Hey,

We are living in such strange times. But through it all is the beauty and style of the custom bike or a gorgeous woman.






We as brothers of the wheel understand the longing for the open road, the desire to create fine alluring lines in a bike build, the tug of a bitchin song that speaks to our souls or the shape of a woman.





I’ve always thought that women are the flowers of humanity. When they blossom or smile nothing compares except maybe the beauty and grace of an amazing sunset. I’m watching one right now over the hills of Deadwood above the pristine pine covered hills.





Choppers and custom motorcycles are an art form. Their glistening metal flake paint often tries to compete with the crimson clouds at sunset, just like the fine clean simplified lines of a custom motorcycle tries to compete with the lines of a slender woman’s body.





A custom motorcycle represents the freedom to fly, while never leaving the ground. Nothing on the highways leans and flexes with the road surface like a motorcycle. A custom bike embraces pure style and curves and sways like the motions of a strolling woman.





In these strange times nothing bothered me, because luck brought me a redhead and a Panhead to build in my shop. I was able to write about hot looking and clever women in my latest book effort. Hell, I got to tinker with our next Bonneville effort, the Salt Torpedo. What the hell could be better?





Plus, I’m deeply connected to brothers and sisters around the country who understand the power of the creative soul, the freedom custom two-wheels brings and the joy a girl’s smile can afford the dullest day. We don’t need anything else.





We have it all with wrenches, the open road and Sam’s and Barry’s pretty women to keep our creative spirits alive. Then I escaped Los Angeles and California for Deadwood, South Dakota and a new adventure unfolded.





Think about it for a minute. In some cases, motorcycle sales are through the roof. What’s important, being jammed in a bar or being out on an uncluttered open road, feeling the wind, listening to the roar of engines breathing fire, or building something so cool it makes you want to share it with a girl, who understands the sheer pleasure to create a stellar sunset in your garage.





Every day in every way, we find joy and respect for the creative spirit. We don’t need crowds, congestion or jammed lines. All we need are the tools to create and the eyes and ears to experience every pinstriped line, every blue sky reflecting in chrome and every sway or curve making your eyes twinkle and your smile bright as the glistening sun.



Enjoy every creative minute and ride free forever!

“Wild Bill” Hickok, one of the greatest gunfighters of the American West, was murdered in Deadwood, South Dakota.

Born in Illinois in 1837, James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok first gained notoriety as a gunfighter in 1861 when he coolly shot three men who were trying to kill him.

A highly sensationalized account of the gunfight appeared six years later in the popular periodical Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, sparking Hickok’s rise to national fame.

Other articles and books followed, and though his prowess was often exaggerated, Hickok did earn his reputation with a string of impressive gunfights.

After accidentally killing his deputy during an 1871 shootout in Abilene, Kansas, Hickok never fought another gun battle. For the next several years he lived off his famous reputation.

Occasionally, he worked as guide for wealthy hunters. His renowned eyesight began to fail, and for a time he was reduced to wandering the West trying to make a living as a gambler. Several times he was arrested for vagrancy.

In the spring of 1876, Hickok arrived in the Black Hills mining town of Deadwood, South Dakota. There he became a regular at the poker tables of the No. 10 Saloon, eking out a meager existence as a card player.

On this day in 1876, Hickok was playing cards with his back to the saloon door. At 4:15 in the afternoon, a young gunslinger named Jack McCall walked into the saloon, approached Hickok from behind, and shot him in the back of the head. Hickok died immediately. McCall tried to shoot others in the crowd, but amazingly, all of the remaining cartridges in his pistol were duds. McCall was later tried, convicted, and hanged.

Dead Man’s Hand

For other uses, see Dead man’s hand (disambiguation).
“Aces and eights” redirects here. For other uses, see Aces and eights (disambiguation).

The card hand purportedly held by Wild Bill Hickok at the time of his death: black aces and eights.

The makeup of poker’s dead man’s hand has varied through the years. Currently, it is described as a two-pair poker hand consisting of the black aces and black eights.

The pair of aces and eights, along with an unknown hole card, were reportedly held by Old West folk hero, lawman, and gunfighter Wild Bill Hickok when he was murdered while playing a game.

No contemporaneous source, however, records the exact cards he held when killed. Author Frank Wilstach’s 1926 book, Wild Bill Hickok: The Prince of Pistoleers, led to the popular modern held conception of the poker hand’s contents.

–Wikipedia

James Butler Hickock (Bio)

James Butler Hickok (May 27, 1837 – August 2, 1876), better known as “Wild Bill” Hickok, was a folk hero of the American Old West known for his life on the frontier as a soldier, scout, lawman, gambler, showman, and actor, and for his involvement in many famous gunfights. He earned a great deal of notoriety in his own time, much of it bolstered by the many outlandish and often fabricated tales he told about himself. Some contemporaneous reports of his exploits are known to be fictitious, but they remain the basis of much of his fame and reputation.

Hickok was born and raised on a farm in northern Illinois at a time when lawlessness and vigilante activity was rampant because of the influence of the “Banditti of the Prairie”.

Drawn to this ruffian lifestyle, he headed west at age 18 as a fugitive from justice, working as a stagecoach driver and later as a lawman in the frontier territories of Kansas and Nebraska. He fought and spied for the Union Army during the American Civil War and gained publicity after the war as a scout, marksman, actor, and professional gambler. He was involved in several notable shootouts during the course of his life.

In 1876, Hickok was shot and killed while playing poker in a saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory (present-day South Dakota) by Jack McCall, an unsuccessful gambler. The hand of cards which he supposedly held at the time of his death has become known as the dead man’s hand: two pair, black aces and eights.

Hickok remains a popular figure of frontier history. Many historic sites and monuments commemorate his life, and he has been depicted numerous times in literature, film, and television.

He is chiefly portrayed as a protagonist, although historical accounts of his actions are often controversial, and much of his career is known to have been exaggerated both by himself and by contemporary mythmakers. While Hickok claimed to have killed numerous named and unnamed gunmen in his lifetime, according to Joseph G. Rosa, Hickok’s biographer and the foremost authority on Wild Bill, Hickok killed only six or seven men in gunfights.

 

The show has 20 classes and is sponsored by Bikernet, Spectro Oil, Dave Perewitz,A -1 Cycles, Bikers Choice, B&D Customs, Bitwell,Bling’s Cycles, Custom Chrome, Speedking Racing, Mo’s Image Customs, low Brow Customs, Led Sleds, Rider Now Magazine, Barebones Leather, V-Twin and Southern Cycles 

There was every kind of bike you can think of from Flat Heads with patina and refurbished to new to gorgeous custom paint jobs on Knuckle Heads, Pan Heads, Shovel Heads, Evo’s and some imports. It was absolutely packed with bikes.

The show ran from 11:00 to 4:00 with huge turnout of people showing up and plenty of beer to drink, BBQ to eat and live music to keep us entertained and don’t forget some Twisted Tea girls running around for plenty of eye candy.

After checking out the bikes there is quite a few vendors to checkout with gear, t-shirts and bike parts. Biker Lives Matter and Bikers for Trump also had tents set up.

If you did not get a chance to get to the show make sure you put on your list. It is a great way to spend the Thursday with friends and peers from the industry. I will surely keep my calendar checked off for this event and its a plus knowing that I’m supporting a great cause!

Thanks, Willie, for a great show!

Misled

Location: The Hilton Hotel near CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Liz enters the hotel room enraged.

“Zac, they’ve suspended my CSS status and put me on leave of absence!” Liz fumes to me.

“Leave of absence? For how long?” I reply quizzically.

“Indeterminate. Un-fucking-believable. The Agency says I need time to unwind,” she snarls.

“Liz, let it go. You do need to get away. Just let it go.”

“And just where the hell do I let it go to Zac?” she seethes.

“Kathmandu.” I smile.

“I’m sorry. I thought you said Kathmandu.”

“Yes, I have been planning a travel story to the Himalayas for years—a motorcycle ride from Katmandu to Lhasa. It’s the perfect time of year, and you’ll love the ride. What better than the Himalayas to cleanse your soul? We’ll be riding Royal Enfield motorcycles; it will be awesome. We’ll be traveling a thousand miles through the Himalayas with a small group of riders.”

“Fine,” Liz snaps.

“Imagine riding to the world’s highest monastery at the base of Mt. Everest. It’s the perfect way to experience this magical land. Liz, this is a ride of a lifetime… FINE? Do you know how long I’ve rehearsed a pitch to talk you into this?”

“I said fine, Zac. When do we leave?”

“We can leave immediately,” I reply. “I signed my life away to those NSA thugs; a couple-dozen non-disclosure documents and they returned my identity, passport, driver’s license, and birth certificate.”
I’m a moto-journalist and live out of saddlebags. Liz has been on the move for the last two years, and neither of us has homes, kids, or even cats. The terrain is rugged and the weather unpredictable. We’ll sleep at local Monasteries and be traveling through places frozen in time for thousands of years. It’s an epic adventure: man, woman, machine, and the mountains. Both of us are in good health, and while most people have to take Diamox for high altitude sickness, Viagra has a similar effect of increasing blood flow at elevation.

The plane tickets are easy to get (check), passports (check), international driver’s license (check), shots (I needed 6) and Viagra… check. I even quit smoking my Chinese Sunays.

In Kathmandu, we are met by the Himalayan Roadrunner staff and hustled through the bustling airport like refugees from another world. The first day got us acquainted with our Royal Enfield motorcycles. Used by the British in the 1950s, they remain the mainstay of Himalayan Roadrunners because of the availability of parts and ease of repair. For me, the right-side shift and clutch took take a little getting used to, but Liz takes to it immediately.

There are three kingdoms of Kathmandu valley: Kathmandu, the big city; Patan, home to the Newars; and Bhaktapur, a preserved medieval tourist destination. We spend our time in Patan, visiting temples and wandering Durbar Square. Patan is woven together with open one-way streets and filled with artisans and craftsmen—indeed a fascinating blend of history, art, religion, and foods. It’s cleaner and more dialed-down than the chaos of Kathmandu, with few tourists.

Motorcycling through Nepal to Tibet is an exhilarating experience. Between road closures, herds of Yaks, landslides and aggressive truck drivers, each day provides a new set of challenges. We cross the Chinese border into Tibet and the group spends two days in Nyalam acclimating to the altitude. It is only 12,000 feet, but preparing yourself for impending higher elevations needs to be taken seriously. AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) varies from light-headedness to downright flu-like symptoms.

Small doses of Viagra daily are helping me immensely through each day’s ride. And the evenings? Thank god we have private quarters— I’ve never seen Liz happier. It’s high altitude sexual healing; her dark cloud has lifted. This trip was the perfect prescription.

Spectacular riding takes us up over Tong La Pass with commanding mountain views of the High Himalaya Range. It’s here we get our first views of Mount Everest via the saddles of our Royal Enfields. Truly in the middle of nowhere, we pass villages that have never had electricity or running water.

The passing days challenge us with steep off-road inclines, loose gravel, stone and rough tracks. Finally the group arrives at the Rongbuk Monastery guest house at the base of Mt. Everest. It’s the Highest Monastery in the World.

Liz and I acclimate well to the 18,000-foot altitude; others aren’t so lucky. One female rider has to return to Kathmandu, and a male rider need repeated use of a HAPO (High Altitude Pulmonary Oedema) bag. It’s an inflatable pressure bag large enough to accommodate a person, through which the environmental pressure can be increased and decreased by the equivalent of thousands of feet of elevation.

The weather granted us a truly spectacular view of the tallest mountain on earth. I was inspired to write a poem.

I say without hesitation
that motorcyclists love the mountain.
It is where we dance.
A graceful ballet of endless pirouettes
as the mountain leads first to the left,
then right, then to the left again.
We freely fall into gravity’s demanding arms
then with a twist of the throttle are
thrust into the next delicious curve.
She lifts the spirit as we ascend,
as we transcend, riding high, above the
mundane until among the stars we fly.

And the mountain is where we fight.
Wrestling against hairpin turns, battling
hard against opposing forces, often for our life.
Because if the mountain wins…we die.

Mountain is where we face our fears,
test inner resolve, or chase foolish whims.
Be it the path of least resistance or
the hard-arduous climb,
It’s here, from the top,
the breadth of our journey is revealed.

The passage past, we cannot change,
the present moment holds endless possibilities
to a future that we have the power to create.

The next day we visit the impressive gold-topped Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. The largest working monastery currently in Tibet, Tashi Lhunpo is most famous as the site of the enshrinement of the first Dalai Lama and is also the seat of the controversial Panchen Lama. It’s here that Liz and I are separated from the group by two monks who escort us to a room with hundreds of smiling golden Buddha heads. Another monk donning a large red hat chants before a massive golden Buddha. We stand in silence for what seems an eternity. The monk at the altar suddenly turns and speaks.

“We are simple people and understand truth; we know you seek truth, but your perception is not a contribution to the truth. Never confuse your opinions with truth. Everything you know or believe is, in fact, false. When your world becomes numb, and all hope fades, you must return here, right here to us. Do not forget this. Your life and the life of your world depend on this thing. We are the Curators, Planners and Guardians of truth, and we will be here waiting.”

He hands Liz prayer beads, then gives me a necklace with an extraordinarily detailed painted pendant of a provocative Tibetan female dancer, which I examine quizzically. Staring intensely into my eyes, the monk states, “Your Dakini.” Without breaking a beat, I removed my Eye of Horus necklace and hand it to him. Pausing to study it, he suddenly flashes me a huge sardonic smile. I’d swear I’d seen that same monk smiling at the Shaffer hotel in New Mexico in the Graveyard Run story.

As we are escorted back to the group, Liz blurts, “What was that all about?”

“It’s a long story.” Shaking my head, I back-peddle.

“Do you know what a Dakini is?” she asks.

“I do.” I quote Wikipedia, “Dakini, in Sanskrit means (sky dancer) is a Tantric priestess of ancient India who carried the souls of the dead to the sky. She’s a Tibetan Buddhist goddess with a generally volatile temperament, who acts as a muse for spiritual practice.” I still hadn’t told Liz about my spirit guide who visits me in my dreams.

Story line started about ten years ago, during the bare bobber era. I was looking for a seat to go with an old school flat-tracker look. I had a pair of Flanders flat tracker bars, but it did not look right with the King/Queen seat. Remember, choppers were dead, done, caput.

I was looking around for that solo look, so when the wife didn’t want to ride with me, I had a solo way to go.

The real story was inspired by Bandit who listened carefully to my tale and wanted me to share it. He liked my abstract story about what I went through to get this job done. We all face stuff like this, when we have a dream and go after it. It can be a dream about our next build or as small as a single seat project.

Meanwhile back at my solo seat effort. I kept searching around for a solo seat. I didn’t care for those Bates solos because they just weren’t wide enough for my taste and my skinny butt. I wandered into a couple of shops and hit a couple of swap meets and didn’t find what I was looking for.

After a year of searching, I walked into Ed Walkers shop one day and there on a shelf was exactly what I was looking for. This was about seven years ago. This puppy was hanging on his pegboard wall waiting for a new rider to come along.

I think I gave him 25 dollars for it. It had the old patina, on leather, for that old bike look. It was a worn, rugged, traditional, old black leather saddle for an old iron horse, perfect. I could slip it on and slip it off without a single bolt. Simple installation is what I wanted. It did leave me open for easy theft if I wasn’t careful.

I was a happy rider, installed it and used it for years adding to the wear and tear. Then I hand stitched another top cover on it about five years ago. I rode it several years like that and it was still good, until it just finally wore out.

Janet, my wife and I went water skiing with some friends in Gilroy, CA. Don and Char had some really sharp, white tuck-and-roll upholstery in their Glastron ski boat. I asked the question, where did you guys have this done? They said they know a guy in Las Vegas. He did it.

The wife’s girlfriend picked up my solo one day, when she was in Los Angeles visiting and off to Gilroy she went, to pick up the leather for my seat project. She gathered some heavy duty hide and hauled ass to Vegas, where she had some business.

When you own a business, you have that luxury. The seat was delivered immediately to Don, the upholsterer, but the minute his industrial machine started to sew the heavy leather together, the needle head broke. He spent 200 dollars to repair the machine, and then announced he would not touch my seat again. Thus, my seat sat in Vegas for a year or two. I had to figure out how to make a trip to Vegas without being out of a whole lotta money.

Eureka!!!! I came up with a solution and got paid for my time. It also was offered a free flight. Plus, room and board were free, and I could see the McGregor fight (what little of it, anyway). The plan was to go to Las Vegas on a Carpenter’s Union dime, because of access to their training facility. I was golden. Hell, I would be able to add an extra piece of luggage coming home.

I got picked up for dinner on the last night at the training facility and went over to Don and Char’s place. Don boxed the seat and pieces, and I jammed back to the training facility. The next blistering hot Vegas morning I blasted back to the airport and flew home.

At home, I did my homework to find a reasonable upholstery shop. This seems to be a dying profession. The ones that do it want an arm-and-a-leg, because they are the only ones in town. I talked to a couple of friends, another shop or two and put in a couple of calls, but only received a couple of call back.

Ultimately, I went with Five-Star windows& upholstery. Their prices were reasonable with a highly professional team. Alice runs the place and Caesar handles the upholstery. It’s a functioning art, and they stitched it in exactly the way I wanted and at a reasonable price of 260 dollars.

So, there it is, the wind-up and the pitch. The Gypsy Belle has always taken on a life of her own. Some call Harleys just a piece of machinery. That’s never the case. God has always given us good wind and fair weather, so give me that horizon and heave ho.

–Gearhead

Source:
Five Star Upholstery & Auto Glass
14315 S. Normandie Ave.
Gardena, CA 90247
www.upholsteryforus.com
310-324-1149

Or there are always the leaders in the seat industry:

 79^th Daytona Beach Bike Week got It’s humble beginning way back in 1937 and started as the Daytona 200 – a motorcycle race that was actually a 3.2 mile course including beach and roadway.   Picture that – high banking on sand – in view of the Atlantic Ocean – musta been a sight – especially with all that iron – newer to them then. Now, all vintage iron to us.

 

 Sons of Speed 10 Vintage Motorcycle Race at the New Smyrna Speedway helped to kick off the first weekend of Bike Week. Check Rogue’s coverage. 

 

 

CLASSES 

Hot 61”

Early 61”

45” Class

30.50

Unlimited

 

  

 This year, Billy and Erin gave fans an opportunity to purchase general admission, VIP or HOT passes giving different levels of access to the track, stands, infield, and events. They put a lot of blood, sweat, and ….you got it….gears into the preparation and execution of this event!!!

(I’m sure the tears may flow as well….hopefully happy ones!!!) 

 

This year, the race wrapped up with the first ever unofficial, best of the worst race….a grudge match of brothers held after the last official race and award presentation. Definitely worth sticking around for…

 

A little insider action before the start: “Freddy hugged everbody before we raced. He hugged Chuck, but it was really Carey in Chuck’s gear and a fake beard…..CHEATER!!!!!”   It’s all good!

 

1^st Place – Worse – Chad Bolender – Fathead Flatheads

2^nd Place – Worser – Freddie Bollwage – GodSpeed Racing

3^rd Place – Worserer – Steve “Hot Shot” Aretz – Team Hot Shot

4^th Place – Worsererer – Ryan “Radical Ryan” Meece – GodSpeed Racing

 

Who knows…maybe next time we’ll see Turbo Charged!!! (inside joke)

 

 This year, Bike Week had an air of uncertainty that was brought in all from bikers all over the country. Seems that some tiny, unseen force was creeping its way into the area – and casting a spell over the entire US of A.

 

 But judging by the attendance, the spell wasn’t working in Daytona and surrounding areas…

 

 Bikers are a resilient bunch. And no, the word is not “re-silent”!   Bikers and silent don’t really go together!

 

 

Nuthin’ Fancy, the Lynyrd Skynyrd Tribute Band headed up by Lead Singer , Tommy Roxx (Douthat) kicked ass Friday night , March 13^th – at the Iron Horse.   This was the live, Ormond Beach debut of his song “Freedom isn’t Free”, honoring this great nation of ours, and the service men and women who made it that way. The crowd was wowed by the lyrics of this song – and it hit home for many. What a perfect end to Friday the 13^th!

 

https://www.facebook.com/dee.macl/videos/10217136667751929/UzpfSTEwMDAwMDE3ODMyNzM5MzpWSzo1MDk0NjQ2NDYzODAzMTc/

 

  (Rekindled memories of years back – trying to eliminate Bike Week Downtown.)

 

 HAHAHA!! Like a bad virus, Bike Week then began its spread northwards toward Ormond and Korona, and Southward to Edgewater…and westward into Deland. Hell, even the Mouse House town gets into the event hosting shit all week. 

 

 

(Wonder if the City returned any portion of the fees to the vendors for a shortened permit time?)

 

 

Sunday Morning brought the last day of partying…and bikes lined Main Street. Tents were closed up – but the stores and most bars were throttled WIDE OPEN. 

 

 

 

Here’s how I’ll remember 2020 Bike Week in Daytona Beach…

 

 MAYBE HE “ HIT “ THE CASE OF CORONA!!!!

 

 

GOOD NIGHT AND RIDE SAFE!

 

WASH YOUR HANDS!

WEAR A MASK!

WEAR GLOVES!

SOCIAL DISTANCE YOURSELVES!

 

A short time later, Liz calls. “Hello Mama.”

“Lizzy, I know this must be hard for you, but please hear me out.”

“I’m listening, Mama.”

“I need to see you, Lizzy. Now.”

“I’m in Kathmandu,” Liz replies dryly.

“I’m in New Delhi; I’ve been here for three years. Lizzy, I work in a world of secrets, and you’re a CSS Agent. You of all people know what it means to be covert, even with the ones you love.”

“But seven years, Mama? Seven years. I thought you were dead.”

“Will you come tomorrow? I have flights booked from Katmandu. You can bring your friend if you wish.” There is a long pause.

“Lizzy?”

“Yes Mama.” Liz is silently crying. “I will come.”

*

Kathmandu to New Delhi is only a 45-minute flight. Liz is quiet. She wants me to come for support but isn’t talking.

“Not to pry, Liz,” I venture, “but you’ve told me that Voodoomama traffics in human organs and makes potions and elixirs that simulate death and turn people into zombies. Should I be concerned?”

Staring out the airplane window, Liz states flatly, “She’s a doctor and a biochemist.”

We land, and her agent instincts kick in. Liz moves cat-like through the crowd to a dark corner and surveys the room. After a few minutes, she walks right up to a woman completely covered in a traditional East Indian dress.

“Hello Mama.”

The woman hands Liz prayer beads, “Hi Lizzy. So good to see you. Follow me.” We all headed out of the airport into a waiting limousine.

“You never quit, do you Mama?”

“No, I never quit.” She drops her veil and flashes a radiant smile. If I weren’t already in love with Liz, I’d fall hard for her mother.

“So this is Zac. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“As it is you, Miss Duran,” I reply.

The capital of India, New Delhi is a city built upon cities. There are at least eight historical Delhis, each constructed on, or near, the ruins of its predecessor. The result is a modern-day citadel that’s dotted with ancient monuments, many said to be haunted by djinns (spirits). Within, a population of almost 22 million people battle the hectic streets and alleys with carts and cycle-rickshaws, with cows and monkeys, with shoppers and with beggars, with street-food sellers and market traders. Honking cars, vans and scooters provide an endless orchestra of sonic chaos.

We drive out of the city madness to a large well-staffed estate in a gorgeous gated community reminiscent of Beverly Hills. Voodoomama removes her Indian garb to reveal a statuesque, shapely figure. The mansion is filled with antiquities.

Voodoomama turns to me. “Zac, do you mind? I want to spend a little time with Lizzy. Please feel free to enjoy the pool. Swim trunks and the fully staffed bar and kitchen are at your disposal. I even have a box of El Ray Del Mundos. Please, I want you both to relax and enjoy your time here.” The women disappear.

She has my favorite cigar. Now let’s see if the bartender can mix my favorite drink, a Vesper Martini. The bartender doesn’t even wince at the word Vesper. I watch as he pours two parts Vodka, one Part Gin, and a dash of Lillet Vermouth, vigorously shaken, into a chilled martini glass with a whole sliced lemon. It’s exquisite. We exchange grins as he sets the box of El Ray Del Mundos on the bar. He clips one, warms the tip with a lighter, and hands me the cigar as I puff it to life. This guy’s good. I saunter over to enjoy the pool view, very James Bond, sans the bevy of scantily clad Bond girls.

*

Meanwhile, I later learn from Liz, the distance between Voodoomama and her disappears. There is an ineffable bond between mother and daughter that, even if broken, heals itself with love. They quickly catch up on the past.

“What happened in Oklahoma? Why did you get Zac involved when that wasn’t the directive?” Voodoomama asks.

“Something was wrong,” Liz replies. “I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but Zac’s appearance gave me the opportunity I was looking for. And I was right. I trusted my team explicitly, like family, and when we discovered Doc was a mole, that’s when everything began to unravel.”

“He’s not part of our world Lizzy. There’s too much you can’t disclose.”

“That’s exactly why Zac and I connect so well. Secrecy and deceit are the currencies of my profession and yours. But Zac is honest. He couldn’t deceive me if he tried, unlike everyone else in our world.”

“What else did you learn?” Voodoomama questions.

“That General Madison is and has been manipulating the government programs he oversees for personal gain.”

*

By the time Liz and Voodoomama reappear, I’m two Vespers and two ice-cold vodka tonics deep, floating on a raft. I hear their echo in the distance; they laugh like children.

“Hey Zac!” Liz brays. I give ‘em thumbs up and the ladies twitter.
Whatever spell Voodoomama has put on Liz, I approve. “C’ mon Zac, it’s dinner time,” Liz chimes.

Voodoomama has changed into a bikini and sheer wrap, revealing a stunning figure. Although she’s 29 years older, she could easily pass as Liz’s sister.

As we enter the dining room, Liz sees a sword in a glass case. “You still have the Saber of Fate,” she says, smiling at Voodoomama.

“I keep it with me everywhere I live,” her mother replies in a severe tone.
Liz opens the glass case which houses the sword and an ornate black box. She opens the box, taps its handle to something in the box, then pulls the saber out of its sheath.

“Be careful, Liz.”

Liz explaines. “This is the only one ever made, and it’s over 1500 years old. Made of mysterious alloys that make it lighter than aluminum yet stronger than titanium and the blade is sharper than a modern-day razor. Only its owner can use this sword; no other can remove it from its sheath. When presented to the Chinese warrior emperor who commissioned it, he beheaded the artisan with the sword so no other would be forged.”

Liz walks over to a tall, thick candle in tall silver candelabra on the dining room table and takes a swing with the sword.

“Ha, you missed,” I laugh.

Liz taps the candle with the tip of the sword and falls to the floor, cut so cleanly that the sword strike hadn’t moved it. She puts away the sword and pulls out the black wooden box, opening it to reveal a petrified hand and an ornate silver ring with Lapis Lazuli stone.

“It’s the emperor’s hand with the Keystone ring,” Liz states. “Only the wearer of the ring can remove the sword from its sheath; otherwise, it’s locked. This sword has slain tens of thousands, toppled dynasties and commanded great wealth.” Voodoomama chimes in, “Both the ring and sword are made from the same unknown alloy, and when they come in contact, there is a magnetic reaction. When in its sheath, there’s a positive-negative magnetic force so strong the sword can’t be removed. When touched by the ring, it reverses polarity and glides easily out. I’ve had the sword and ring examined by many scientists, but none can explain it.”

We sit down at the dinner table. “Ok… So, Voodomama,” I begin, “what is it exactly that you’re doing out here in India?” The ladies look at each other and smile.

“Zac, my daughter likes you, and the last thing I want to do after all these years is to be dishonest or deceptive with you. I can’t talk about it, ever. So let’s talk about you. What’s next for the international moto/photo-journalist?”

“Well, I need to focus on our Himalayan travel story. The guy who runs Himalayan Roadrunners met his wife on a trek to Mt. Everest 24 years ago. She was his Sherpa; they married, had a son and lived in both Kathmandu and Vermont. I’m writing an in-depth feature on being Tibetan and American, and the politics and conflicts of culture.”

“Interesting,” she replies. “I’ve read your ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycling China.’ Well done. I liked your personality profiles and perspective on the current Chinese economic state. You look into the heart of the cultures you visit and that’s commendable. You’re both welcome to stay here as long as you wish, but if I may make a suggestion… The owner of this house has a beautiful home in Nice, France that’s staffed year-round. He never goes there, and it’s a shame. He has an extensive motorcycle collection, all maintained. It would seem to be the perfect place to settle in for several months, finish your Himalayan story and write a few more. Liz, you speak French of course, plus the south of France has far better weather and food than India.” They laugh.

“Mama taught me how to ride at age 7.”

“Lizzy was bored with bicycles. I got her a Honda 90, and she started winning motocross races at 10 until she eventually got kicked out.”

“Yeah, I was running over all the boys, literally. Hit the sweet spot on the inside corner full throttle, the rear tire spins into the bike next to you, and they go down.”

The girls howl in glee. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I like it. We spend the next several days relaxing and it’s very healing for Liz, as if she and her mother were never apart. All of our belongings are sent from Kathmandu and we’re booked for a flight to Nice, France.

“When will I see you again?” Liz anxiously asks.

“Soon. I will be in Nice next month.”

They hold a long hug; I can tell Liz is hiding her tears. We board the plane to France and again, she is quiet. I guess I better get used to the silent treatment while airborne.

We land at the Nice International Airport (Aeroport de Nice Cote d’Azur) located 20 minutes west of the city center and settle into a quiet taxi ride.

I love motorcycling in the south of France. Nice, Cannes Monte Carlo all have stunning coastal roads that skirt the French Riviera. The rolling hills of the Provence and the twisting mountain roads of the Alps are all within a day’s ride and is some of the most spectacular motorcycling in Europe. The Col de Turini in the French Alps is one of the most famous balcony roads—hair-raising lanes cut into the sides of sheer cliffs—in the country. The French Rivera reminds me of home, Malibu and the Pacific Coast Highway.

We pull into an estate that makes Voodoomama’s mansion look like a guest house. “Holy shit, who are these people?” I exclaim.

Liz retorts, “We probably don’t want to know.” We settle into one of the spacious bedrooms, but I am dying to see this so-called motorcycle collection. One of the staff takes us along a path to a separate barn-sized building. There must be a hundred motorcycles here. I can hardly breathe; this moto-journalist has died and gone to 2-wheeled heaven.

“Most will run, with a little TLC,” the caretaker of the collection says in an almost indecipherable French accent. As I walk down the line, I can name almost every bike and year. My god, it’s a 1915 Cyclone. Only 300 Cyclones were built, and only eight originals are known to exist. The Cyclone has a massive 1000cc engine and is able to hit 125 mph.

“Look, Liz! Two black Ducatis, just like yours!”

She kneels to examine the serial numbers. “These are mine. When did they arrive here?” she asks the caretaker.

“Three weeks ago,” he replies.

“So that means Mama had this all planned before we even went to the Himalayas. How could she have known? Damn her. Do you now understand whom you’re dealing with, Zac? El Rey Del Mudos, my Ducati’s… We are in the South of France for a reason. A far bigger picture is being painted, and we’re merely brushes in the hands of a master artist.”

*

Curiosity, the catalyst of great journalism, has me investigating every room in the mansion. Many are locked while curio cabinets filled with antiquities and other valuables are left open. The dining room drawers are filled with ornate silver cutlery. It is the library housing thousands of books, though, that intrigues me. Sitting at a massive oak desk, I find all the drawers locked. Then I spy something lying face down inside a bookshelf cubby, in perfect line of sight from the desk’s plush high-backed chair yet hidden from view elsewhere in the room. It’s a photograph of Dick Cheney, General Madison and the President in the oval office. I show Liz and ask, “Do you think this could be Cheney’s home?”

“That makes perfect sense. He could easily afford to live this lavishly.”

“Why do you think Voodoomama sent us here?” I wonder.

Liz shakes her head in distrust. “I do not doubt that we will find out soon enough.”

Outreach in Daytona Beach helping to Keep America Great Again!

 

 This year, fellow Americans, is the time to get your shit together!

Our country has the best President ever, and we need to keep him in office

For 4 more! 

 

 We only have 8 months until the election, and being complacent and thinking

President Trump is going to win won’t work this time. Make sure you GET OUT AND VOTE

RED in November! 

 

 

The future of America depends on you and your vote!

Don’t be one who thinks: OK he won last time, he’ll do it again this time!!!

DO YOUR PART!!!

 

 

Helping spread the word in and around Daytona this year

were members of Bikers for Trump! It wasn’t a rally held just in one place, but a

Campaign of Publicity to reach more people in the biker world!

 

 

Dale Herndon, National Director of Bikers for Trump was in town

For some PR & R&R but also to follow up with some folks that have been

ultra-supportive of the organization over the years. 

 

 

 Bikers for Trump was accompanied by Kathy from the Republican Party of Volusia County

who provided on-site Voter Registration to the masses during Choppertime! 

 

 

Bikers for Trump had a booth of information/merchandise set up at Willie’s Tropical Tattoo Choppertime Show on Thursday, March 12, 2020, courtesy of Willie… a staunch TRUMP supporter.

 

 For his part of supporting BFT over the years, Willie was presented with a Certificate of Appreciation from the organization by Dale.

 

 Shawn Quinn 95.7 the HOG, Daytona’s Rock Station interviewing

Dale about Bikers for Trump – Spread the Word! Trump 2020!

 

 

 Friday the 13^th started off at American’s for Constitutional Rights, Post 1 in Holly Hill for Breakfast. 

 While at the Post – Bikers for Trump awarded a Certificate of Appreciation to Amy – Kitchen Manager –with a thank you for supporting the Bikers for Trump Breakfast Meet and Greet.

 

 Check out this cool homemade shirt that one of the patrons designed and made himself!

Definitely sounds like a great idea to keep the TRUMP TRAIN rolling along for years!!!

 

 Next stop was Destination Daytona where new members were signed up! BFT Literature Was distributed to many! 

 

 Europeans were even eager to meet Bikers for Trump members, as many of them thought very highly of our POTUS. 

 Indian Motorcycles- Charlotte – See you at the RNC!

 

 

 Met up with many veterans supporting President Trump 2020!

 

 

 Stopped by The Beaver Bar in Ormond Beach where BFT presented Leslye Beaver with a certificate of appreciation for her help and support over the past 4 years in Myrtle Beach, Florida, and Sturgis. 

 

 She has been an ardent support of our President and BFT. 

 

 This certificate was just a small token of appreciation. For helping

 

 

 

 

 

Capping off the day of community outreach was a stop at the World Famous Iron Horse Saloon in Ormond Beach. 

 

 

Denny Tipton, National Coordinator for Bikers for Trump, gave the introduction to the Bike Week 2020 debut of “Freedom isn’t Free” with lyrics and music by

Tommy Roxx (Douthat) and Nuthin’ Fancy – a Lynyrd Skynyrd Tribute Band. 

 

 The crowd cheered for BFT, Freedom, and of course – the band kicked ass! Even the lighting was red, white and blue! 

  

https://www.facebook.com/dee.macl/videos/10217136667751929/UzpfSTEwMDAwMDE3ODMyNzM5MzpWSzo1MDk0NjQ2NDYzODAzMTc/

 

 

 Future events at least through April 2020 on the Bikers for Trump calendar are on hold and under review. No one can tell how long this pandemic with Covid-19 is going to last. 

While you may have more keyboard time than usual due to being “Socially distanced” or on lock down – take some time to check out Bikers for Trump and what the organization stands for:

 www.findmystate.com

 Anyone who is an American Patriot can join the group in your state of residence.

 https://www.bikersfortrumppac2020.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zeke, the constantly moving outlaw rode a rigid framed Shovelhead for years starting in 1979, when he slipped out of prison for the first time. He sold his chopped ’74 Superglide in ’75 to help support his family, while he was shipped off to prison.

In ’79 the man cut him out of some dank, concrete penitentiary on a windy spring morning and his first thoughts included sex and building a chopper quick.

Lakeshore H-D is still in Libertyville, Illinois, south of Waukegan and north of Chicago. They advertised crate Shovelhead engines for sale at a ripe price in Easyriders magazine.

That magazine made the trip home with him and his ol’ ladies income tax check opened the door to jam to Lakeshore to pick up a new crate Shovelhead. “Keep the doors open, I’m coming,” Zeke hollered in the phone and dashed out the door with a wad of cash. His brothers from all over the state delivered busted, stolen and replaced parts. One brother installed disc brakes on his bike and delivered he rear juice drum brake to Zeke.

Another brother showed up with a damaged- neck, stock Harley rigid frame. Zeke found another newer swingarm frame and mated the two. Zeke added a 5-spoke aluminum wheel, a dual disc wide glide to help with braking, a 21-inch spoked front wheel, low drag bars and fatbob tanks.

A club businessman he rode from Toledo to Detroit and Chicago constantly taking care of strip clubs and assorted club business. He never stayed long anywhere, while dodging potholes in the two states competing for the most potholes in the country, Ohio and Michigan.

He ultimately installed big-bore cylinders and a cam to kick it up to 88-inches. As the club expanded, he found himself cutting a dusty trail for Florida with his bedroll strapped to his tall sissybar. “I always ran a two-up seat, so I could pick up chicks,” Zeke said. “I had one in every club town. Hell, I needed a place to stay.”

About 1984 when the Evolution engine was introduced, Zeke made the run from South Florida to Sturgis for the rally. More and more Evos were seen slicing across the country toward the Badlands, and he thought it was time to upgrade.

A candy crimson, limited edition Softail caught his eye, “I had to get one,” Zeke said. At the time, there was a shortage of new models available and his black-cherry looking Softail was hard to find. Prospective buyers were put on lists at their local dealers, while they waited. He had the cash, but none were available in South Florida. He put the word out to all his chapters spread out all over the country east of the Mississippi.

Through his vast network of brothers, he shortly received a call from Chicago. A gravelly voice over the phone told him of a no-miles candy crimson Softail due to arrive at the loading dock of Chicago Harley-Davidson in a week.

The prospective buyer on the list had dropped out or was pushed out. “If I wanted it, I could step in,” said Zeke. “Put a couple of grand down at the dealer and lock it down for me,” He told the brother.

He made a plan to fly into Chicago with the cash, buy the bike and ride back to Florida. “No problem,” the brother said and took care of it, plus he’d pick Zeke up at the airport.

Zeke always prepared for a road trip. He threw his stout, leather jacket, gauntlet gloves and helmet in a duffle bag. As this was happening in the fall near the great lakes, he would run into cooler weather rolling out of Chicago. “I rode all over the United States on Harleys and never owned a foul-weather riding suit,” Zeke said. It was against his outlaw style, besides his patch was always destined to be in the wind.

At one time he rode for four days straight in the pouring rain because he had to be at a particular location right on time. “I’d stop for the night,” Zeke added, “but my leather boots and jacket never had a chance to dry out.” He didn’t enjoy that ride.

His notion of foul weather preparation included a good pair of thick leather black boots, a heavy insulated leather jacket, tough leather black chaps and a pair of gauntlet style thick leather gloves that extended over the openings of his leather jacket sleeves to prevent the cold air from chilling his torso. A bandana across his face cut the icy wind and slowed the rain.

There was an inclement weather code for outlaw bikers. “You needed a flexible open schedule with no firm deadlines,” Zeke said, “so you could leave early and get to your destination whenever.” He laid up a brother’s pads, motels, strip clubs, bars or club houses to let the bad weather pass was the best solution. “My boots spent a lot of time stuffed with newspapers to soak up the rain while resting under a stripper’s bed or next to the heater.”

Trying to warm up after an icy cold ride was a drag with only a restroom, hand blower in a truck stop. “They suck,” Zeke said.

When the call came in from Chicago, Zeke grabbed a flight to Chi Town, immediately. On a brother’s advice he flew into Midway instead of O’Hare. As promised a brother waited at the gate. He grabbed his duffle full of riding gear and his brother assured him that he knew the Midway layout like the back of his hand. “He led me on his ‘short cut’ to his car,” said Zeke.

He strolled through the airport carrying his duffle over his shoulder, while $20,000 in hundred-dollar bills filled his boots and as always, he carried a couple of strong joints in his tool bag. “I questioned one of our turns,” Zeke said, “but he reassured me that he had this, when we stepped down a ramp of stairs into the airport Chicago Police Department substation.”

His brother said, “Oops, wrong door.” They made a quick reversal and Zeke pointed out the exit signs. “Whew! Close one,” Zeke said as they stepped alongside the brother’s beater, rusted out, Pinto in the concrete parking structure. “Welcome to Chi-Town,” Zeke said.

They blasted directly to the Harley Dealer where the owner welcomed Zeke. “The bike is being prepped with your add-ons,” he said. Zeke added a rear fender rack and switched out the restrictive exhaust and air filter system. “Let this new Evo breathe,” the owner said. “It will just take a couple of hours,” He was slightly taken-back by this high-ranking club officer from another state. He took Zeke to his office to take care of the paperwork.

His thin, well-dressed, brunette, professional sales lady sat next to Zeke as he pulled off his boots and poured stacks of hundreds on the owner’s desk. “The extra is for my road-trip home to Florida,” Zeke said while counting out the balance.

Time to kill, the owner told Zeke to go next door to the bar he owned. “Lunch is on me,” the owner said. Zeke moved into the clean, neighborhood bar and sat at the counter. He ordered lunch and started to chat up the knockout, petite waitress/bartender.

It was rapidly turning into a good day as he sat at the bar with a pocket full of cash and a new Harley being prepped for him, while a pretty lady served him food and drinks.

The bar phone rang, and she picked it up near Zeke, and her conversation turned unpleasant. He couldn’t help but to over-hear the dialog go south, with her so-called boyfriend. “You motherfucker,” she said loudly. “You wait until I’m at work on my birthday, to tell me we’re breaking up!”

Zeke moved away from her station to give her some space during her troubled call. When she finished Zeke sat back down and listened as she poured her story all over him. “Happy Birthday,” Zeke said and they both had a shot of Jack Daniels. Her mood lightened as they talked, and he waited on his bike.

As luck would have it, she got off as his bike was completed and they planned to ride out together. She was the perfect sized, female package for the back of his new Evo. The bar/dealership owner shook his hand as he readied to leave. “We’re a full-service dealer,” he said as they peeled out.

Zeke spent several days and nights with the lady riding along Lake Michigan’s Lake Shore Drive or LSD, exploring Chicago. His brothers weren’t surprised as this was Zeke’s M.O., when it came to the ladies and new towns. They caught his act before.

This new Evo Softail ran great and he said his goodbyes and hit the road east to Toledo, Ohio, on the turnpike, to visit another charter. Some 250 miles later he pulled up to some friends’ home. Bikes were parked everywhere. “The party is on,” a brother said, and they moved to the clubhouse bar and started to bring each other up to speed on life’s adventures.

Zeke heard another bike pull into the yard. A brother strolled in, gloves in hand and said, “What’s new with you?” Excited about his new Evo, Zeke walk his brother outside and said, “This is what’s new,” pointing to this new candy crimson Softail right in front of the door. Zeke took a second look and realized his gear wasn’t strapped to this Softail. The other rider had just pulled up on a twin to Zeke’s scooter. They all laughed, and the party continued.

After a couple of days, he hit the road out of Toledo, southbound on the I-75, an easy interstate, solo roll as he was breaking in his new machine. It ran flawlessly and he blasted through another 140 miles to Dayton, Ohio and another clubhouse, another group of brothers and another party. Rolling south, the I-75 took him over the Ohio River in Cincinnati and into Kentucky, where it meandered through the rolling hills into Tennessee.

At every stop, the brothers took him to their favorite spots, bike shops, restaurants and bars. Each clubhouse was a home on the road. From one destination to another the climate changed from full blown cold weather gear, on a slow strip tease heading south.

An early start and another 140 miles landed him in Knoxville, TN. Coming off years of riding a rigid frame Shovelhead, which was a great bike, but it wasn’t an Evo with an 80-inch fire breathing engine, over 40 mpg and a 5-speed transmission made it awesome. A whole new mode of travel for a wandering outlaw.

Another 150 miles slipped by without as much as a nod. He wasn’t even beginning to test the bike. “What was the hurry,” Zeke said. “I enjoyed every mile.” Another 100 miles further south on I-75 as he wound along Missionary Ridge in Chattanooga, the site of many Civil War battle stations. Another house fulla of brothers and cold beer. An evening at the local biker bar, the home of the “Rooster Dome” with a backdoor courtyard where two men entered and only one left. The bar owners had a rule: All fights had to be taken outside.

A quick 100 miles and he hit the clubhouse in Hotlanta, Georgia, a wild party city, based around Steward Avenue, devoted to whores, bars, strip clubs and blues joints. He made this run many times and had keys to the gates and houses as he often arrived unannounced with a large group of riders. Those rides involved herding the pack, dodging police stops, dealing with breakdowns, and multiple hangovers were great, but this leisurely solo roll on a new bike was incredible!

Zeke pulled into the Atlanta clubhouse yard, which was typical, with tall stockade fence, security lights, choppers, pickup trucks and badass dogs on chains. This yard contained a particularly mean pit bull on a chain. As he parked his bike, a brother came out of the clubhouse and welcomed him. “I’m on my way to the store to stock-up the bar,” he said. “Wanna come along?”

Zeke jumped in the truck and off they went to buy plenty of beer and booze. All loaded up they returned to the clubhouse. As they entered the yard the brother said startled, “Oh shit, that fucking dog is off his chain.

Zeke laughed and said, “Look, that bitch is tearing something up.” Foam and cloth were scattered across the yard. They jumped out of the truck and wrangled the dog back onto its chain. His laughing abruptly stopped when he discovered the massive brindle Pitbull tore the hell out of his gauntlet gloves and helmet.

“You’re lucky,” the brother said. “Usually he goes for bike seats, tears them to shreds.” Lucky huh? The next stop was a Harley shop for another helmet and pair of leather gauntlet gloves. He took advantage of the dealership and had his oil changed in the new Evo.

His brother covered the damages and took some ribbing along Stewart Avenue at the strip joints. “Here comes that dog,” Zeke would say just as his brother began to relax and enjoy the girls.

The next day, as Zeke prepared to cut a dusty trail, that same brother approached. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. He took Zeke to his place and introduced him to his dog, a beautiful female Rottweiler, who just had pups. He gave Zeke a pretty little female pup. Zeke strapped his new helmet box to his luggage rack, after poking it with holes. He added a few shop rags for comfort and popped the pup inside. Off down the road they went.

Next stop was Jacksonville, FL on JAX, about 350 miles and Zeke began to roll on the new Evo, up and down from 70 mph in 10 mile an hour increments to 90 and back down. “Fuck it,” Zeke said. “She was happy at 80 mph.” The large 5-gallon gas tank allowed him to cover 120 miles before even getting close to reserve.

He slipped off the highway into a travel stop to top off and let the pup drink some water, and empty out in the grass, no mess in the box. Soon it had the routine down. It would empty out and trot back to the bike and lay down under the frame. Occasionally, he hit a fast food joint where he would get her a burger and fries, no problem.

Hitting JAX he stopped at a brother’s house and spent the night. The bros young son loved the pup. The numerous dogs at that house were chain, gang guard dogs, very unapproachable to most. The next morning, Zeke’s strip tease continued, working down to Levis, a t-shirt and his vest.

The new Softail ran great and Zeke was off to Orland and another clubhouse. Pup rode like a champ in the helmet box. One night with the bros in Orlando and it was home stretch time. He hit a rest area south of Orlando, let the pup out for water and emptying and Zeke also hit the restroom.

By this time the pup found the grass herself and returned to the bike without coaching. Zeke came out of the restroom and spotted a second bike next to his. He recognized the rider standing next to it, as a friend from a West Palm Beach club.

“Beautiful bike,” the rider said, “and your guard dog is taking care of business growling at me.” Sure enough, the pup lying under the bike growled at the stranger on another motorcycle. They had a good laugh, Zeke loaded up the pup and they took off together southbound. His partner leaned off the interstate in West Palm Beach and Zeke kept rolling south. “After a long solo ride,” Zeke said, “it felt good to have a friend motoring along next to me.”

Zeke finished his ride in Ft. Lauderdale, wearing light, fingerless leather gloves. “Great to be at home base,” Zeke said. As he pulled up to the clubhouse, so did the brother from Jacksonville, with his young son in their pickup. This kid was so excited to see the pup again, Zeke turned it over to him. “This kid loved it,” Zeke said.

His new Evo was a hit with the brothers, and it gave him years of hassle-free service.

 

 If you are a Biker who was around in the ’70s you will like the memories. If you were to young then, well you missed what I consider a great time during the lifestyle.  To be fair Not All Of The Sturgis Rally Was Like In This Book.

Bob and Degenerate Jim and I hung out a lot in the late ’60s and early ’70s and we did have a lot of interesting times together. NO, I Was Not Part Of This Story.

 

LEGAL CRAOLA FROM THE BOOK

 As this didn’t actually happen, it didn’t actually happen about mid-August, 1973.

 What I am trying to allude to never happened…and when it did, I wasn’t there, because, if it were labeled as non-fiction a whole lot of people could be highly embarrassed (or worse!).

 Well. Not a lot, because most of them are dead by now, or in jail. Just in case, and to keep from having what little I have left taken away from me by lawyers and other blood-suckers, I will label it as FICTION! There, no one can sue me for anything.

 But those of you who were there, you will know. You will also know when I stray from the facts. Ya gotta have a little poetic license, right? I mean, hell, if Tom Clancy can use the Royal Family and sitting Presidents in his “fiction” I guess I can use a bunch of degenerate bikers in mine, right?

 By the way, degenerate is not a derogatory term in this book. In fact, at the time this DIDN’T happen (wink-wink, nod-nod) it was my fervent hope that I had reached the pinnacle of being a truly degenerate and sleazy outlaw biker!

 Okay, if this had happened (wink-wink, nod-nod) it would have been about 50 years ago, and if I were there I would have been in my late twenties.

 As we reach senility sometimes things that happen get foggy, and things that didn’t happen seem to warp into some kind of fuzzy reality. So once again, this never happened, and when it did, it was a long time ago, and in my alleged drug-addled state of mind, it could have all just been a dream.

    Or a nightmare.

    Read on and judge for yourself.

 This book is available by contacting FTW Publishing, Inc www.seafaring.com The ISMN Number is 978-0-9662182-9-9 in case you wish to order from BobBitchin.com or Amazon