WOW! Sturgis 2008 is officially in the books and I have run the gamut of emotions throughout. The 2008 Bikernet Brouhaha was a fantastic success…. and I missed it. I know, I know, I am an idiot, but this years’ run to the hills was a different situation than I had experienced in years past. 2005 was a year to run with Bandit and have the adventure of a lifetime. I was a virgin exploring the Black Hills for the first time aboard my rattle can black 2003 Fatboy with 16 inch apes. I thought I was an outlaw.

The second year, 2006, I decided to do Sturgis on a whim of last minute decisions that culminated into an unforgettable adventure worthy of a novel. For that trip I traveled to the Mecca aboard my 2005 Springer Classic. A stock bike worthy of acclaim for its functionality and beauty, but unfortunately designed for someone closer to their 60s rather than my early 30s. I knew the second I returned home from that adventure, a major overhaul was in order.

2007 was an odd year for me. I was killing myself trying to get the bike built for my brother with the plan to deliver it at Sturgis. Unfortunately, he took the large green one up the whazoo, so his exit date was moved to October, so Biketoberfest was now set to replace the Black Hills Rally for a delivery of his new scoot. I was bummed, but there was shit to do. so I didn’t have time to sulk, reminding me of the poem my grandfather used to spout all the time:

“Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to shit, but only farted.”

So, here it is 2008 and mid June was upon me. My family and I had gotten involved with Taekwondo last year, so all of my vacation seemed to stem around traveling to competitions. While I understand the kids are only young once and that we are building upon their delicate childhood memories, I still wanted to ride through the Badlands, envisioning cowboys and Indians fighting through the buffalo herds all over a cold beer at One Eyed Jack’s. Call me crazy, but it’s the simpler things in life, ya know?

I knew I needed a road trip. I called my buddy Mike who rode a 2005 Electra Glide the last few years before changing over to a 1975 rigid bobber. I told him I was thinking about Sturgis and he replied with quintessential Mike form, “When do we leave?”

So the event was set, we made our plans, and the wives were pissed, but what else is new? While at TKD practice, I mentioned to one of the guys that we would be making the run to Sturgis. He got a sparkle in his eye that only the experienced road wanderer would recognize and I knew he was on board. So over the next few weeks we planned our trip.

With the state of the economy, I have been reading about a new yuppie phenomena called staycation. I think Chris even mentioned how ridiculous this was in Cycle Source. Anyways, staycation is fucking ridiculous, so I am done with that, but I had an inspiration….I kept track of how much I spent going to Sturgis. Just to prove to all the fucksticks and pannywastes out there, I rode to and from Sturgis, 3150 miles, and spent $379.12 on gas AND food. It would have been $25 cheaper, but I had to pitch in for a hotel one night when our tag-a-long needed to wash his vagina. Needless to say, we quickly found out my TKD buddy squats when he pees.

So we left for Sturgis on Monday, August 4th, at 11 a.m. Houston, Texas was in the high 90s with 100% humidity, as usual. I am riding my modified 95” Springer Classic, Bryan is riding a stock Super Glide (with a windshield), and Mike is on his rigid. Here is our adventure, with all the mundane endless miles taken away. Enjoy our tale of travel as we traversed halfway across America aboard bikes with one thing in mind…to relax.

We left Houston on Monday, August 4th. The weather was insanely hot at 100 degrees and humid as hell, or as I like to say it was “hell hot.” My bike was packed down similar to a pack mule during the frontier days. Like I said before, I have a very romantic view of traveling along the country on a Harley.

Being family men, we decided to spend breakfast with our children and spend a few hours visiting with them before our trip. Because of the unknown breakdowns and adventures, we told everyone to expect us back in 10-12 days, cushioning the expected travel time so we wouldn’t have any nagging deadlines of expected return haunting us during the trip. Like any road trip, the day came faster than we expected, so all three of us were scrambling the last few hours. Hell, that’s part of the fun, right?

Unlike years past, I was not willing to arrive in the Black hills after 4 layers of skin peeled off of my face and body. I also wanted to escape the horrible fate of constant ringing in my ears, so this year I decided to take advantage of using a full leather jacket as well as a full face helmet for the trip. While I know it isn’t near as cool looking as riding with your hair blowing in the wind and nothing but a leather vest flapping off your back, I wanted to experiment and see if the heavy leather jacket and full faced helmet were more of a detrimental pain in the ass, or if they actually helped. Mike and Brian were both wearing tank tops and they each had ¾ helmets strapped to their bikes for the helmet-law states.

We traveled through the wooded section of Magnolia through some beautiful Texas country filled with pine trees and fields until we reached Hwy 6. We traveled up 6 through big cities like College Station, Waco, and Abilene. While it’s interesting looking back later enumerating the cities we covered and noticing how many of the larger cities are starting to look the same, the real adventure and memories came from passing through smaller towns with names like Dublin, Shamrock, Cisco, and Stamford. The atmosphere here seemed to be very laid back and reminiscent of a time I have only read about. While the bigger cities have the “rat-race, gotta-get-there-as-fast-as-possible, no time to wait” mentality, the smaller towns seemed to be satisfied sitting back with a nice glass of iced tea. Maybe my perception was skewed because the speed limit would slow to 35 miles per hour, but everything seemed to slow down to a snail's pace. Not only do the people seem to move slower, but their attitudes are relaxed and very friendly. I cannot count how many times we were stopped by pedestrians asking us questions about where we were going, where we were from, and how long did we plan to ride? With each of these encounters we were always given unsolicited advice about the hazards of our current route whether it be wildlife concerns, limited gasoline availability, or even law enforcement, we were given sage advice.

We covered just less than 500 miles when we stopped for supper in Stamford, Texas. Because of our current set-ups, we were stopping every 60 miles for gas breaks as well as back and ass breaks. Mike’s bike is a rigid for God’s sake and my bike was set up more for drag racing than cross country riding. While I did have the bike slammed to the ground topped off with a set of mini-apes, I had recently changed the bars to 30” drag bars mounted directly to the stock risers. While the bars do hit the tank when turned to the neck's full capacity, the look gives the bike a slammed profile that can’t be beat. My bike is definitely more fun to ride than anything I have ever ridden, but the Heartland 180 seat I have on it has a traveling capacity of 50 miles or less. My riding posture is similar to a clamshell, but it can’t be beat when slamming through the city streets screaming past cages while splitting lanes. The ride is a rush to experience every day to and from work, unfortunately on a trip like this; it becomes a test of one’s mental capacity for pain in the buttocks and lower lumbar region. Basically I welcomed the breaks every 60 miles, even looked forward to them, almost praying for the next one.

Just before Stamford, we noticed Mike’s oil filter bracket had snapped in half. Luckily, he hard plumbed the oil lines using copper tubing, so the strength of the oil lines combined with his cargo netting was keeping the filter in place…for now. We knew we needed to get it fixed before Sturgis, although none of us would say it out loud. Luckily after leaving the restaurant, as was the usual occurrence during the trip, a crowd had gathered around our bikes. As fate would have it, we explained to one of the onlookers how we needed and oil filter bracket and asked if there was any place in town to buy some hardware after hours. We were surprised when one of the gentlemen invited us to his shop where he assured us he had anything and everything we could ever need for our repair. Without hesitation, we headed to his shop.

Once at the shop we were greeted with a biker euphoria. The shop honestly did have anything a man could need to build or repair a bike. The three gentlemen turned out to be three of the most influential men in the town. One was the towns’ State Farm agent, one owned the local newspaper as well as being the towns’ pastor, and the third was the City Manager. Mike and Leldon, the State Farm rep, as well as shop owner, began fabricating a new bracket while Bryan and I were entertained with stories from Dr. Wingrove and the City Manager. While the break was welcomed, I felt like the Michael J. Fox character in the movie “Doc Hollywood”. Remember the part where the town mayor is trying to convince “Doc Hollywood” to get off the interstate for wonderful Grady? The whole scene was almost surreal in it’s simplicity, yet it was a memory I will have forever.

Once we got on the road again, we stopped at a local Wal-Mart so Mike could buy an extra gas can to strap between his handlebars. As fate once again shined upon us, his bars seemed to be made for this exact gas can as it fit perfectly between the bars so we could increase our mileage between gas stops. Bryan was on edge as we bedded down the that night because of the heat as well as the unsecure feeling he had of sleeping outside at a truck stop. Mike and I just laughed as we crashed for the night. Overall, while driving through the torrential heat, I was not nearly as worn down as years past. Halfway through the day, Bryan and Mike decided to follow suit with the leather jackets and helmets as they noticed I wasn’t near as taxed as them at the stops. To be honest, after wearing the full face helmet the entire trip, I can honestly say I prefer it to even going lidless. The heat didn’t seem to affect me near as intensely as I had anticipated and the only drawback I had was having to turn my head completely to the right or left to truly see in the lane next to me. Plus I couldn't pick my nose. At the end of the first day, I seemed to be no worse than my riding partners.

The next morning my gamble paid off as they both woke up with headaches, dehydrated, and sunburned while my biggest concern was finding the cat that must’ve shit in my mouth. Bryan was bitching and moaning about getting caught for three hours in “fucking Mayberry”, as he called it, and Mike and I once again laughed. We were both very surprised because Bryan woke before us and seemed to be determined to wash his vagina before we woke up, but we did get the pleasure of watching him spray his body down with feminine spray…or something like it. His only explanation was that he’s not a monster. Once again, he was the morning

While Mike and I probably felt as bad as he did after sleeping on the ground half the night, we love the simple fact of being on the road. We like living as simply as possible, and we like being on the road. Truthfully, we had done this before, so we weren’t surprised by anything we encountered. Frankly, we welcomed the adventure, Bryan’s cherry was popped on this trip and unfortunately for him, it wasn’t gentle. Hopefully he will be able to look back in a few months and remember the fun of it and learn to appreciate the joys of living on the road, but as for this trip, he just wasn’t happy on the trip there and even less happy on the trip home. Fortunately, he had a blast once we got to Sturgis.

The next morning, we started our journey on Hwy 83, which we would occupy through the rest of Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and most of Nebraska. The second day was mostly uneventful except for the people we met at various gas stops. One old rattlesnake who looked to be in his early 70s stopped and talked to us about riding. It was refreshing hearing an older gentleman talking of his riding adventures aboard his cruiser and his road racing aboard his Ninja. We laughed at the thought of his wrinkled ass perched upon a Ninja; just another gem along our journey. At the end of the day, we took 83 into North Platte Nebraska where we caught Interstate 80 to Ogallala. In Ogallala, Bryan had decided we need a hotel as he claimed to be exhausted and needing a good nights rest in a bed. Mike and I reluctantly agreed, but when we went to the room expecting him to be laid out in his bed, he was glued to the tv watching ESPN Sportscenter. It seems he was having withdrawals from his everyday life and was hoping for some more “him” time. Regardless, we talked him into heading to a local saloon for a couple of drinks.

Our third day, we all awoke fresh showers and clean clothes. Mike and I both commented how we felt weird knowing we would be arriving in Sturgis later that day in fresh clothes and with a shower that same morning. Usually we take the grunge satisfaction making that first Sturgis beer that much sweeter. Thankfully we didn’t leave a day earlier, because the night before reaching Sturgis we experienced crazy weather coupled with reports of thunderstorms and hail…not exactly my idea of relaxing or entertaining.

From Ogallala, we took Highway 26 to 385, which would bring us directly into South Dakota. Wee took 385 to 79, which bypassed Hot Springs and many of the scenic byways. We were on a mission, we craved a beer in Sturgis, so we took 90 out of Rapid City straight into our beloved Sturgis. Once there, we made our way to our campsite at Edmonds and Junction. As has been our tradition for several years, we stay in this family’s front yard and get away paying 15 dollars a night. We are lucky because we get to sleep in her yard and she provides us with a clean shower and toilet facility. Occasionally Bill, the owner, will grill up food for everyone camped there. At one point, I believe there were 21 bikes parked in front of their home. The setup is top notch and couldn’t be sweeter considering we could ride all day and then park the bikes at night so we could walk to the party on Main Street.

Attendance at the rally seemed to be ok as far as I was concerned. There was talk of the attendance being down and that the cops were making up for the lost revenue by being extra tight on the DWI’s. Because of the threat of going to jail, we usually rode all day and then parked the bikes at night so we could party free of the hassle. Our routine consisted of going to The Knuckle and watching the fights from 5-8 pm, then we would go to One Eyed Jacks’ and party until the lights would come on and some ugly bouncer is rushing us out the door.

Thankfully we remembered how to get home as we would slump down the streets and make it to our tents about the time the liquor would overtake our conscious minds. In other words, I would remember leaving the bar, but never remembered getting to my tent. Much to my wife’s approval, I always woke up alone, sweating, sporting a pounding headache, and always on a search for that damn cat who keeps shitting in my mouth while I sleep!

While at Sturgis, we did the same things we do every year. We visited the new Harley’s at Rapid City. We rode Needles and saw Crazy Horse. Bryan visited Deadwood and Mt. Rushmore while Mike and I picked up t- shirts on Main Street. We visited Thunderdome and then went across the street to Full Throttle. Overall, Sturgis is Sturgis, the only thing that changes is the players. The ride there and back is the thrill for me. Unfortunately, we noticed Mikes’ bike had a crack in the frame where the voltage regulator and motor mounted to the bike. From what we could see, the motor was holding his frame together. We decided to tredge on lightly, while saying silent prayers.

On the day of Bikernet’s Brouhaha, I actually signed up for a fight at The Knuckle Saloon. After the fight was over, all I wanted was beerand fun, but I ddin’t want to ride my bike to Thunderdome and risk the trouble, so we went to One Eyed Jack’s again. As for the fight, I won in the 190 lb. division with a guillotine choke in the third round. To be honest, the guy whooped my ass for two and a half rounds before he made the mistake of sticking his head out so I could grab it. While I am thankful to come away with the win, it definitely wasn’t anything that would make the UFC come calling.

Saturday morning we woke up at the crack of noon and decided to hit the road. The rally was winding down and with the shooting at the bar next to us the previous night, we knew the police would be everywhere. I don’t have a problem with the cops, I just don’t put myself into situations where I possibly have to deal with a hassle from them. Call it chicken, call it dumb, I don’t care, I stay out of situations I may regret later.

Bryan wanted to see a few more sights so Mike and I agreed to meet him at Wall that afternoon. We would walk the streets of Wall and check the famous Drugstore before making our way through the Badlands. Up to this point, we had no mechanical breakdowns except for the oil filter bracket, so we planned on taking three days to get home.

Let me say, if you have never ridden the Badlands, take the time to do so. This is country that goes perfectly with the rest of the Sturgis experience and should not be missed. I think the riding is the whole adventure with a few mini dramas along the way at the bars in town. Luckily I was able to attend Sturgis as a vacation and not in a working sense like many journalists and writers do. To them the rally turns into a weeklong grind of never-ending events that must be attended and reported on. To me, it was an experience that I followed the route that my interest dictated. If I wanted to see something, I went with no expectations or responsibilities.

This was truly an escape from my very busy everyday life. Much like Peter Fonda’s character in Easy Rider, I didn’t even have a watch. Time was not an issue for me and I was as laid back as I have ever been, but I wish I could have made it to the Brouhaha. Mike’s only mechanical mishap of the day was a broken seat mounting bracket. He just wrapped a T-shirt up and set his seat on top of that shirt which rested on the frame.

We drove until late Saturday night and stopped at a truck stop/ casino on the border of Nebraska and South Dakota. Mike and I positioned our bikes so we could sleep protected from the parking lot, Bryan tried to get a room. Ten minutes later he returned cursing us and growling obscenities to us about his wishes for our deaths by painful means. It seemed he was falling apart at the seams and just wanted to get home. Mike and I were still having the time of our lives.

The next day, somewhere in Nebraska, Mike’s bike gave us a scare. I was still sporting the full face helmet and noticed I had a couple of drops of oil on my faceshield. Mike had been riding up front and since it had been raining, I wrote it off to residual oil from his motor and the rain. I decided to pass him up and open up my motor a little since we were in the middle of nowhere.

Before I realized it, when I finally looked behind me, Bryan and Mike were nowhere to be found. I turned around and started heading back at a leisurely 75 mph but as I went further and there was still no sign of them I gradually ended up flying full bore with my speedo pegged at 120 mph plus! After 20 minutes, I came across them at a gas station with no attendant. It seems Mike’s oil filter had plugged and he ended up blowing his oil supply out of his crankcase. Luckily he and Bryan each had a quart of oil, so he was able to replenish most of what he had lost. Mike replaced the oil filter with the spare he had brought and then gave Bryan a heart attack as he washed his bike with the pump gasoline. He literally doused his bike with gasoline from the pump. I thought Bryan was gonna bolt and leave us right there. He stuck it out for the rest of the day, but that night in the Texas panhandle, he left us. It seemed the 45 minute stops were too much for him and he wanted to get home. Oh well, he will never forget his trip.

Monday morning Mike and I took the final leg of the trip with the most carefree attitude we had the entire trip. It seemed having a third party with us actually made us inadvertently put his happiness at the forefront of the trip and wanting him to have a great time, we put a great deal of pressure on ourselves to deliver. I t seemed to more we tried to show him what we enjoyed, the more he withdrew. I guess the trip isn’t for everyone, but the best part of the ordeal was the final day. We were completely and totally relaxed as we snaked through Texas, this time utilizing Interstate.

Mike’s bike had one more little mishap as his shift rod broke from the shifter arm. Mike, being a crafty bastard, bent the rod into a hook using vice grips and then zip-tied the hook to the shifter arm. We were 150 miles from home and that set-up lasted the rest of the trip. Amazing!

We finished the trip in New Waverly and Mike and I stopped for a visit just reminiscing about the entire trip. We had an absolute blast and were both sorry it was over. Next year instead of Sturgis, we think we are going to make a run to the West Coast to ride the PCH with a stop at the Grand Canyon on the way. We may ride up the coast of California and come back through Yellowstone making our way down through Nevada, New Mexico, and then back home again. An, but that’s next year. SO until next time, enjoy my little tale and try not to study the pictures too hard. Remember to never let anything stand in your way of a road adventure, especially not one aboard a beloved H-D. These are memories I will have the rest of my life and I only hope you all do the same.

Do you believe in omens? If the day starts badly, do you think it might set the tone of the day? Well, day two of our ride up to Sturgis and its many attractions, started well enough, waking up in the cool of Mondo’s house while outside, the temperature, which had stayed hot all night, was quickly climbing in typical Las Vegas fashion. After dressing, I reached into my bag for my sun block only to find that the tube had burst in the previous day’s heat. I stored it in a compartment with my wet weather gear, jacket and pants, and they were coated with sticky white goo. And I mean covered. What to do? Well hoping that Mondo didn’t have hidden video cameras throughout his house I did the only thing I could do, stripped off, put on the gooey pants and top and hopped into the shower. While it’s an image I’m trying to block out, it worked. Funny enough, Billy’s tube of sun block had burst open too and he was busy wiping it off his t-shirts and other gear as I went out to our bikes. Okay, so it wasn’t a major disaster but it wasn’t an auspicious way to start day two.

We spent a short while admiring Mondo’s cool red resto before he drove us down town for a hearty breakfast over which we chatted about – what else? – motorcycles of course. Mondo’s tales of the road and of bikes and bikers would make a heck of a book and I truly hope documents some day. Go Mondo! Before heading out of town we swung past Denver’s Choppers again to pick up a couple of items and I snapped a few more shots.

Check out Mondo’s web site at www.denverschoppers.com if you haven’t already done so, or haven’t been there in a while. Man, does this guy ever make seriously cool springer forks! Don’t just scope the one’s he’s holding, take a look back over his left shoulder.

Back on the road things were getting hot again and it wasn’t long before I felt the need to ditch my mesh jacket which does provide a cooling breeze at speed but when the wind is as hot as it was getting to be, it was time to strap it to the back of the bike.

Billy and I were playing ‘happy snappers’ in a kind of friendly rivalry as we rode along, each trying to outdo the other. Hey, when you’re riding with a Flathead – even a Billy Lane Flathead – well you hang around the 60-65mph mark which gives you time to play around, compared to riding at 80-90. But it is a lot of fun in its own way and you get to see more of the scenery. Reviewing the pics that night I had no choice but to concede that Billy had clearly outdone me in the photo stakes with the self portrait below. Check out the image in his sunglass lens! Is that ever cool or what? Move over Michael Lichter, Billy’s comin’ after you!

Of course I didn’t really mean that Mike should be even a little bit scared of Billy. Or did I? Scope the pic below taken somewhere in Utah, which you would logically expect me to have taken. Right? Wrong, it’s another Lane self-portrait and it’s damn cool if you ask me.

Here’s how he does it. Billy positions his bike and then crosses the road and lays down, placing his camera on a neat small tripod. After composing the shot he sets the self timer and scoots back across the road, gets into position and waits for the camera to take the shot. Cool eh?

In case I've been sounding like the #1 member of the Billy Lane fan club, let me set the record straight. I believe in credit where credit is due I didn’t let an opportunity go by without teasing Billy about his oil leaking, oil spraying old bike. In Aussie we call it “putting sh*t on your mates” and it’s a national tradition so you can be certain Billy copped a fair bit of this. All in good heart mind you.

But here’s the thing; here I am on a shiny white Road King courtesy of Harley-Davidson, a 2008 model with cruise control, ABS brakes, fly-by-wire throttle etc, but hardly anybody even glances at it when we stop for gas. Or in Billy’s case, oil and gas. No. The Roadie gets nary a sideways look as the spectators are too busy crowding around Billy’s ol’ ’48, making admiring and complimentary comments. Ha, go figure.

Not that every comment was complimentary. Way out in Utah a couple of yuppies squeaked out of the gas station shop in their shiny new leathers, with their newly sewed HOG insignia and badges gleaming in the sun.

He looked at Billy’s bike and then turned to her saying, “Would that damn pile of junk even run?”

Casting a withering look at him she snapped, “Well dummy, he didn’t push it way out here did he?”

We chugged on up through Utah, where at least the weather was a bit cooler once we’d left the Nevada desert behind, which was quite a relief to say the least. Billy’s bike did a great job of coping with the heat, all things considered, but in the cooler air it ticked along like a gold Rolex, never missing a beat and starting first kick at every gas stop.

We were heading to master sculptor Jeff Decker’s place for the night. Jeff is the artist who created the sensational bronze statue which takes pride of place outside the new Harley-Davidson Museum in Milwaukee. The detail in the piece is incredible and when you go there, be sure to check it out, especially the chain links. Masterpiece is by no means an overly strong word to use as it really is a breathtaking work of art.

Jeff’s place is way up a canyon somewhere near Springville, Utah and he’d arranged to meet us near the interstate, as finding our way through the twists and turns to his house was a bit past the brain capacity of two very tired and partially dehydrated bikers. After a refreshing shower and a jug or two of ice water we jumped into Jeff’s truck and he took us to his studio for a tour. Wow! Yep, ‘wow’ was about all I could say.Jeff has a sensational collection of motorcycle memorabilia, absolutely sensational. He has original Ed Roth drawings, Von Dutch stuff, he has so much cool gear it makes anyone who loves the culture open mouthed with wonder.

Check out the pic above. Not only is it an early Indian racer, in original, unrestored condition but Jeff has the rider’s jacket, leather helmet and boots to match. Not only that, mind you, but he also has newspaper clippings about the guy. Jeff has produced many motorcycling sculptures with one of his most famous ones being a casting of one of the most indelible images of motorcycling–the famous photograph of Rollie Free, clad only in bathing trunks, flat out on a Vincent while piloting it to a new American Land Speed Record of 150 mph in 1950. The one shown below is a miniature of that casting.

Well, get ready for this boys and girls, Jeff has the front tyre that was on that motorcycle on that run! And I’ve touched it. Seriously, touching that tyre moved me more emotionally than looking over all the old bikes, rare old engines and incredibly rare memorabilia that Jeff has.

Somehow, as I put my hand on it the decades peeled away like the pages of a wind-blown book, transporting me back in time to more honest days, where men could take risks and gain the glory they deserved, without interference from teams of safety Nazis and swarming hordes of hungry, bottom-feeding lawyers. That photo touched my soul when I first viewed it as a kid, and that feeling never left me, so to have left a spec of my DNA on it – well, what more can I say?

Bronze casting is apparently a complex process and one which requires clay modelling, as most people know. The clay parts of the models left over after casting can be put to many uses and, as you can see in the pic below, those bits need never go to waste!

We spent a half hour or so touring Jeff’s studio but one could easily spend a couple of days there. Among truck loads of other memorabilia Jeff has a whole collection of the letters between Rollie Free and the Vincent factory in England, detailing build specs and so on. What fabulous pieces of motorcycling history they are.

Then there’s the Chet Gardner sprint car, one of the most successful ever raced.

A cool collection of old club colors … . . . including some funky ones. (Why have you pulled me over officer?) and, and, and . . . . like I said, you could spend a whole lotta time scoping out Jeff’s stuff. I’d like to thank Jeff right here for allowing us the very real privilege of drooling over his collection.

Drooling was the exact right choice of words, in my case at least, as I emerged into the sunlight a dribbling idiot completely blown away. Jeff took us to dinner that night and afterward, while Billy and Jeff stayed up to talk motorcycles and stuff, I turned in early to dream of salt flat racing back in the day, with the sound of that Vincent at full noise crackling through my brain. Despite that gooey white start, the day had been a ripper (the best in Australian), my last thoughts were about what tomorrow might bring. We’d planned to get on the road bright and early, but it seems that the biker gods had other plans for us …

Well, we made it the Winter Park Colorado VA run. Set-up was Thursday and the weather was not in our favor.

Winter Park is called Winter Park for a reason and Friday was no exception.

Ted Nugent and others were to play outside at Hogfest on Saturday, but snow started falling. Bikes were still coming over Berthoud Pass in spite of the snow to show their support. Most of the activities were cancelled for Saturday, but the bars seemed to do well.

Sunday came along with sunshine and a good turn out by riders.

The parade, paratroopers and fly-bys were awesome, and Bikernet was there to see it all!!!

To yours, and to all, ride free and safe.

Rocky Mountain Custom Bikes
www.rockymountaincustombikes.com
Lakespur, Colorado
(719) 659-8020

There are worse places to hang around for a couple of days than the Bikernet,com Cantina, tossing back icy cold Coronas followed by shots of JD. And Sin Wu gives a heck of a neck massage. I was waiting for the Heavy Duty magazine tour group to fly in from Australia, some 60 guys and gals with Sturgis and Milwaukee in their cross hairs, eager to sample the night life as well as having a strong desire to sample every beer brewed in the US.

I wandered out into the garage to found Bandit fiddling around with some old piece of junk up on the lift.

“Whassup Bandit? Trying to salvage a part or two from that junk heap before you tear it to bits and toss most of it out?”

He stood up, raised himself to his full height – which is six-foot twenty-seven or something – and his eyebrows seemed to rise even higher.

“I’ll have you know Doctor Bullshit, that this bike is firstly, not junk, and secondly, belongs to Billy Lane who’s flying here in a day or so to ride it up to Sturgis.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup, seriously, he’s riding up with Scott Long. Now hand me that wrench or get outta here, I’ve got a bit of fine tuning to do.”

I pulled another Corona from the fridge, popped the top and walked around that old Harley several times, thoughts tumbling through my mind like leaves in a fall gust. It’s close to 1500 miles from Bikernet HQ to Sturgis, with deserts to cross, mountains to climb and long, long stretches of straight road.

That’s a fair haul on a modern bike, with a big cube OHV donk, a comfortable seat and suspension front and rear. And Billy was gonna attempt it on an old Flathead which looked like it had seen far better days? Hell, the bike was older even than Bandit … There was absolutely nowhere to carry any luggage. There was no way to mount it on the skinny rear fender behind the rock-hard solo seat. How the hell was he going to carry even the minimum gear required for such a trip?

I tried again. “Hey Bandit, you’re not pulling my leg are ya? You’ve done that before as you well know.”

He looked around and I shriveled a bit under his steely gaze.

“For the last time Doc, Billy Lane, yes that Billy Lane, the famous custom bike builder who could have ridden any one of his collection of bikes has chosen to ride this one – it’s his favorite.”

Well all I could think of was that I was glad Scott Long was riding up with Billy ‘cos I was sure it was a trip that would end up on the back of a pickup and breakdowns in the desert aren’t high on my list of favorite activities.

The next day the phone rang and Bandit’s countenance darkened as he listened to the caller. Frowning, he hung up and cast me a sidelong glance before strolling over to where I was sitting. Now if he looks big when we’re both standing – and he does – you can imagine how he looks when I’m sitting down and looking up at him.

His voice boomed down at me from the stratosphere: “Doc, Scott can’t make it. He’s had to cancel at the last minute. Do you have someone else who can lead your group?”

I could see where he was coming from. As it happened, Tex Hess one of our magazine staffers, was due in with the group. And as an old Mississippi boy (all tall drawling Americans get the nick-name Tex in Aussie, despite where they hail from) he was well suited to negotiate the roads and freeways of this wide land.

With more than a few misgivings I said, “Okay Bandit, count me in.” Hell, I thought to myself, it could turn in to be quite an adventure. Of course the cynic’s definition of an adventure is: ‘something, that when you are home by the fire, you wish you were out there having; and also something, that when you are out there having, you wish you were back home by the fire’. Or the air con in this case. Whatever, I was in.

Billy flew in the next day and we picked him up from Long Beach airport. We threw his not inconsiderable luggage into the back of the Sin Wu’s car and headed back to Bikernet where Billy was anxious to check over his bike before he did anything else.

A couple of minor adjustments, a Spectro oil top up, some refueling and Billy reckoned the bike was “good to go”. I still had my doubts, but who am I to question the bike’s owner, especially one who’d logged many a mile on it including a trip from Florida to Half Moon Bay and back to LA a month or so previously?

And of course the luggage problem was easily solved using one of the famous Bandit bed rolls strapped across Billy’s handlebars, with his leather jacket strapped underneath. I’d forgotten about those innovative rolls and when I saw Billy strapping it on I came out with a “Doh!” that would’ve make Homer Simpson proud. First hurdle solved.

Dawn came early on departure day and skipping our workouts in the Bikernet gym Billy and I wheeled our bikes out of the garage and pointed them north-east. I watched Billy’s starting procedure with interest; nothing special, a prime, a couple of kicks and the bike fired right up settling down into a loping idle almost immediately.

We swung out into the morning traffic and began the usual ‘dances-with-cars’ that typifies riding the LA freeways, heading off toward Vegas. All went well until somewhere near Riverside Billy suddenly pulled over to the shoulder. Stopping behind him I deduced that his bike had died already, which was confirmed when he climbed off and took off his distributor cap. The verdict; no spark. Zilch, nada, nothing – dead as the proverbial doornail.

It seemed my misgivings about Billy’s bike might be justified after all. Hell, we weren’t even out of the smog yet and here we were by the side of the road with a broken bike. Billy felt his coil, which was hot enough to fry eggs on and it was obvious that this was the problem.

Now if we had to have a problem, having one at Riverside was as good a place as any, Riverside being the location of Mike ‘Kiwi Indian’ Tomas. A quick call from Billy soon did the trick and with a new coil from Mike cable-tied to the side of the Flathead, we were back on the road.

Hopefully, we’d be break-down free for a while but such was not to be. Ten minutes or so after the coil swap we were hooting along up a long incline when Billy’s bike hit a nasty bump in the road and his tools shifted around in this leather tool bag, shifted enough that they began bouncing out a gap that had opened at the rear of the bag. Suddenly, I was performing ‘dances-with-tools’ as I swerved this way and that, trying to avoid those pieces of steel which were bouncing and flying every which way. Surrounded by speeding trucks, pickups, cars and buses there was no way to stop and pick them up though I pulled Billy over and he re-fastened his tool bag to prevent further losses.

The day was hotting-up and, as usual, the closer we got toward Vegas the hotter it became. Finally, on that long, steep, goes-on-forever grade not far out Billy decided to stop and let the Flattie cool off a bit.

“I’m so in tune with this bike Doc”, Billy said as we pulled over, “it’s like it’s telling me it needs a short break.” So we stopped on the shoulder awhile, along with quite a stack of cars that had hoods up and steam issuing. Hell, if it is hot enough to make cars boil their radiators you can imagine how well the Flattie was doing to keep on running. When we first stopped we couldn’t even bear to touch the frame rails, such was the radiant heat. Despite the ambient temperature being so high, around 113F at the time, the blast of air from passing trucks soon had Billy’s bike cool enough to continue.

But the temperature didn’t drop much as we hit the outskirts and then made our way to Denver’s Choppers to hook up with the famed Mondo Porras, Godfather of Choppers.

Billy and Mondo are good buddies, but I had never met the man, though I felt I knew him in a way as I’d been reading about the bikes he builds all my biking life and watching him on the biker tv shows, so it was a happy moment indeed to finally meet him in person.

After a tour of his shop we followed Mondo to his house where we were to spend the night. After a refreshing shower and a change of clothes we headed out to dinner at a nearby steakhouse for a good meal.

I went to sleep that night content with the trip to this point but had that nagging feeling about what the next day might throw at us. It turned out to be full of surprises, some good, some well … we’ll go into that in the next part of this story.

Check Chapter 2

BILLY LANE ROLLS WITH BANDIT'S BED ROLL–Bandit’s Bed Roll is the perfect combo of tool bag and weekender engineered by the man that delivers form and function and keeps your ride looking clean. So pull out your wallet and click here to get your official Bandit Bed Roll Today.

Well all was looking good, we were packed and loaded to head to Sturgis Thursday morning, July 31st. All was going good, then 40 minutes into our trip..bam we drive right into the path of a tornado and before we can react, the 100-mile-an-hour straight line winds picked us up spun us around and flipped us over. Just like that the whole trip and everything we had worked so hard for was gone.

After we crawled out from under the wreckage and realized that all three of us were OK, then it was time to see how bad the bikes were. Once the wrecker arrived and up-righted the truck and trailer we pried open the doors to see what the damage was…luckily the two bikes that were to be in Michael lichter's display were unharmed.

My buddy Jay's gold Panhead didn't have a scratch and my '47 knucklehead was protected by my '57 pan. The pan ripped the tie- down hooks out of the trailer floor and frame. The rear tire bounced up and wedged in the ceiling missing the Knuck and creating a safety barrier so that when the Shovelhead came crashing down into the bikes, the Pan blocked it and kept the Knuck from harm–amazing.

Once we got to the tow yard we started unloading anything that was salvageable from the wreck and after rolling three of the four bikes off and test running them. We knew that we had to push on, hell we were going to be in Lichter's stay Gold..we couldn't miss that opportunity!

Teach helped us with the Baas Metal Craft laser cut Bikernet awards for the Bikernet.com Brouhaha at Thunder Road. This was the Burn Out Contest Trophy. I'm sending it to Edge from the Smoke Out for all his help.

After calling in some favors a new 40-foot RV with a 16-foot trailer came to the rescue. We loaded up and kept on truckin'. After stopping at the Klock Werks party we headed to Sturgis and finally made it into town around 4 a.m. Friday morning. We delivered the two bikes to the Lichter display at the Thunder Dome (Thunder Road where the Bikernet Brouhaha was scheduled) and then started a 9-day party spree that will never be forgotten. The Lichter display was awesome, the bike shows ruled and everywhere we went we were met with open arms and support for my chopper class and respect for us making it after the unexpected accident.

By the end of the week I had made many new friends spent time with many old friends and secured some great new sponsors for the Kennedy Chopper Class. Kiwi Mike donated one of his leaf spring forks which is going to be mated to the frame donated by C.J. and guilty customs. Pearson Customs is going to make a frame that will be mated to the springer that Sugar Bear is donating. Bert Baker is on board to donate a transmission, S&S will be helping us again with a motor, and NOS energy drink and Spectro oils is also sponsoring us. What a great ending to a start that was almost tragic.

Thanks again to everyone I met and was able to talk with, I look forward to next year.

Kevin Baas, “Teach”
BAAS METAL CRAFT
Custom made garage built motorcycle parts
952-215-1252
“When in doubt, burn out!”

Editor's note: Hollister 2008 was reported by Down Under Bikernet correspondent Doc Robinson who travelled half way around the world to attend the 61st Anniversary of the infamous first Hollister weekend. His features are also due to be published in Heavy Duty magazine, the largest H-D mag in Australia.

“What are you rebelling against, Johnny?”

“What have you got?”

Two immortal lines from the movie that started it all, The Wild One, filmed in Hollister, California in 1954 and loosely – very loosely – based on an “invasion of cyclists” who were in town for the local motorcycle races in 1947. Well, in typical mainstream media style the event became distorted and exaggerated beyond belief with the faked photo of a drunken “biker” on his Harley being printed in newspapers and magazines all over the country.Now, truth is often stranger than fiction and out of that weekend, not only a movie, but a culture was spawned – the American Biker culture, which has become a world-wide common culture in countries as diverse as Japan, Australia, most European nation states and even the former Soviet Union.

The voice over at the start of the movie intones in dramatic fashion: “This is a story of shocking violence. It couldn't have happened in most American towns, but the fact that it happened in this one – in this way – is a stern warning that it must not happen again.”

Well here we are, back in Hollister, where tens of thousands of bikers have once again “invaded” the town, but this time as in previous years of the Rally, in a mellow mood and ready to spend money and have a somewhat “mild” rather than a “wild” time, not that there is much choice as, in contrast to the sole town cop in the movie, the police presence during the rally was as usual, way, way over the top given the profile of the typical “biker” these days who, rather than being a bad ass blue collar Joe looking to blow off steam with some wild behaviour is more likely to be an accountant, a dentist or librarian for whom a double-double decaf coffee is likely to be their biggest hit for the weekend.

In fact, if recent Hollister Rallies had spawned a movie it would probably be titled, “The Mild One” and star William H Macy who lamely played the mild mannered computer nerd Dudley in that latest “biker” exploitation flick Wild Hogs. Funnily enough Wild Hogs, as corny as it is, and it surely is, does demonstrate the transition that has taken place whereby the boisterous biker of old, ready to booze and fight at the drop of a hat has become so much more civilised as have today’s production motorcycles, for the most part anyway.

But nevertheless, despite the sea change in today’s biker profile, motorcycles are still the last vestige of freedom and devil may care living. The look in the eyes of cage drivers or passengers as you blast past them, or the envious looks that guys and gals at gas stations throw your way as you dismount to fill up, bedroll strapped to the sissy bar says it all.

Envy, admiration, jealousy – all these emotions and more are stirred in the hearts of non-bikers when they see freedom on two wheels blast past them. What Jerusalem is to Christians, and Mecca is to Muslims, Hollister is to bikers, and almost sacred place if we can use that word in a non-religious sense but in the sense that it stirs deep feelings for anyone with more than a few drops Harley-Davidson oil running in their veins.

Hollister has also been the home town of Mike Corbin since 1977, and the site for the factory which produce the world famous motorcycle seats and much, much more. During the rally there is open house at the impressive Corbin factory down on Technology Parkway, a short couple of miles from downtown.

Both the factory and the Wizard’s Café were extremely well patronised during the rally, with many bikers having seats made to their individual ergonomic needs, tall, short, thin or fat, the Corbin craftsmen can tailor a seat to fit just perfectly.

Corbin, a major sponsor of the rally, also conducted Open Road Motorcycle Tours for those wanting to ride and there and there Many major vendors were displaying their wares with the ATI ProCharger guys drawing a regular crowd to their display of supercharged bikes and staffer, and motorcycle racer Walt Sipp, showing potential customers the cut away models that demonstrate the class engineering of these fine performance products.

A crowd favorite was the Leroy-Thompson ProCharger equipped bike and each time Scott started it up for the people, it drew wild applause.

Overall, there were close to 100 vendors displaying their wares including, just to name a few, Dakota Digital, Ride Wright Wheels, Scott Long’s Central Coast Cycles, Midwest Motorcycle Supply, Custom Chrome, Dragonfly Cycle Concepts, Turtle Wax, Sick Pig, Panoptx and House of Thunder Harley-Davison.

Johnny’s Bar & Grill, the very same bar that Marlon Brando and his compatriots from the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club strutted through in the movie is still there, still open and probably the most patronized joint in the entire town during the rally with guys and gals from many countries of the world taking in the atmosphere and no doubt wondering what those days really were like.

And if you cared enough about the old days, you could get stories first hand from guys that had been there, like the members of the Top Hatters MC, one of the first “Outlaw” clubs to form in post-WWII America. I met Jess Bravo, one of the Top Hatters and was treated to some tales from back in the day which was quite a treat. Another of the original 1% clubs, the Boozefighters had a presence as usual and added to the rich historic feel of the event.

The 2008 Hollister Rally had a bit of everything the modern biker could wish for with a slew of popular bands playing a range of music, a Custom Bike Show, Biker Breakfasts, a Poker Walk (??), Stunt Teams, a Bike Blessing, Boxing, a Fashion Show, Bike Games and more. But unlike the bigger rallies, getting around wasn’t too difficult although finding a motorcycle park could take a few laps of the block.

Without sponsors, the rally could not happen and we bikers would not have a great weekend event to attend in historic Hollister so thanks must go to them for getting behind it.

Sponsors included Bikernet.com of course, Corbin, BMC Chopper, Avon Tyres, Budweiser, Jack Daniels, Geico Motorcycle and Meguiar’s to name just a few. Thanks also must go to Mike Corbin for his sterling efforts in resurrecting the rally which, Mike is quick to point out, began with a vision by the legendary Sonny Barger of the HAMC, who Mike described as, “The original luminary with a vision to see the Hollister Rally reborn”.

Thanks also to the Mayor of Hollister, Doug Emerson and the City of Hollister itself for their core role in hosting such a great event, Jessica French CEO of the San Benito Chamber of Commerce and in particular, Seth Doulton who puts the rally together. Bikernet.com head honcho Bandit described the Hollister Rally as “the Most Historic Motorcycle Event on the Planet”, and it’s hard to argue with that. In his forward to the rally Event Guide Bandit wished bikers to, “Have a helluva good time!”

Well, the weather was kind, the beer was icy cold and despite naysayers predicting a slump in attendance a crowd estimated at well over 100,000 motorcycle enthusiasts made it to this sleepy little California town for the 61st Anniversary. If every one of them didn’t have a helluva good time it was their own damn fault. And there was no lack of pretty girls either. . .

Note from Reader:Reading your article on Hollister 2008, there's a part about the Top Hatters MC and then you refer to the Booze fighters:

“Another of the original 1% clubs, the Booze fighters had a presence as usual and added to the rich historic feel of the event.”

On all their club sites they claim they have never been, nor will they ever be a 1% organization. So who's right here?

You're right and Doc missed the mark.–Bandit

Well another El Diablo Run is in the history pages, making it three times now for this Run. The first I heard of the El Diablo Run was in the winter of ‘07 when a couple of guys I was chatting with out at Cook's Corner, in SoCal, were discussing their plans for the Run.

As soon as I heard the word “Baja”” I wanted to know everything about This Run down South, since I truly love the raw beauty & ruggedness of the Baja peninsula. I have traveled into Baja many times in four-wheeled vehicles, but never on two. As much as I wanted to make this Run, I just couldn’t get away from work obligations, I was in the middle of a fast & furious 12 unit new construction Condo wiring job that had me putting in overtime just to keep on schedule. So it was not to be.

Fast forward to spring of 2008.

With construction jobs being hit or miss I was easily able to fit this years El Diablo Run into my schedule. I asked a friend of mine who has a local bike building shop If he wanted to join Me, but said he had too much going on & couldn’t get away, but mentioned that Jeff, a local guy, who hangs out at the shop, was planning on making the Run.

I arranged to meet Jeff in Temecula, Califa at 6AM at the Denny’s where all the other riders were to meet. Many of the riders including Jeff actually arrived in Temecula the night before the Run. Some attended a “pre El Diablo party” held over at the Biltwell headquarters.

Me? I was up all night trying to get My Ride back together. I did a brake rotor change out (W8less rotors) and found out that the new Rotors were not going to fit between the brake pads, the fit was much too tight. I did not want to put the old parts back on because the pads were wore out, and the rotors had uneven wear on them and squeaked worse than a large family of Mice at a cheese convention.

I decided to fab up thicker spacers that are sandwiched between the caliper ends on my PM 2- piston springer calipers to give the rotors the needed clearance, reassembled everything, wolfed down some grub, showered, packed, and it was 4:00 a.m. not much time for sleep! Hell with it, I was out of there. I could sleep when I got to Mexico.

It was chilly for So Cal standards, so I threw on some warm duds & aimed my bike towards Temecula in the misty morning darkness. About 45 minutes later I gassed up and downed a cup of coffee and some groggy looking guy getting into the passenger side of a large work truck dropped his wallet on the ground and didn’t notice. I walked over to the wallet and picked it up as the truck was exiting. I got the guy's attention. He opened the door grabbed the wallet without even a simple “Thank You.”

Maybe next time I’ll just keep the wallet. I jump back on the bike and hightailed it to hwy 15 south to locate the Denny’s restaurant on the side of the highway as I cruised thru the city limits. I must have been early because there were only two other bikes in the lot!

I wasted no time entering the joint and ordering coffee. For the next two hours bikes rolled in, including Jeff my riding partner. After shooting the shit and going over details, we filled our tanks at the station next door and rolled out with another group of riders and headed a short distance to Hwy 79. The series of roads that make up the first leg of the El Diablo Run down to the Border were easy riding, indeed. Plenty of sweeping turns, hills and open countryside void of much auto traffic.

My Partner Jeff was on last years 2007 Diablo Run so he had the route wired. A few guys got lost on this leg since there were several junctions. This run is nothing like a typical bike rally such as Laughlin, or Sturgis where you see Bikes everywhere. The total number of bikes was around 250. Most of the riders rode in small packs up to about 25 max. Some rode solo, or in pairs. Also the Machines were definitely not what you would usually see on a typical rally. EVO’s & Twin Cam’s were definitely the minority with many old Triumphs, Shovels, Ironheads, and various Pans, Knuckles, BSA’s, Indians, even an old beat up vintage BMW rumbled along the open roads.

Several chase vehicles pulling trailers backed our play. Some of the riders had the luxury of riding without luggage weighing them down. Besides hauling luggage and gear the support vehicles also hauled fuel, oil, brake fluid, oil, tools, mig welders, and tie downs to assist riders.

Before moving across the Border into Mexico, the El Diablo gang gathered at the Pizza Hut restaurant just north of the Border for Lunch, and to purchase Mexican Insurance and or exchange dollars for pesos. After about 2 hours of screwing around and waiting for lost pals of Jeff’s, I was more than ready to get back on the road.

Jeff & I pulled out of the pizza hut with about 20 other bikes and ran the short distance to the border. It was a breeze getting across, nothing like the usual return back into the States. Upon crossing the Mexican Border we headed down the main drag through Mexicali which had more potholes than Blackburn, Lancashire, and stutter bumps that were giving the Rigid framed riders fits.

Meanwhile the Jockey Shifters had their hands full with the never ending line-ups of Alto signs. The looks we got from the locals were priceless as the loud Machines motored through their sleepy border town. With Mexicali behind us we picked up the pace & headed south towards San Felipe, but first we had to stop at the Pemex station about 15 miles south of Mexicali to make the long trek to the next fuel station which was about 140 miles south, Near San Felipe.

I led the way as 20 or so others followed as we rode down Hwy 5 to San Felipe. Highway 5 has many rough sections infested with potholes, So single file was the best way for traveling on much of this Hwy. At about 100 miles south of Mexicali we pulled over to wait for a chase vehicle to refuel the puny peanut tanks on several of the Bikes in our group that were running on fumes. Thirty minutes later we were back at it, and made our way south. The Sea of Cortez was in view to our left, and to our right was the seemingly endless Baja Desert.

We came upon the Pemex station near San Felipe and quickly refueled then cruised the last few miles into Town. Again, lots of Alto signs, and no signal lights at all. After riding through town we headed to Our Beach Camp which is on the north end of the Bay. The Bikes were pulling into two different camps next to each other. Reubin’s (where I stayed), and Kiki’s. Some had reserved rooms, others had reserved Palapas (sort of a tree house looking structure), or the Beach. I slept under the stars with my down bag on the soft white sand and slept like a baby, especially since I was up all night the previous night with no sleep.

Most of the group just kicked back at camp the first night and chowed on tacos and cervesa, while they enjoyed the booming campfire. There was one small beach bar serving up tequila and cocktails.

I brought my own bottle of tequila on the trip as I needed to spend my money on other stuff, like Gas! Some Mexican hookers even made a showing at camp.

Day Two–Friday

I kicked off the sand flees around 8:00 a.m., grabbed some coffee and breakfast at camp, and afterwards I wandered over to the entrance and noticed a bulldozer was being commissioned by one of the Diablo gang. Shortly thereafter this bulldozer was constructing a Flat Track on the large dirt area across from camp. After breakfast, bikes were kicked to life and next thing you know dudes were dicing it out on the newly constructed “Circle of Death.” One guy named “Wolf” was doing monster wheelies on His “Spare” hot-rodded Sportster that was trailered down.

Then he rolled onto the Diablo Track and was tearing it up like a man possessed, kicking up large dust clouds and finally laying the bike down. Several others got out on the track, and two or three of the bikes ended up with busted primary belts (open primary drives and dirt don’t mix). A couple of riders broke lever perches, and smashed header pipes, then the show was over.

The weather was damn near perfect. I spent most of the late morning/lunch time drinking cervesas on the beach. After some lunch I broke out my tools and started wrenching on my bike, the usual checking fasteners, inspection for leaks, etc. I decided to hunt around camp for some crush washers for my leaking front brakes which did not respond to further torquing of the banjo bolts. All I could locate were some of those crappy aluminum/rubber ones. I changed them anyways and bled the brakes. I used some dot 5 fluid I packed. At least half the camp were turning wrenches getting their rides ready for the next day's journey through the baja wilderness on to Ensenada. The MIG welder was getting heavy usage.

Guys were on the phone calling the U.S. for next day parts shipments to Mexico. Then came reality when suppliers asked them, “Are You Nuts?” One guy called long distance, trying to locate a 3-inch primary belt was told, “Minimum four days. You are basically in No Mans land!” No daily UPS trucks headed that way.

The hard luck guys who had their scooters rolled onto the trailers for the trip home were good sports about it, kicked their partying up a notch since they were not going to be doing any more riding on the rest of the trip. That night Jeff and I rode into town, hit all the strip joints and bars we could find. I was shooting pool with the owner of one of the bars, and turns out he used to own a bar in my area, The “Way Station.” He sold it 20 years ago and moved south of the border. He lives right on the Beach. Check this, my girlfriend (at the time) owned a bar in Redondo Beach, and her Mother owned a Bar in Manhattan Beach, and was the one who purchased his Bar (Waystation) 20 years ago.

We met two Mexican girls on the street and partied with them awhile but they weren’t giving up the goods, So we hightailed it to the strip club around midnight and it was packed with drunk Bikers. On the late night ride back to camp on the very dark road, I passed a patrol car that had lights flashing, and a Biker being interrogated. I bolted for camp and made a clean getaway. Moments later the bike I had just passed pulled into camp and the poor biker said, “They got me for $200 bucks! Those bastards!” They said they were going to throw me in jail if I didn’t pay up. Another biker next to the campfire said, “yeah, they got me for $45.00.”

No respect!

There was some major partying going on at camp with Mexican girls, heavy drinking, loud music, huge bonfires, super loud cherry bombs going off. All the usual Burnouts and Rowdy behavior rocked the night. At about 2AM I called it a night, since I wanted to be up around dawn the next morning.

Day 3 Saturday

Most of the gang got up at the crack of dawn except the ones with the major hangovers. Jeff and I pulled out of camp at 8AM to meet some pals of His that were staying in Town, These guys came all the way from Florida. I got to pack all my gear in their Truck for the run to Ensenada. I could really cut the groove through the mountain passes on this leg of the journey. I missed the junction from Hwy 5 to Hwy 3 and cut across the dirt shoulder and ended up packing my Open belt drive with pea gravel. That belt was stretched to Its limits and was a bitch to free up. After ten minutes of jogging the starter a tiny bit at a time, followed by cleaning the pulley cogs, we finally got it cleared out. Then a guy coming along on a cool Panhead pulled over. His bike died. His buddies were in a truck following, so He waved us on and we headed up Hwy 3 into the boonies.

Jeff and I didn’t care for the slow pace. His pals were holding to at around 60 mph on their old vintage iron, so we forged on ahead at a more normal cruising range of around 75mph. I really enjoyed the ride on this road (Mex 3) the true essence of Baja, wide open rugged and a menacing landscape with huge valleys surrounded by desert mountains, wildflowers, cactus, and virtually No Cars! Excellent.

When we reached a tiny little town, (Trinidad) there was a single Pemex station packed with Bikes and two lines of Bikers waiting to purchase some liquid gold. After about a 30-minute wait I pulled back onto Hwy 3 and blasted towards Ensenada. I put on some warmer gear, since I was told it got cold going through the mountain pass.

There was another Pemex station about 30 miles down the road in Ojos Negros, and I stopped briefly for a cold cervesa, then continued on towards the higher elevation section of this road. It gradually got colder as the road winded it’s way through the rocky Baja mountains roughly halfway between the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific. It never really warmed up as the road winded its way downhill all the way to Ensenada where there was somewhat of a marine layer hanging around, a cool ocean breeze unlike the warm and calm weather back in San Felipe on the gulf side.

I worked my way to the tourist area near the Ensenada harbor to find Hotel mission San Isabel. Once there I parked the Bike, headed to the pool area and grabbed a cold one. When I returned to my Bike, my bud Jeff pointed out this guy that just put a nice deep scratch in my rear fender. The guy felt terrible & wanted to compensate me for the damage. After a quick look at the damage, I said to not worry about it, but if he had any extra space in his room to lay out a sleeping bag, since the rooms were sold out, I didn't make a reservations…

He said, “Sure!” So I ended up staying two nights with him and his brother, both from Texas. As for the scratch, I could easily fix it but intend to leave it as a battle scar memento. After moving my gear up to the room I had a couple of cervesas by the pool with about 50 others, while the bartender was spinning rock 'n' roll CDs. After some Tacos, I strolled downtown with a bunch of guys from a biker club up in Sonora, CA. After watching some strippers at various strip clubs, drinking and watching a descent heavy metal band at a small Bar on the way back to the Hotel, I was about done.

Day Four Sunday

I woke up with a blistering hangover from the previous night of drinking, but dragged myself out of bed and headed to the Hotel restaurant for some breakfast and lots of coffee. My buddy Jeff asked me if I wanted to head for home, But I wanted to stay another day like everyone else was doing. He wanted to get back to work because he was spending all his money! I told Him I wanted to get my brake leak fixed for the ride home so he left solo for L.A.

I wanted to find a cycle shop, if possible, so I could try to score some copper crush washers for my badly leaking front brake calipers. One guy I chatted with informed me that there was a Home Depot in town, and it was probably the only place open on a Sunday.

I didn’t think Home Depot would have anything that would fix my problem, but I rode over there anyway, and glad I did. In the parking lot, I met an older American guy wearing a Honda cap. I asked him where all the Cycle shops were, and explained that I needed some crush washers for my bike's front brakes. He said he had some back at His place. He offered to drive back to his place which was about 30 miles south at Punta Banda. “I'll be back with some copper washers,” he said.

I said, “No way! I am not going to have you drive all that way. Besides, I was planning on riding out that way later today anyway.” He agreed, and I followed him south on several different roads that winded along the coast to Punta Banda and Bufadora. Awesome ride! We arrived at Punta Banda. I parked at the bottom of his hill and jumped in his truck. We drove up a dirt road to his casa.

He wasn't kidding when he said he lived at Punta Banda (Point Banda). His place was small like just about all the casas in old Mexico, but the location was to die for. He was perched on a hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean with waves crashing just steps away, just awesome. We walk in through the door and he said to excuse the place, that he was a bachelor. Right away I spotted motorcycle parts everywhere, tool boxes, Racing trophies, Old racing photos of him on the walls, and under some blankets he pulled back were a couple of tricked out racing Bikes. They were Hondas, I don’t remember what model, But they looked highly modified.

He said that he has ridden motorcycles all over the world his entire life, and he was getting ready to purchase a brand new V-Strom. He was planning on riding from Mexico on up to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. After chatting awhile, He pulled some brand new Copper crush washers out of a tool box.

“Here take these,” He said. “Don’t over tighten them, just enough to where they don’t leak.” I forget the Chap's name. He simply went by a pair of initials. I thanked him for his generosity, and he said to stop on by next time I was in Baja. “I could show you some amazing trails that go on forever.” He recommended something like a Honda XL as the only way to really hit these trails, and a V- Strom or BMW style bike would be a handful indeed.

Upon leaving he said, “Keep the Rubber side down.” I fired up my pan, and headed south a short distance to Bufadora, A tiny little town situated along a small Cove amongst the Raw Baja coastline, Simply gorgeous! I grabbed a cold one & just enjoyed the amazing view. After a couple of beers I headed back north on the winding road through the rugged Punta Banda area and pulled over at a small Tamale stand. A young Mexican girl and her child were selling really tasty pineapple Tamales. I gave her a tip her smile was worth every penny.

I headed back to Hotel San Isabel, and arrived to a parking lot full of guys wrenching on their Cycles. By this time my front brakes were nonexistent, I had to rely on the rear brake on my way back. The bike was covered with brake fluid from the coastal winds blowing iteverywhere.

There was a makeshift cervesa stand in the parking lot with some heavy grooves coming from a CD player. I grabbed a cold one, got my tools out and started to change out those leaky washers on the calipers. A Shovelhead rolled in on a trailer that was messed up.

I was talking with the young owner. “While riding across the desert from San Felipe to Ensenada, a strong gust of wind blew me off the road,” he said. The bike would need to be hauled back to the states, as it took a beating. Amazingly the rider only had some minor scuffs, since he landed on soft Baja soil and not the rough Mexican asphalt.

After finishing up with the brakes, I went up stairs for a refreshing shower, then went out for some Tacos. A few hours later, feeling very refreshed, I went to look for Jeff and some other pals that I was hanging with the previous day and couldn’t locate them. So I went off to check out downtown. I came across Three Pool halls back behind the main drag where all the tourist action was. I went in, spied a lone pool shooter and ended up playing for Cervesas. This Amigo didn’t speak any English, but It wasn't needed. Just a simple, “Cervesa” and a pool cue held up high was enough. I won all but one game, and the games were all very close.

I gave Him some Pesos, since He was paying for the time on the table. Then I headed over to Papa’s n Beer. I didn’t dig on the super loud Disco music, so I left after one shot of Tequila and worked my way over to one of the various Strip clubs. Lots of drunk Bikers throwing their money away. They had some gorgeous young Latino girls in this club. There was the typical side action going on in the remote areas of the club. I didn’t want to blow what cash I had left and got out of there!

I bumped into a few of the guys from the Bike club in Sonora, and one of their buddies (Pat) was totally drunk. He could hardly walk down the street. I narrowly saved him from smacking his head on a piece of rebar sticking out of an old building. Then he almost stepped on an exposed transformer on the sidewalk! Unbelievable, exposed high voltage connections right along a busy sidewalk..

One of the Guys, (forgot his name) and I decided to check out the Bar that was situated at the top floor of the highest Hotel in Ensenada. The view was incredible, and we could see the flashing lights of police cars all over the city as they upheld the law and extorted cash from citizens. It was a Sunday night & getting late so there wasn’t much going on, but was worth it just to drink one beer and see the entire city aglow at night. Great Bar to take a girl to for sure. On the way back to the Hotel I was greeted by some drug dealer trying to sell his shit.

Day 5 Monday

I got up around 7:00 a.m., packed my gear and rode solo towards Tijuana. It was somewhat chilly and overcast on the coastal ride heading north. I have been on this highway many times in automobiles, so I already knew what to expect, especially in Tijuana! Going through one of the Pay Toll booths on the toll road I accidentally dropped a quarter into my running open belt primary and put a half quarter shaped tear in the belt! Next time I’ll say, “Keep the change.” Or I'll shut the motor off. Traffic could have been worse at the border. I was able to lane split along the border waiting lines, dodging the street peddlers and their carts.

Before I got to the waiting lines at the border crossing, a speeding Taxi came inches from me and scared the crap out of me. Then five minutes later some woman cut in front of me, some cars and almost caused a car wreck of immense proportions. That area surrounding the border crossing was mighty dangerous, as there are cars running around like a pack of ants trying to find their way to the border.

The border agent girl asked me for my citizenship papers, and like a fool I packed them at the bottom of my bag. She was a sweetie and let me go after answering some questions about why I was riding a chopper in Mexico. I explained about the El Diablo run she said, “Wow that sounds like fun!”

She was hot too!

I took the coastal route up through Encinitas and up to Pendelton, then hit Hwy 5 north. Riding along on the interstate, I couldn’t help but reflect on the awesome riding that took place on day one and day three of the El DIablo run. I will no doubt take part in next year's run if it takes place. I would recommend it to anyone who is up for adventure doesn’t mind a little added danger, especially if you like old bikes. Some 80 percent of the Machinery on this run is old vintage Iron.

–Larry

The Smoke Out 9 Rally provided two days of outstanding weather and none stop action. The main attraction, of course, was the 2-wheel artists blasting their latest designs down the Farmington Raceway.

Everything from techno-chops to resurrected cruisers from the ‘80s made it out to the 2008 edition of the Smoke Out. Low and loud, that’s how we like 'em.

Bare Knuckle Choppers – Chop Off Winner

Bare Knuckle Choppers of Missouri came away with the Chop Off win. The power plant is a Panhead lower and Knucklehead upper. The rocker boxes are custom made and required 18 weeks on the CNC machine to program and fabricate. The exhaust system is stainless steel without a weld seam to be found. The bright work is nickel and shined to a rich luster. Starting out front is a hand-built springer front end. Again, flawless construction and design.

All the Ladies Check In With the Beaner

Across from the event sponsors of Sucker Punch Sally’s, Baker Transmission and Torian Chopper Leathers was biker bon vivant Beaner. He held court with the ladies as there was always some biker babe putting a squeeze on him.

Beaner put on a show and won the minibike contest with an alcohol-fed two stroke. The contest was held late on Saturday night and the guy in the guerrilla suit gave him a run for his money early in the contest but wasn't a match for the consistency of the Beaner. Even so, it wasn’t all smooth sailing… he would have lapped the field if he hadn't spun out as much as he did.

The Bean-man had to pull freight early on Sunday because of a hot date with a female pro wrestler he met through MySpace. It sounds like the two could be in hug & headlock bliss.

The Boys Just Want To Have Fun

A Smoke Out would not be a Smoke Out without a wet t-shirt contest and bike wash. The tasty young nubile virgins were doing their thing and keeping the throng of bikers entertained. If you need to man-up you had your choice between and old-skool “ring-the-bell” carnival midway contest and an electric bull ride. Both drew loads of people.

Jeral Tidwell designed the event poster and t-shirt. He was regaling us with how he started his art career in third grade and exchanged cartoons for good grades in penmanship. Back in the day he got dates by drawing their favorite toon with a snappy caption. He’s been trading his expertise ever since. His work can be seen on corporate campaigns from Kawasaki to General Motors.

A good rally wouldn’t be complete without music. And the show had five bands performing including the Belmont Playboys, Deadbolt, Aliwiscious Farhatt, Straight 8’s and Kelly and the Cowboys. The music was all good.

Smoke Out Power plants Come in all Shapes & Sizes

New for 2008 is a Thrill Show with Thrill Kill Jill and Stephen Frye… fire eating and sword swallowing kind of stuff. The Columbia, SC and Charlotte, NC Roller Derby Girls were battling it out on Saturday on the drag strip. These sassy vixens can skate and throw a punch… oh yeah. They had that Goth chick look and fit right in.

The police were in force. They all dressed in their very best SWAT attire and seemed to fit right in too.

What turned the Smoke Out into a great rally was the kickass drag strip. During each run a smoking-hot chick would send the boys down the raceway. Everything from customs to jap chops to baggers were running for bragging rights. Nothing was timed, you just mano a mano with the sled next to you.

Much of the contest was waiting for an impending disaster… you just knew someone was going to wad it up on the guard rail. Not so, the boys kept the rubber side down and the tires a smokin.

If you want to see more pictures of the event, go to Torian Chopper Leathers’ gallery.

Edge produced the show and it looked like he put another memorable one in the bag. If you missed it, you still have time to plan to attend Smoke Out West… it is just a few months away, see ya there.

The Antique Motorcycle Club of America held its second annual Grand National Motorcycle Show and Swap Meet at the Dutchess County Fairgrounds in historic Rhinebeck, NY this June.

Over 1,000 rare motorcycles from 1898 through 1973 were on display including a timeline with a bike from every year represented. From vintage Harley-Davidson and Indian motorcycles to Flying Mercels and Brough Superiors were lined up in a timeline representing the best in vintage bikes. Douglas’s, Thor’s and Excelsior-Henderson’s to name were represented, but were displayed few in various conditions from full restorations to barn condition bikes.

If you were looking for a part for your Vincent Black Shadow restoration, odds are that you could find it, as vintage part vendors lined the isles alongside folks cleaning out their garages at decent prices.

Cycle Source Magazine hosted a period modified bike show that drew a crowd. The winners of first and second places were a husband and wife team with his 1947 Knucklehead bobber and her 1953 Panhead bobber and third place went to a 15-year old for his bobbed flathead that we watched him ride around the fair grounds all weekend. Guess the judges were in a family mood and were partial to bobbers.

The crowd was treated to the daredevil riders of the Globe of Death and music filled the air. Despite the short shower mid-day on Saturday, spirits were not dampened and the people in attendance got to see a rare display of vintage motorcycles they won’t soon forget.

The Rhinebeck Grand National Show and Swap will be an annual event at the Dutchess County Fairgrounds for years to come. Just 1.5 hours North of New York City through some of the prettiest country roads in New York State, this is an event we’ll hopefully attend for years to come.

–TB