcyclists, from which they have determined eight categories of motorcyclist; so what type are you?
 
Firstly, there is the Time-Optimizer, who uses their motorcycle to minimize the time of the journey.  This comprised 11.6% of the sample.
 
Secondly, we have what Vias called the “Time-For-Me Seeker,” who are those riders who like to use the motorcycle to relax, get away from the family or work.  According to Vias, this category made up 18.8% of the sample.
 
Next up is “The Unconditional.”  According to Vias, this group made up 9.5% of the sample, and these are those riders who go out whenever, no matter the conditions, the time of day, the amount of rain – if the bike has fuel, that fuel will be used.
 
Moving on now to the fourth group, which Vias called the “Good-Vibe Seeker,” who are those who use their motorcycle only when the weather allows for it.  These riders ride solely for enjoyment, as well as to avoid using the car.  14.2% fit into the “Good-Vibe” category.
 
Now, onto group number five: the “I-Want-It-All” class.  These are the people who want the best of the best, the option that suits them and their needs perfectly.  18.2% apparently fall into this category.
 
The sixth group is called “Multimodal,” which is the category for people who are not solely riders, and use their motorcycle in conjunction with other forms of transport, as well as instead of a car in good weather.  These make up 11% of the sample.
 
“The Daily User,” is category number seven.  The Addict.  The Junkie.  The Two-Wheeled Doper.  Many of you reading this fall into this category, that makes up 7.5%.
 
Only one category to go… That final category, number eight, is “The Life-Long Experience,” whose members also probably fall into the “Daily User,” class.  These are the Lifers who make up 9.2%, and are the cornerstone of motorcycling, because they are the ones who — intentionally or otherwise — pass the bug on to others, and keep our wheels turning.
 

NCOM CONVENTION TURNS 37 IN NASHVILLE
The 37th annual NCOM Convention in Nashville is pert near here, so plan now if’n yer fixin’ to join in on one of the largest gatherings of bikers’ rights activists on Earth!  This year’s NCOM Convention, to be held June 17-19, 2022 at the Embassy Suites by Hilton Nashville Airport, located at 10 Century Blvd., in Nashville, Tennessee (615-871-0033 for room reservations) will draw hundreds of concerned motorcyclists from across America to “Music City, USA” to address topics of concern to all riders.
 
For more information, or to pre-register (by June 10), call the National Coalition of Motorcyclists at (800) 525-5355 or visit www.ON-A-BIKE.com.  Don’t delay, call today, and we’ll see y’all in the Birthplace of Country Music and Land of Southern Charm!
 

 
QUOTABLE QUOTE: “Fear is a reaction.  Courage is a decision.”

~ Sir Winston Churchill (1874-1965), British statesman & Prime Minister
 
 

When the phone rang a couple of weeks ago, the voice on the end of the line sounded tired. Alone. A friend in need of a chat, someone in need of a familiar voice and a chance to maybe release some of the emotions from the pressure cooker inside his mind.

Simple things at first about his motorcycle: a badly wobbling rear wheel and a high idle speed, along with the machine’s refusal to run without the choke engaged. As a motorcycle journalist, I am surprised the motorcycle is not known to me. It’s an odd 200 cc single-cylinder, four-stroke machine that “rides like shit — you are fighting it all the time,” he tells me.

The circumstances of how he acquired the machine are fascinating, as he tells me about a chance meeting with a heavily tattooed pizza delivery rider that led to a conversation and an opportunity to purchase the delivery rider’s second motorcycle. It took just a few calls, a meeting, and with an exchange of cash the deal was done. Ridley was mobile.

It’s still cold in Eastern Europe at this time of the year, temperatures still fall below freezing, and without proper riding gear the cold is greatly exaggerated, so I am concerned for his safety and welfare — and not just from the weather. We talk like this for a while more about the motorcycle and I suggest some mechanical things to check to try and improve the ride before I ask, “Are you safe?”

“I’m OK, mate,” he tells me. “I have an escape route.”

A long pause followed, signaling the start of one of the more difficult conversations I’ve had in a long while.

Duty, guilt, risk, and getting the job done with the help of a motorcycle
Working in western Ukraine, award-winning photojournalist Kiran Ridley is under immense pressure. A veteran of the pro-democracy riots in Hong Kong, with an extensive background in producing stories about a range of subjects from human rights to drug smuggling and migration issues, the mild-mannered Brit has been documenting world affairs since 1998.

Currently photographing the refugee crisis in Ukraine from the saddle of a motorcycle, Ridley gives me a chilling insight into the daily lives of both fleeing refugees and the residents of Lviv, as they prepare to face the attack they feel will inevitably come from the advancing Russian military. Younger children make camouflage nets and older people prepare defenses. He sounds emotionally torn as he talks about the will and resolve of the Ukrainian people to fight for their homes, balanced against the reality. The knowledge that once the Russians begin to pound their city with long-range artillery, destroying their infrastructure and killing their women and children, it will only be a matter of time before their amazing resolve gives out.

I learn that the greatest danger for Ridley is the checkpoints. Paranoia sweeps all rational thought aside and his press passes, cameras and images of refugees often add up to the word “spy” from nervous guards with itchy trigger fingers. Thankfully, so far, Ridley has diffused these extremely tense situations, but it’s an added pressure to also be at risk from the people he is trying to help with his images.

This danger is curiously balanced by the incredible freedom the motorcycle affords, and the way it disarms the local citizens when he arrives in their villages. It has certainly allowed him in to capture many of the more intimate images he has shared with the world, images perhaps he would never have obtained without his motorcycle. It’s also been invaluable navigating the long lines of refugees at the border checkpoints, sometimes up to 30 kilometers in length.

Ridley and I have shared intimate details of our lives over conversation at the Xposure International Photography Festival in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates, the last two years, in the way travelers often do. So as humbled as I am to hear about the situation in Ukraine from my friend firsthand, it leaves me with a sense of hopelessness and powerlessness. Sitting here in my comfortable life it seems there is so little I can do. It also leaves me with the realization that without Ridley and all the other journalists working in and around Ukraine, this war is not happening. The only way we learn about the situation is from the work of these brave souls on the ground, and if they were not in Ukraine, Putin would have carried out his invasion without the world watching and we wouldn’t be able to sit here comfortably voicing our opinion about the subject.

The conversation to this point has been a couple of body blows and an uppercut, but the next part of our talk was the roundhouse that took me to my knees. Another journalist has just been targeted and killed. At Ridley’s home in Paris, his wife is caring for their three-month-old twin daughters, terrified for his safety. He’s torn between a need to tell the world the horrors Putin is inflicting on the people of Ukraine and the need to be home safe with his family. All I can do is listen, provide a friendly voice in the darkness, and let him talk of the guilt he feels, of how he can leave Ukraine any time when so many can’t. Over the phone line I can feel his pain.

The line goes dead, leaving me to wonder when — or if — we will talk again.

Days pass and there’s still no word from him, only my ongoing worry that he’s OK.