Designers from Poland built the custom bike as a sister vehicle to the classic car belonging to the famous musician.

The body lines of the motorcycle exactly mirror the shape of the Slow Burn, and its construction echoes the components of the car.

The front lamp imitates the front of a car with a radiator, the rear lamps look like car lights, and the steering wheel and levers are made in the style of the windshield frame. Additionally, the front fender is finished with a chrome cover, just like the Slow Burn’s fenders, the 30″ front wheel is inspired by the appearance of a car wheel, and the entire rear of the motorcycle forms a symmetrical line with the rear of the car.

 

The biggest technical challenge of the project was reproducing the lines of the car on the motorcycle. Game Over Cycles’ designers took care of every detail, visually connecting the vehicle’s exterior (the elements mentioned above) and interior (the leather on the motorcycle reflects the car’s upholstery). Another challenge was scale. The motorcycle had to have large enough proportions to reflect the shape of the Slow Burn’s line., and considering who the owner of the car is, the Game Over Cycles team adjusted the proportions of the bike to James Hetfield’s height (185 cm/6 ft 1), which was a particular challenge in the context of maintaining the proportions of the entire vehicle.

At the same time, the entire structure had to be kept in the spirit of the style in which the original vehicle was built, the 1936 Auburn Speedster has a characteristic Art Deco style. This style, both in art and architecture, was expressed in an ordered and coherent form. It is characterized by symmetrical patterns, arcs, ovals and ellipses. The team were inspired by the form and function of the Art Deco movement, from vehicles, fashion and interior design, in which works were distinguished by their unique aesthetics, craftsmanship and the use of high-quality materials.

The entire structure of the motorcycle is made of steel. It does not contain any plastic elements. The vehicle is characterized by a clean body line, which means that all screws are covered. The machine is 3.3 meters long (10,8 ft) and weighs 400 kg (880 lb). The time spent on building the vehicle amounted to 7,000 man-hours.

Rick Dore, an American custom car designer, who together with James Hetfield restored the Auburn 852, said:

“When we’ve seen the pictures of the motorcycle that Game Over built, we were knocked out. It’s an incredible vehicle, especially when you compare it to James’ car. The body, the wheels, color, even the levers, everything was right on with the Slow Burn. My hats off to Game Over, they did a great job and the craftsmanship was out of this world.”

Stanislaw Myszkowski, founder and owner of Game Over Cycles, explains the genesis of the project: “Metallica has always been a huge artistic inspiration for me. I am a fan of both the band’s music and the visuals that accompany their art. James Hetfield is a huge automotive fan, he collects and restores vintage cars, so we decided to combine these two worlds and build a motorcycle inspired by James’ vehicle.”

The motorcycle will have its premiere on March 9, 2024 in the USA at the Rat’s Hole Custom Bike Show, a construction competition organized by Daytona Bike Week 2024, one of the largest motorcycle rallies in the world held annually in Florida.

You can see the full appearance of the motorcycle, along with a presentation of references to the car, in the video below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALO5oQZ_8EM

Items purchased:

1. RavTech 115” engine – Custom Chrome Europe (CCE)

2. Rav Tech 5-speed gearbox – CCE

3. BDL clutch – CCE

4. Mikuni carburettor

5. Footrests with accessories – Performance Machine CCE

6. Handlebar accessories – Performance Machine (PM)

7. Meter with electronics – Dacota Digital

8. Front and rear lamps with turn signals – CCE

9. Front suspension – Legend Air

10. Brake callipers – PM Works

Elements made by project partners:

1. Painting: Novol + Anest Iwata

2. Leather seat: WB-Line

Elements made by GOC:

1. Front wheel 30”

2. Frame

3. Rear suspension with swingarm

4. Front fender, rear fender, side boxes, tank, console, headlamp, handlebar, levers, brake discs, front suspension cover, clutch cover, filter cover, air suspension system, oil tank, exhaust, ignition switch.

Additional vehicle features and functions installed by GOC:

1. The exhaust system integrated with side boxes

2. Seat made of the same leather as the Slow Burn’s upholstery

3. The trunks open electrically

4. The license plate is electrically retractable

5. The flap on the tank covering the fuel filler, which contains the meters, is opened electrically

6. The air filter cover is made in the Slow Burn style

7. Front and rear suspension are pneumatically adjustable, just like in the car

Design: GOC + Lfant Design

Game Over Cycles (GOC) is a Polish custom motorcycles manufacturer formed in 2012. The company is known for its original creations, such as The Recidivst – world’s first tattooed motorcycle. Machines created by Game Over Cycles have won awards at world’s biggest custom bike competitions. The company has already won 25 awards, including 18 international ones, of which as many as 8 trophies were received at the European Bike Week (EBW), the largest motorcycle festival in Europe.

The company also won awards in the homeland of bike customization, the United States of America. In 2017 The Recidivist received first place trophy in the “Most Unusual” category at the Rats Hole Custom Bike Show – the most prestigious custom bike competition in the world organized every year at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally – the world’s largest motorcycle rally (458 000 vehicles in 2023).

www.gameovercycles.com

From Classroom to Racetrack: Vintage Motorcycle Race Gives Florida Students  First-Hand Learning Experience

Volusia County, FL students visit New Smyrna Speedway as part of Northern Tool + Equipment’s Tools for the Trades™ program  

 Fifty students enrolled in Career & Technical Education (CTE) courses in Volusia County took a field trip to New Smyrna Speedway thanks to Northern Tool + Equipment and their Tools for the Trades™ program, designed to help address the trades labor shortage by igniting a passion for the trades in the next generation. 

 

 Students met with Sons of Speed racing series founder Billy Lane and professional motorcycle drag racer Dystany Spurlock to learn about their path into trades-related careers and how those careers are in demand. Jon from Blockhead Moto also spoke to the students about his own career journey.

“I used to think kids today just wanted to be social media influencers. But, as I’ve met kids in different parts of the country through Tools for the Trades, their interest and passion for working with their hands has inspired me,” said Lane. “The kids here at the track were so excited to learn and hear about the many trade options out there for them.” 

 “To become a professional motorcycle, drag racer, I’ve had to work on my bikes myself,” shared Spurlock. “We’re showing these kids that you can get a good job in the trades no matter your gender or background or where you come from. These are great careers, and it was an honor to tell the kids about my career path and to let them know they can use these skills to be anything they want to be.”

 Students watched dozens of racers and their crews as they worked on their motorcycles during practice runs. All students were given tickets to attend the main race scheduled for Saturday. 

 “Volusia County Schools is excited for our CTE programs to partner with Northern Tool + Equipment and Sons of Speed to provide this unique opportunity through the Tools for the Trades program. As students spend the day at the track, they gain firsthand experience and explore exciting career paths in the trades. This collaboration between Tools for the Trades and our CTE Program promises to inspire and empower the next generation of skilled workers,” said Volusia County Schools Superintendent Dr. Carmen Balgobin.

  

 The Tools for the Trade program began in 2021 to help address the growing trade labor shortage across the country. The program is designed to give teachers and students access to professional grade tools and equipment and learning opportunities like the field trip at Sons of Speed. 

 “Our mission with the Tools for the Trades is to help generate excitement and passion in the trades with high school students,” said Suresh Krishna, CEO of Northern Tool + Equipment. “We work with trade professionals in our stores every day and hear firsthand about the lack of skilled laborers entering the workforce.” 

 Website: northerntool.com 

Fortunately for civilization there is a go-to way to stop a charismatic crowd-pleaser who says things the press doesn’t like: and that’s….. rape charges!!!

If the World Health Organization and the Center For Disease Control had come up with an overnight vaccine for Russel Brand like they did for the most dangerous virus in human history the rape-charge protocol would not have had to have been implemented. Even a Burma Shave roadside sign-a-thon ditty might have stopped him, if there were enough of them placed on roads worldwide.

Russel Brand went…
from impish sprite…
to global threat…
fucking overnight.
Burma Shave.

Yes, I know: I realize that making the planet’s newest threat to our sacred democracy into a frivolous Burma Shave road-sign ditty is not keeping us safe. Sadly, the deed is done. I did such a thing and we are now in danger. Alas for you. For I am drunk with power.

But enough about you and me and my indifference to your safety, let’s talk about Russel Brand.

Remember when he was a devil-may-care mocker of 9-11 and an outlandishly inappropriate libertine bragging of his indifference to the norms of propriety and cavalierly strutting his rakish persona before us all in jesterish hijinxity and rapscallion fearlessness while boasting of his love for the forbidden fruits of drugs, kicks, and hot pussy?

Well, that was long ago when he was what I will call a happily oblivious non-threat to anyone since he was basically a kind of lazy-brained Marxist. As are all Marxists. If that’s what he was. Who knows what he was? He was all over the place. Hey, he married Katy Perry. How focused could he have been.

Well, that has apparently changed. Literally overnight. To where he is now Public Enemy Number One. Eclipsing even Sam Bankman in news headlines. But Sam Bankman is not being accused of rape from 20 years ago by women who refuse to identify themselves. So, Sam is just being MONITORED and looked-in-on from time to time by bureaucrats and journalists. Rather than being declared Public Enemy Number One by them. Unlike with Russel Brand.

What caused this? Unlike Sam Bankman’s – by comparison – unlike Bankman’s presumed innocent but still jailed mere assaults on peoples’ pocketbooks, which could very well be remedied by taxpayers, Russel Brand has – apparently with some persuasional skills – he has railed against the Sacred C-19, the Sacred Ukraine “war,” and the Sacred Great Reset, and for all I know, and God forbid, the Sacred Global Warming, and has thus therefore threatened our Sacred Democracy.

Now I know what you’re saying: lots of people do that. Lots of people rail against these four sacred sacrednesses. But “lots of people” are not capable of going up against a wall of accusatory media types and coherently making fools of them, ten at a time, without getting rattled and without losing ground and in fact pissing them off. Whereas Russel Brand is not only capable of doing that he is capable of doing that in his sleep.

There’s a small example of this interesting ability of Senyore Brand here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sj6JdXvsWYM where he deals with not just three professional news dullards on something called The Morning Joe but he manages to turn around in his chair and mock the entire NBC news apparatus “working” in the background. While at the same time making Joe Scarborough’s wife hot from experiencing little flashes of sexual excitement. Without even trying.

To journalists and bureaucrats insisting on having the upper hand in any ideological confrontation this is a potentially dangerous ability. In fact, they consider it almost treacherously magical. Because they, on the other hand, have NO abilities. Of any kind! And are holding onto their imagined power by a thread what with the instantaneous mass communication now available to us all. Thanks to a few geniuses of free enterprise and innovation, one of whom is unfortunately dead and one of whom is very likely deranged.

Therefore, when you can’t defend your idiotic “liberal” and “progressive” perversions of reality to someone famous and charismatic enough to actually attract allies seemingly overnight and seemingly from out of the woodwork that the Left assumed just harbored wood….or when you’re actually capable of ANYTHING, like Trump and Musk are, in other words…….if you can’t out-argue these people who are better at what you do than you are, namely, BEING POPULAR AND LIKEABLE……..you declare them immoral and unsanctified and unworthy of admiration or fandom. You declare them a rapist in other words.

So far Musk has actually escaped this. Because the press and bureaucrats are actually afraid of Musk. Which they should be. They should also be afraid of Brand. They just don’t realize it yet. They think he’s an idiot. But he isn’t. Like myself, he’s one of the very few members of the Screen Actors Guild with a functioning IQ.

Four women, Rachel, Nadia and Alice Nottheirrealnames and someone named Tobeannounced, have all come forward at the same instant 20 years after the alleged fact to announce to apparently every “news” medium on earth that the man uttering “conspiracy theories” against the “pandemic” and the Ukraine-Russia “war” and declaring The Great Reset to be a threat to humanity rather than a wondrous pathway for humanity to reach their innate godlike status as self-created beings – which man would be Russel Brand – is a rapist. Because when you are Russel Brand and you say all these things you get “reported” by the world press as being a rapist. At least by every “news” organization in the English-speaking world. Which would be two thirds of North America, all of Europe, and some of Australia. Or in other words the only three places on earth that actually matter. In other words. And yes, that’s what I said. Got a problem with that? Round-up some anonymous women because I fear I have just endangered our sacred democracy. That’ll show me.

The “reasoning” here, then, is as follows…. If this is TRUE…… that someone is a rapist….then his political opinions cannot be factual and in fact could be dangerous to the public. In other words, assuming journalists could actually articulate their thoughts, “He rapes women….therefore he is dangerous to us all. For even as he forces his penis upon women, he has other mighty pizzles at his disposal; other cocks, dicks, peckers, lizards, boners, shafts, rods, lances, dirks, swords, one-eyed-monsters, fuckwands, pikes, ram-a-cunts, twatpluggers, seam-stretchers, hair-pie harpoons, vee-jir violators, ‘down there’ destroyers, pussy penetrators, labia lances, crack cannons, hole harriers, tunnel tigers, slit slayers, slut slammers, trollop tamers, slattern seducers, vixen violators, fox fillers, bimbo bulldozers, snatch blasters, beaver busters, bitch bruisers of oppression and invasion, that are not just his penis but also his words! His words too are instruments of rape!

Words forced upon the ears of virgins of social justice and fairness in order to corrupt and shame them into callous indifference to the plight of humanity and animals and plants and air and water and terrain and bunnies. And whether he uses his actual pizzle of heinous flesh filled with unholy blood or if he uses words of persuasion and deceit….there is no difference! It is it the same with his words and opinions as it is with his woman-wounding cock! These words and opinions overpower us with their crafted tones and syllables and ideas that hypnotize us like verbal Rohypnol: opinions and ideas and ‘narratives’ that are at first charming and seductive and then transmogrify and metastasize into ramrods of violent filthy male sound-semen and syllable-semen and acoustical cum and vocabulary violence that invades our ears and slides into our consciousness and squirts and ejaculates lies and untruths and theories-conspiratorial in the manner of verbal splooge that takes us unawares and defiles us in seductive evil filth, making us pregnant with The Unwanted Child of Mind-Rape….…..and thus leading us into harm. So, it must be aborted.”

Let’s go through that again: the journalist-bureaucrat First Course of “progressivist logic” food onto the plate of your dreary brain is – if you are a rapist…..your political opinions are not valid and are not accurate. And you are a threat to society. And to our sacred democracy. And, for Desert – you are a “conspiracy theorist.”

I will reduce the “Conspiracy Theory” theory to the meaningless powder that it is in just a bit. And I’m just the guy for the job.

Remember when Russel Brand was – basically – just a wild and zany commie? Now I’m not saying he referred to himself as a commie. Meaning an advocate of the Karl Marx “theory” of economics and human political society. It’s just me using a name that has ENOUGH of a meaning to where some people will go “Yeah, we remember when he was just a wild and zany commie.”

Well apparently, he’s not a wild and zany commie anymore. Apparently, he is a threat to humanity now. Which can only mean, I assume, that he is no longer a commie. Which to 95% of the world’s bureaucrats and to 100% of the world’s journalists means….he actually now IS a threat to humanity.

Or in other words, he’s apparently just started looking around on his own, lately, rather than having Karl Marx look around for him or whoever was looking around for him before he started doing it for himself.

Keep in mind I am SPECULATING. I don’t have Russel Brand here. I can’t ask him whether or not, “So, do I have this right?” Then I would have him correct me on any of my incorrect conclusions regarding his observations and opinions.

Now there WAS a time, when his opinions did not merit 300 rape allegations overnight from 50,000 different women, none of whom apparently have “actual” names, but rather have “other” names or “to be announced” names or “according to sources” names or “who spoke on condition of anonymity” names. Assuming they are all even women. I mean, since none of them have been actually identified by their real names yet, as far as I know they COULD be goddamn goats that got allegedly raped. And not even people. Which would be hot. But that’s just me.

Now, I DON’T know if raping goats is illegal. Not to change the topic. And the species. But I DO know that if you are accumulating a following “among the public” via statements that contradict “the accepted-as-agreed-upon” statements……. then your personal conduct rather than your personal opinion is what is going to be attacked. Not your opinion. No. Your behavior. And then your morality and sanctity levels. USUALLY regarding something that has nothing to do with your political opinions. Like for instance “rape.”

For instance, if I say in a public forum, or maybe even in a private forum, the following….. “C-19 is the annual cold and flu seasonal virus that appeared in 2019 and was elevated to a global ‘pandemic’ necessitating mandatory shots for an allegedly unknown virus, which shots called vaccines although having no similarity to anything defined as an actual ‘vaccine’ were produced and distributed around the globe within a year, that could ‘save lives’ and which C-19 was claimed to be this unprecedented planetary scourge TWO DAYS after the Senate threw the House’s impeachment papers regarding Trump into the trash – which C-19 claim was immediately orchestrated via a media blitzkrieg of coordinated lie-attacks in conjunction with a UN pronouncement of plague-like monsters now being spread via an incubation of horrors in a Chinese sidewalk meat market and also a Chinese bio-chemical-biological warfare lab – we have not decided – all of which was designed to throw Trump into a confused surreal environment in which he was at the time not able to discern truth from lies so that his turn-around of the global economy could be shut down and halted by shutting down EVERYONE via ugly, usually misshapen, ‘health advisors’ who came into existence overnight with power and majesty and virtue and honesty to have government handed over to them in order to dupe, lie and tyrannize the public into 2 years of desolation and madness on the – correct, it turns out – assumption and gamble that ‘the people’ are basically stupid little morons who will believe anything.”

If I was to actually SAY that?….. I would have rape charges brought against me. Because….if I’m an Accused-By-Ms.-Anonymous rapist…..then my opinions on everything, including what I just said, are incorrect and in fact are probably lies designed to rape minds, as does a cock rape a vaginal insemination intake tunnel.

Keep in mind that raping happens a LOT on this planet. The global instances of it, which annually probably number in the millions, are ignored by the press and the “governing personnel.” Unless, of course, someone they consider to be a personal threat to their comfortable pastimes of blissful deception shows up with enough charisma to actually attract converts who leave their cults of stupidity and enter into the universe of reasoned intelligence. Then rape becomes the topic of the day, but not the millions of them, just ones this particular individual targeted-for-destruction is being accused of having committed. According to sources. Meanwhile these other millions of unwanted penis intrusions are not making millions of headlines. APPARENTLY those rapes are ok to ignore. At least to bureaucrats and to news “outlets.” Because those rapes are not a threat to the Global- Grooming Cabal of untalented human deities determined to keeping us all safe via lockdowns and inoculations and “temporary” emergency health measures that last forever.

So, it’s not, therefore, rape that bureaucrats and journalists have a problem with. It’s suggesting that the World Economic Forum is attempting to orchestrate “The Great Reset” that bureaucrats and journalists have a problem with. Which – in fact – the World Economic Forum is proud to admit! “Yeah! That actually is what we’re doing!” is their enthusiastic response. What the WEF and the press and the world’s bureaucrats, with the possible exception of the ones in Poland and Hungary, have a PROBLEM with is anyone suggesting that the World Economic Forum is actually not a godsend but in fact a crazed lunatic NIGHTMARE led by a guy in a Star Wars costume that is going to forcibly eradicate and/or “elevate” humanity “Heaven’s Gate” style and which he says C-19 presents a golden opportunity to get things rolling.

It’s at this point, aside from the boilerplate rape charges, that the odd expression “conspiracy theory” routinely comes into play.

To review: Russel Brand is overnight a rapist….and a conspiracy theorist. Who for both these reasons must be banished from human consideration as being deserving of human consideration.

Now, what is a conspiracy theory and why is it something to be, if it is declared as such, and if someone is declared to be uttering such….why is that person to be considered null and void as an observer, or for being ‘opinioned,’ or for having a notion, or for making an utterance: as happens in the very same manner if someone is declared a racist or a sexist or a homophobe or an Islamophobe or an anti-Semite or a bigot – such that therefore that person is pronounced depraved, not actually human, lacking in value, and being immoral. At least until such time as he renounces that opinion. Or at least claims to be doing so. Why is it that “conspiracy theorist” is just as damning as “racist.” or “bigot” etc. And will it become a hate crime? As the “n-word” now is? I’m guessing yeah. Sooner or later. Probably sooner.

In fact, a conspiracy theory is neither a conspiracy nor a theory. A conspiracy is something you have no knowledge of it being in existence, forget about itemizing its particulars. It’s a conspiracy. You’re out of the loop. Only the conspirators know about it. Second, conspiracy theories are not actually theories. Theories are complex. What are called conspiracy theories by what I like to call “commies” are OPINIONS. Not theories.

APPARENTLY, some opinions are regarded as threats to “the common good.” Because we’re all in this together. As you may remember from the city signs put up by the city governments during whatever Covid-19 was. So apparently some opinions threaten the common good. Some opinions are SO threatening to god only know who or what that they have to be declared not opinions or suggestions or possibilities at all. They’re a new category: they’re conspiracy theories. Meaning – I guess – that they’re either inherently too dangerous to even consider, or else they have some seductive charm that will lead the Protected out from the Protection. Well, yeah, the seductive charm is that they make fucking sense. Because whatever opinions, now called conspiracy theories, apparently are, they’re so goddamn fucking persuasive EVEN AS NONSENSE REQUIRING SAFE SPACES….. that they have to be either shouted out of existence or shamed out of existence or as a last resort assassinated out of existence.

You’ll notice the press has no problem with the flat earthers. Or the moon-landing-was-faked people. Or the chemtrail people. Or the aliens from space people. Rape charges are never brought against them. Why? Because so far these people have not attracted a huge fucking crowd of devoted followers led by one charismatic gifted public speaker who doesn’t need teleprompters. Otherwise, these Paul Reveres would also be getting the Russel Brand treatment. They would be declared rapists. Assuming they were good looking, of course. Rape is an easy accusation, hard to prove in court but doesn’t get a lot of converts if you’re trying to railroad someone who looks like Fetterman on the charge, for example. Which is what the flat-earthers and the chemtrail people and the fake moon landing people and space alien people UFO crowd look like. They look like Fetterman.

There’s a reason government and the media have a parasitical symbiotic relationship with each other even though “Washington Press Corps” sessions are window-dressed to look like some sort of adversarial encounter. Any hack who was REMOTELY adversarial with your normal kind of President, meaning someone not Trumplike, or in other words not carrying a set of balls and an actual job history in the real world with a favorable win-loss record…… that hack would be OUT of the Washington Press Corps. Which, you may have noticed, is the same people every time by the way until one of the fuckers dies. It’s like the Supreme Court: you don’t GET there unless you’re 1: stupid and 2: you promise to remain stupid.

The reason they have a parasitical symbiotic relationship, government and the media, is because they both live on the lies of the other. It’s like they eat each other for mutual nourishment and for a reinforcement of the allied bond and then shit each other out their asses creating new cross-bred hybridized versions of their former vile selves which then feed off each other. And this goes on day after day century after century, both sides reveling in breathing-in the anguish of the tortured souls and pains of everyone not a bureaucrat or a journalist….that they are creating with their relentless, enthusiastic lying. They’re like some two-headed Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell, namely, “democracy” – against reality.

A “conspiracy theory,” whether it’s proclaimed as such by a journalist moronic failed-novelist slave to an editor he detests and who rewrites all of his already-shitty prose to make it even worse….. or whether it’s used by a candidate or an office holder – is defined as “a right-wing observation regarding global Marxism suggesting global Marxism is going to destroy the Industrial Revolution and reduce all of humanity to an ‘equitable and sustainable’ level of universal poverty and stone-age cloud-worship.” Which is correct. But it’s not a theory. It’s a fact. And it’s not a conspiracy: anyone with their eyes and brains open can see it plain as day.

Now, you might say “ Excuse me, sir, but c-19 and global warming and the World Economic Forum and mandatory vaccines that don’t actually fall under the definition of vaccines have nothing to do with Marxism.” Well, yeah they do. Marx is just more honest about it and calls it Marxism rather than “keeping everyone safe.” So, you can’t get Karl Marx for lying, He actually called it Marxism. Or, I SHOULD say, if someone ELSE called the C-19 tyranny “Marxism”….. Marx would say, “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.” He’d admit it. No problem. Try getting Al Gore to admit he’s a Marxist. In fact, try getting any Marxist in American government, which is basically everyone in American government now, to even consider that “an appropriate question” to even ask them.

But enough about commies, let’s get back to Russel Brand.

You will look real hard and for a real long time to get an answer to the Googled question “What are Brand’s specific ‘conspiracy theories’ that are regarded as ‘conspiratorial’ that he is espousing?” Apparently, whatever he’s saying is SO heinous it cannot be reprinted. Because good fucking luck trying to get from the “news” a detailed synopsis of whatever his opinion on anything “forbidden” actually is.

Good fucking luck with this. You will get sent to endless “news” sites which have run stories about this “problem with Brand” without ever 1: being specific about his opinions and proclamations, just referring to them as “regarding the Ukraine war” and “The Great Reset.” By the way, this isn’t ME capitalizing the great reset. This is the fucking great reset people capitalizing it. They admit it! They’re excited about it! Why the “press” isn’t calling the World Economic Forum a bunch of conspiracists, I don’t know. They’re the only “secret society” in history 1: blabbing their secrets to the world and 2: saying they don’t care if you agree with them or not: that this is the deal and you’re on board whether you like it or not. They’re SO conspiratorial they’re BRAGGING about it and telling their conspiracies in news conferences! Why journalists aren’t accusing them of rape from 20 years ago is beyond me. Journalists COULD be just stupid. Which of course they are. We give journalists and news people way too much credit for being clandestine. They’re not. They’re just giggling little mommas’-boys assholes looking for things to fuck with since girls are off the table.

Which Russel Brand, regarding their stupidity, will demonstrate!! Russel Brand is MORE than a match for any journalist fuckhead on earth. I THINK the press and the “media” are having too much fun at the moment to keep in mind that he is not only more than a match for them….he’s excited about all this. He might be a commie one decade and a normal person the next decade and go back and forth all over the place…..but he’s still SMARTER and more intellectually and verbally ADROIT than any of them.

But the idea here, regarding the giggling press and the more sinister global SWAMP – which is basically the people now “running” Western Civilization – in calling Brand a rapist……is to train his fans into “realizing” their new hero is a reprobate.

You’ll notice they are not even addressing his views and conclusions about things. They are addressing his “lack of morality.” His OPINIONS are not going to be discussed or investigated or proved erroneous. Because they fucking can’t be. I know it. They know it. Russel Brand knows it.

And THEN there is the little matter of claiming that the Russel Brand of 20 years ago, with his swashbuckling energy and otter-like enthusiasm and his rakish good looks and his charming, disarming qualities of sincere communication and his adequate bank account and his individual notions of couture and stylistic raiment and his wide-set almost nocturnal-ready eyes that in two seconds have discerned more truths about you than you know about yourself and possessed of Tyrone Power good looks…….is this a guy that needs to rape women in order to get laid? To a journalist still living with mom and convinced that people exist, so that he can destroy them to the entertainment of the gullible and envious?….the answer is yes.

–J.J. Solari

 

Recovery Through Rest: Prioritizing Sleep

One of the mostoverlooked aspects of post-adventure recovery is sleep. Riding long distancescan be physically taxing, leaving your body in need of ample rest. Ensuring youget sufficient sleep allows your muscles to repair and yourmind to rejuvenate. Fashion a cozy sleep setting and set a regular sleeptimetable to enhance your body’s innate rejuvenation mechanisms.

Nutrition for Rejuvenation: Fueling Your Body Right

After enduringthe elements on your motorcycle journey, your body requires proper nourishmentto bounce back. Choose a well-rounded diet abundant in lean proteins, wholegrains, as well as an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. Consider incorporatinga mushroom supplement into your diet. Some varieties, likecordyceps, are believed to boost energy and reduce fatigue, aiding in your post-adventurerevitalization.

 

Mindfulness and Mental Recharge

The thrill ofmotorcycle adventures isn’t just physically demanding; it also engages yourmind intensely. Afterward, it’s crucial to recharge mentally. Engage in mindfulness practices likemeditation and deep breathing to alleviate stress and promote mental clarity.Contemplate upon your voyage and embrace the recollections, granting yourselfthe opportunity to discover a state of calm amid the bustle of your everydayexistence.

Physical Recovery: Stretching and Relaxation

Long hours onthe road can lead to muscle tension and stiffness. Participate in mild stretchingroutines to alleviate stress and enhance your overall flexibility. Practiceslike yoga or simple post-ride stretches can help increase blood flow tofatigued muscles, aiding in their recovery. Additionally, consider treatingyourself to a massage or a warm bath to soothe both your body and your mind.

 

Connecting with Fellow Riders: Sharing Experiences

The camaraderieamong motorcycle enthusiasts is unparalleled. Connecting with fellow ridersthrough social groups or online communities provides an avenue to share youradventure experiences. These connections can offer emotional support, advice, and a sense of belonging. Formingconnections with individuals who share your passion can be a potent approach touplifting your spirits and rekindling the excitement of your escapades.Connecting with fellow riders through social groups or online communities notonly provides an avenue to share adventure experiences but also offersemotional support, advice, and a sense of belonging. Engaging with others whounderstand your passion can powerfully lift your spirits, allowing you torelive the excitement of your journeys and forge lasting connections thatextend beyond the thrill of motorcycle adventures.

Motorcycleadventures are more than just physical feats; they are opportunities forpersonal growth and exploration. To truly savor the rewards of theseexperiences, take the time to recover properly. Prioritize sleep, nourish yourbody, engage in mindfulness, and care for your muscles. Connect with thebroader riding community to share your stories and build connections. Byembracing a holistic approach to recovery, you’ll be ready to embark on yournext adventure with renewed spirits and vitality.

Psst….it is rumored to be powered by the same 210cc single-cylinder engine found in the Hero Karizma XMR.

Harley-Davidson made waves in Indian market recently, with launch of the X440. It’s the only single-cylinder-powered motorcycle in Harley-Davidson’s modern lineup. It’s aimed at entry level riders, those on a tighter budget, and bite into Royal Enfield’s market share for middle-weight motorcycles.

X440 is priced at Rs 239,000, or about $2,871 USD approx., and considered to be a premium model but beyond the financial reach of most Indian motorcyclists.

It’s already the smallest engine – perhaps too small of an engine – to be considered a ‘real’ Harley for those who can actually afford to buy it.

Also, Indian market is dominated by commuter motorcycles with engines smaller than 250cc. So, machines such as H-D X440 are ‘premium motorcycles’ with a premium price tag for the middle-class masses of India.

X440 technically wears a Harley-Davidson badge, but is produced by Hero MotoCorp, the exclusive India partner and distributor for all Harley-Davidson motorcycles in India. Though Hero handles the manufacturing of X440, their industry reputation is in small displacement bikes.

In Harley-Davidson’s desperate search for volume sales—is a smaller Harley-Davidson X210 going to break-cover in India? As such, given the success of X440, it is not too much of a surprise that an even smaller Harley-Davidson would be the greedy outlook of the two partners.

A rumoured Harley X210 may share the same design elements as the current X440. The smaller H-D is rumoured to be powered by the same 210cc single-cylinder engine found in the Hero Karizma XMR.

For those in love with the brand-image of Harley-Davidson, the culture, it may be surprising that a smaller Harley-Davidson of the same nature as that of the X440 would be in the works.

If true, would anyone buy the V-Twin motorcycles of Harley-Davidson in India?

Imagine this– you have a luxury sedan from Mercedes. You drive it to office, to events, vacations and park it in the driveway of your home. Then your neighbour drives in his brand new mini-Mercedes of 800cc engine. What would be the brand-worth of your luxury car standing next to the same brand’s badge on a smaller ‘cheap’ car?

No, Mercedes hasn’t launched a brand killer of that sort, but Harley-Daivdson and its top management seem determined to destroy their brand and all its value in international markets.

Refer below articles regarding luxury goods sales in India and how Harley-Davidson’s primary V-Twin engines may become pariah in one of the strongest new emerging economies in the world:

Many buyers of Lamborghini in Indian Diaspora: CEO Stephan Winkelmann

“There are more (Indian) owners than we sell cars in India. What is a bit of a challenge today for the Indian market, for sure, is the high taxation we have for our type of products, and then, the infrastructure,” Stephan Winkelmann told ET.

full story at:
https://auto.economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/passenger-vehicle/many-buyers-of-lamborghini-in-indian-diaspora-ceo-stephan-winkelmann/102438667

Foreign luxury brands flock to India ahead of festive season; big labels look to tap into growing affluence of Indians

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/business/india-business/foreign-luxury-brands-flock-to-india-ahead-of-festive-season-big-labels-look-to-tap-into-growing-affluence-of-indians/articleshow/103282517.cms

Hero had announced its intentions of entering the premium segment in the past, and Harley-Davidson imagines 440X and maybe a smaller engine as their entry into ‘premium’ segment in India.

Multiple Indian motoring publications suggest a smaller Harley-Davidson made by Hero is indeed in the works. They speculate that it’ll share the same powertrain as the re-launched Hero Karizma XMR, a sporty looking motorcycle revived by Hero to capitalize on X440 ‘premium segment’ success.

While Hero MotoCorp may be correct in its outlook of tasting blood in ‘premium’ or ‘middle-weight’ segment market for motorcycles — is this what Harley-Davidson wants to build its second-coming in India?

H-D had closed its office and forsaken all their authorised distributors of India in 2020.

Refer:
https://www.cnbctv18.com/business/what-harley-davidsons-decision-to-exit-india-means-for-customers-and-dealers-a-ground-report-7811681.htm

Royal Enfield Hunter 350 crosses 200,000 units sales figures In less than 12 Months since launch.

‘Most popular’ product launched in mid-size motorcycle segment, says company

https://www.business-standard.com/industry/auto/royal-enfield-s-hunter-350-bike-sales-cross-200k-mark-in-11-months-123072500389_1.html

Hero ‘owns’ the commuter segment, and probably hopes to end the dominance of Royal Enfield in ‘premium bikes’ segment and battle the other mid-weight competitors such as TVS-BMW motorcycles and newly-launched Bajaj-Triumph motorcycles.

Hero Karizma XMR has a 210cc engine, and it’s imagined to metamorphose into a Harley-Davidson X210 to compete against local big dogs such as Royal Enfield’s Hunter 350 and the Husqvarna 250 duo.

A 210cc, liquid-cooled, fuel-injected, single-cylinder engine is expected to offer a maximum of 25 horsepower and 14 pound-feet of torque. Whereas the X440 at present pumps out 27 horsepower and 26 pound-feet of torque. Of course, the 210cc engine would most likely be tweaked and tuned and adapted for getting more torque at lower revs — converting it into something suitable for a light-weight ‘cruiser’ if you can call it that.

In USA, Harley-Davidsons were known as a working-class man’s motorcycles and old-timers there also complain of the ridiculous prices of its models at present and restrictions on repair and customizations — especially during warranty period or during retro-fitting it with parts which will require technology exclusively available with H-D dealerships.

If Hero and Harley-Davidson release such a miniature model carrying the iconic American badge, the entry-level Harley-Davidson motorcycles of India could be priced at much below the Rs 200,000 mark (approx. $2,400 USD) — maybe thus fulfilling the dream of the founders of Harley-Davidson company— making a commuter bicycle that ‘pedals’ itself (no pun intended).

Riding High On The Hog

Two boyhood friends, 21-year-old draftsman William S. Harley and 20-year-old pattern-maker Arthur Davidson, in 1901, embarked on a quest to “take the work out of bicycling.” Their dream was to build a motorized bicycle that would enable people to travel reliably and as fast as the technology of the time would allow.

https://www.entrepreneur.com/growing-a-business/william-s-harley-arthur-davidson-walter-davidson/197640

Thus making Harley-Davidson motorcycles more accessible to a wider audience (in India) and boosting the sales for those at Wall Street and at Board of H-D and Hero, an old dream may satisfy the sea of commuters across the ‘ponds’ at India, as if it was 1901 all over again. Sadly or gladly, all of this is occurring in 120th year anniversary of Harley-Davidson. If anything, the funds that will flow toward the American company and through its ‘franchising’ of the iconic badge, the interim survival of the company is assured.

Refer Relevant previous article:

Invasion of the Small Capacity Engines
Small is Big: Motorcycles with less power, more styling, high sales volumes

https://www.bikernet.com/pages/Invasion_of_the_Small_Capacity_Engines.aspx

* * *

 Now, we celebrate another veteran author who has re-imagined the Wild West with a unique sound and flavor. It kicks like a mule and bites like a rattler.

I don’t know if readers have found any other biker fiction or any author who has written for decades, multiple stories and novels about motorcyclists as if they were living in the Old West, with the key difference being iron steeds replacing the cavalry. Probably the meek victims and/or mute spectators can be called the cattle, with evil ranchers being replaced by modern cartels and politicians.

Heck, there are plenty of wine, women, dollars, Mexicans and guns to give you a poker run for your money. A complete and comprehensive Wild West adventure with all elements remaining mostly the same—except motorcycles as the preferred choice of the protagonists and gunslingers.

How and where Keith got this concept is something for his autobiography which he seems to push away as he is too busy living and looking for new projects to conquer. It would be more interesting to know why he stuck with this theme and reference point—the Frontier land, as re-imagined into motorcycle clubs, outlaws, bankers, governors and drug-dealers.

Everyone wanted a piece of land back then. Now they want to own you—you are the product as well as the consumer. A cash cow that is mute and domesticated into neutered bliss! Among such lifeless lives roars the reluctant hero of Keith Randall Ball’s fiction. A true visionary of the craft, circumstance, contemporary culture and trending news. His fiction is never a run-of-the-mill action adventure. There are hidden references to the life of Americans then and there, unveiled through its publishing date.

His short stories are too many to be listed and a challenge probably to Bandit himself to compile it into themes or time-periods. His novels though are more accessible and now even available as e-books anywhere in the world.

True to his alias, Bandit steals our hearts and minds and takes away our focus from the obvious, dreary, everyday worries toward bigger things. Things larger than us individuals. Events and laws that will affect us significantly, that may even destroy our life and livelihoods and bring an end to America as defined by its Constitution and culture.

History does seem to repeat itself. There may not be many steam engine trains, hidden natives, wanted posters, high noon duel, or gold rush. Yet, now we have dysfunctional transport system (department?), illegal voters, domestic terrorism, Silicon Valley’s expanding digital encroachment, Wall Street honchos robbing banks, disarmed & censored citizens, defunding police while financing wars overseas, media that seems to sell pulp & paper instead of news, scientists selling snake oil and animals going extinct.

The spirit and heart are not to be tamed. A broncho awaits the touch of the master. A man who allows the personality and character of his ride to become a friend rather than resemble a slavish mule. Soon, we see, Science Fiction as envisioned by critically acclaimed author Robert A. Heinlein, as perennial Frontier Country expanding into distant galaxies, across lightyears, return to planet Earth. In Keith Randall Ball’s Sci-Fi adventure Sam’Chopper’ Orwell, we got a glimpse into the future which has now fully manifested itself into our present day life and work. Smart gadgets and stupid college graduates with no employable skills. The predictions have come true, but the predilections have borne no fruitful food for thought.

In fact, thought as crime may be the situation. People only seem to consume handheld device content and the Big Tech companies are driving away traffic on key freedom-fighting websites which present ideas and opposition such as on Bikernet.com – denying us the natural flow of rivers of affection and supply of revenue.

Whether or not Shane represents the essence of human nature in survival mode, Bandit’s fiction certainly intensifies our desire to try freedom, try resistance or try having a spine. You don’t need a name nor position to make an impact or lead a positive change. You only need an idea. Bandit has a splendid one—the motorcycling Western. So let’s ride free and Happy Thinking Goddammit!

* * *

As a handyman, Richard had little to offer than stained clothes and bleached hands. He had worked odd jobs so often and so many, the obvious thing to do was to list himself on classifieds for any small home-repairs. From furniture to electric switchboards, from plumbing to roofing and gardening. He did it all. He was on retainer with two buildings and found time to do projects and minor repairs from references received through word-of-mouth publicity. During holiday season, he had so many enquires, he had considered enlisting a helper—but then the timer would go off on his 1980s design Casio and he would need to rush back to the basement room he rented in the cheapest neighbourhood in the worst corner of Bronx, NY.

He stood out like a sore thumb among the coloured crowd. Red hair, freckled, ghost-white face, a barrel chest which merged his head on his shoulders sans any distinguishing neck. While his youthful looks stayed hidden in his disregard of his appearance, his active lifestyle ensured he got more than enough exercise to burn calories from fast-food with a side-dish of long working hours.

“What did you do today?” asked Rachel.

“This and that. The usual!” answered Richard, not taking pride in his labour.

“90% of this city can’t do what you do. Don’t sell yourself short. You are 5’10’ with a heart of gold and arms of steel.” Rachel tried to reach the drooping hair on her lover’s forehead and then realized she can’t lift her arms that far and high.

“You will reach great heights. Your name will spread far and wide.” She giggled, with cognition of Richard’s likely response.

“Because they helped me find you. When you believe it, its true, otherwise love, family, friends, strangers, Gods, angels and ghosts—they are all just labelled boxes in a vast, dysfunctional toolbox called Earth.” She chewed a spoonful of mashed up peeled apple and added, “which reminds me, did you find that missing screwdriver? Otherwise, you would have to buy a whole set.”

“What do you think your Tarot castle in the air suggests?” retorted Richard.

“Stop calling it that! And get yourself a pack of cheap playing cards at some 7-Eleven on the way to work. You will ruin the artwork and detail, playing with my collector’s edition. Did I mention, it was blessed by that 109 year-old veteran from Louisiana?”

“Your old wives’ tale. She looked like any 50 year-old chain-smoker. And it’s a collectible only if it remains unused in original packaging. You read it every other random hour of day and night. Sometimes, you spend more time admiring them than your man-Sunday.”

Rachel laughed and then coughed with that effort on her tiny frame. Richard would only take one Sunday off per month—working round-the-clock every day. Your faucet is dripping, irritating singular drops that keep you awake at 2 AM? Sure, call Richard! Your cat got stuck in the cookie jar at dawn? An emergency you say? Call Richard. Your husband sawed off the wrong end of the furniture and needs fixing during holiday season, its only a holiday if you have a permanent job, so call Richard. Super Bowl and your kid fiddled with the LED TV settings? Google that shit, but you will call Richard at primetime after giving up on your own tech-busting skills.

It was the last Sunday of the month. Richard switched off his phone at dawn, the silent alarm vibrating in his breast pocket to ensure Rachel slept as much as possible through her pain and medication. Whatever savings they had, they had spent, pawned off whatever they considered unnecessary including her prom dress and his father’s handmade Swiss watch, a heirloom given from father to son since before WW-I.

“Want me to give you a bath?” he asked as he sensed her head move when he got off the bed.

“Just fix me!”

“Huh? Too early for breakfast, but I got eggs, sausages, waffles and cake. Coffee or tea?”

“No! Fix me.” Her eyes rolled upwards, just the whites peeking out of half-open eyelids.

“Rachel? Hold on, I will get the ambulance service on-line”

“No! Never! Please, I don’t want to die in a hospital. Promise, me. No more hospitals?!”

“Stop it, Richard. I was a born gypsy. You were an aspiring garage owner. Now look at us? Stuck in here like rats in a cage—with the medics, the society, the social media assholes commenting on our lives, our love. Those relatives don’t even visit, fearing that we may ask for money for medical treatments. Just tie me to the sissy bar like the scarecrow I am. Lets ride to that field again. Fields of golden corn and empty skies. Where all hope awaits and the horizon greets us with a new light of that familiar sun. Let me die among the wild than live among the dead at heart.”

Richard was too busy to pay attention to her fresh castle in the air as he dialled multiple helpline numbers who may pick up on a Sunday, when doctors had the day off and matrons were understaffed due to unavailable resources.

Living on favours and charities, he finally took the last option of payable, billable assistance from the nearest hospital emergency room. He turned to give Rachel assurance of help on the way. She had passed out due to the pain, stiffening her joints and soiling her pyjamas.

Working in public places, Richard never had a deaf ear to chitter-chatter. He overheard things, his mechanical brain, filtering messages and sounds to sort the important from the mundane, the wise from the raving loon. He picked up all of the 60 pounds that was Rachel, cradling her in his arms, he climbed out into the cold night to the back alley where he had chained his Triumph Bonneville.

Few had chopped a Triumph since it was such a collectible. But after years of maintaining the beautiful machine, he ran out recreational cash to pay for authentic parts and spares. The chopper was sleek and rigid. Ape hangers accompanying a stepped seat.

“The Sun – that’s the card for tonight” she whispered. Richard didn’t tie her to the sissy bar. He already had a premonition of such a situation. He had modified a baby wrap style carrier and it fitted the thin barebone frame of Rachel like a tailormade dress. Her latest and last motorcycle gear—it had been three years since she had been on the bike. When the Triumph engine roared, she almost skipped a heartbeat.

Bounding off major checkpoints, they made their way out of New York city—toward open highways. Catskill Mountains was 3 hours away in this thinning midnight traffic. It wasn’t corn country, but she would love revisiting it more than ever before.

As the motorcycle cleared through the city, Rachel picked 6 numbers at the gas station stop. She winked at the attendant who was about to jump for joy—she had won the jackpot on her first try at scratch cards.

“It’s a gift, he will spend it all if I give it to him right now” she hissed through the strain of explanation.

Over a hundred and thirty miles away from home, they lay on their backs, staring into the bright constellation, waiting for sunrise.

“What did the cards say?”

“The Sun, I told you. It’s a bright and sunny new day for you and me,” predicted Rachel.

“What does it mean Rachel?”

“Promise me you won’t open the gift I mailed you in an envelope….at one of the USPS boxes tonight….not until after the funeral….”

“What?” Richard almost jumped up, “You sent what?”

“Relax. You can use it. Consider it payday for the love others called labour.”

“Hmmm”

“Its not much, just a few dead Presidents to watch over you when I am gone.”

“You hid cash from me instead of getting you to an intensive care unit?” Richard speculated.

“No, I found some gold among fields of corn and crows.”

“I would rather have you than the last penny in my pants,” moaned Richard.

“Hey, sure, not a penny more, not a penny less.” She turned her cheeks to face him, “I want you to cremate me and spread the ashes among the wildflowers.”

“Write that down and mail it,” he said.

“Kiss me you fool, I am dying.”

The clouds cleared and the rays of sunlight bounced among mountain tops, dazzling on a chrome tank and silver mirrors. A morning was wake in the woods. A new day began, dewdrops evaporating into mist, birds took flight, as a life and love settled into the dirt.

Last night I was sittin’ in my chair, window shopping chrome for my new hardtail Sportster, as my old back beat a steady rhythm of pain through my body… and I got a message from the sister of one of my old riding buddies. My heart thudded loudly as I stared for a minute at the first few words she typed… ‘Hey I keep forgetting to tell you that my brother Ron…’ I was terrified to click on it and read the end of that sentence.

Finally, I worked up the nerve to open it, and thankfully she was just telling me he was in a nursing home here in town. He lost a toe, got put on dialysis… a common theme amongst old bikers from all the beer and road food… diabetes. I got his number from her and immediately texted him. Then I took my pack of dogs and went to bed early with my aching back.

This morning about 3:30 that backache woke me up with a gasp and tears, and I crawled out of the big brass bed that used to belong to Jj Solari, cussing my dogs, cussing my body, cussing Jj’s beautiful bed, cussing everything as my feet hit the floor. I staggered naked to the back door to let my dogs out, and pissed in the yard with them, because i wasn’t sure I could even get on and off the toilet. I tried not to cry out, naked in the yard and grasping the fence, trying to relieve the pressure on my spine. I stumbled back inside and grabbed my cleanest dirty shirt from the laundry basket and headed to the kitchen and my coffee pot. Then my phone lit up…. and it was Ron.

Ron and I ran together when I was married to my first husband. He is an old Vet and slept on our couch more often than not for several years. Back in those wild-ass days of my early twenties, we all worked like dogs in the Arkansas heat, then rode our bikes and fought and fucked around on the weekends. We did a little speed, drank a fair amount of everything, and smoked enough pot to put Willie Nelson in a coma. Thankfully, we didn’t turn into meth-heads or drunks… but the weed stuck.

As we were catching up this morning in texts, Ron told me he got caught with weed in the nursing home and almost got kicked out. I asked a million questions. How did they find it? Where did he get it? Did he sneak it in with the prison butt pocket method? (he said he didn’t) He also said he wasn’t alone… there was six of them, all in wheelchairs. I said,’ you seriously started a nursing home gang? Lemme come see you and get the whole story.’

I rolled a doobie and hobbled out to my car and headed to see my old friend before the sun came up. He came out of the nursing home and got in my car and we parked in an employee parking lot and did what we do, as he told me the tale. Seems he and several other residents snuck outside and had a nice little safety meeting and all was well, until one little old lady went weaving down the hall in her wheelchair giggling and carrying on and of course the jig was up since she also smelled like Pepe LePew. The nursing home decided Ron was the ringleader because he was the only one still able to roll a joint… they have now branded him the troublemaker.

I forgot my pain as I laughed and watched my dear old buddy of almost thirty years tell me of his experiences sneaking here and there to smoke pot during his nursing home stay. I left him to go get his breakfast with squinty red eyes and a big grin… I bet he ate a big breakfast today.

I came home and eased out of my car… and sat down on my new old hardtail in the driveway and watched the sun come up. I stretched my arms toward the sky and took a deep breath and prepared to fight my pain through another day. The thought went through my mind as I stretched, that old bikers never die. They just buy new Harleys and get caught smoking weed in the nursing home.

 

Maybe it had to do with motorcycles and how they made him feel the adventure in unknown possibilities. His chopper and a 4-inch barrel J.D. Crow engraved pistol were all he needed as he rolled. His boots and his Beretta pocket knife completed his daily gear. When he got home from working the oil fields, he popped a Voodoo Ranger beer and met the icy envelope in the fridge. She could be cold.

Bandit fired up his Knucklehead, planted in an Irish Rich modified VL frame. Its old rusting chrome XA springer front end and a 21-inch wheel guided him out of the city. He thirsted for the desert, the solitary miles in vast emptiness. His small Wassel peanut tank demanded multiple truck stops for gas, forcing him to be distracted in-between Zen riding spells.

He cut the back way out of 29 Palms into Amboy. Riding in the dark, he thought about times spent together and remembered the girl he gave up for her, his best friend. His mind swarmed with thoughts of her misdeeds and his own bad decisions. His single halogen headlight shined on the two broken lines as it spit lumens through the narrow two-lane highway.

He wasn’t right all the time, but he made a decent life for her and her troubled daughter. Yet, it was never enough. Wind whirled up the surrounding sand as he made his way into a gas station. Vision improved under flickering flourscent lights he spotted a couple of guys trying to jack a car from two old tourists.

His bike sang a loud song of violence, like rapid firing shotguns. He revved the engine and slammed on his rear disc brake, sliding to an abrupt halt, the tire screaming against solid concrete. The thugs suddenly stood tall. Bandit reached inside his vest and the ambitions of the small-time crooks fled along the dark dusty terrain, running as fast as their fear would carry them.

At 6’2” the newly arrived biker wore old long johns, Wranglers, tattered brown cowboy boots, a sweatshirt, red and black plaid flannel held fast with his stout leather vest. It showed all the roads he had traveled for the last decade. Strong and padded, he didn’t look a fool. Predictably the druggies hit the road. He refueled and prepared to follow them.

He could handle most any work and had experience with a range of projects, from being a machinist to a plumber. Forced to decide in the town of one gas station with a hotel alongside a shoe box sized post office at 2:00 a.m. he peered into the darkness. Should he ride in the direction of Arizona, via Needles or head west toward Barstow on Interstate 15 pointing toward Nevada.

His gas tank chose Barstow and off he went into the bleak night. Reaching the truckers’ town on reserve he was forced to refuel at the very first opportunity. It was as if the old Harley-Davidson Knucklehead was happy with the cool night air and his high-bars loved the solitude. He gassed-up, checked his ride over and hit the road east, toward Vegas. He knew folks there, but didn’t want to have anything to do with the city, or any city for that matter. He had the “ride-alone” blues.

Chasing east, the sky changed from jet black, starting to glow crimson against the Mojave mountains. As soon as the sun crested the jagged hills, the temps jolted upward and it was already 90 degrees when he pulled into Baker – a bleak town of 700, besieged in all directions with dead desert.

As he slid to a stop beside one of three gas stations in town, the blues surged in his soul. He badly craved a drink. The town had one fast-food joint, one Mad Greek Restaurant, one Chopper shop and just one bar – called the High Roller Tiki Bar. The bar was closed. Ominously, each of the three gas stations sold Jack Daniels.

The one long-time breakfast joint with the tallest thermometer in the world struggled as long as it could, finally closing their doors as if consumed by its barren environment.

The sun blazed in the sky and bleached out all the paint on every building in Baker. Bandit sat on a cinder-block ledge, in a rare shady spot, drinking Jack on the rocks, staring at his boots. Three club guys rode in sporting raggedly crisp pipes. Bandit’s peripheral vision caught them but his eyes didn’t recognize their patch. It looked alien, like the logo from the only jerky shop in Baker. It sure wasn’t a traditional outlaw patch, appearing more like a political campaign logo.

All three riders dismounted from their flashy, blacked-out, late-model Dynas and strode into the station. They came out laughing, refueled as the big fella with lots of hair and a full beard said to the others, “Now he knows who runs this town.”

They fired up their bikes, speeding into the interior of the dusty town that didn’t spread more than a mile into the desert.

Bandit walked to the station and found the short Hispanic clerk with crimson cheeks, having silently suffered the past slaps. He begged, “I could lose my job.”

“Sorry to hear about that,” Bandit said. “How long have they been around?”

“About a year,” the clerk muttered. “They’re taking over and it ain’t good.”

“When does the Greek open? I need a breakfast burrito,” Bandit inquired, very much lost in his own pain. He bought another half-pint of Jack Daniels and stuffed it into his vest.

“Greek no make burritos, but my sister does,” the kid said and perked up. “Just ride up that street, about three blocks on the right, a pink house with green shutters. She’ll be making them now. Tell her, Julio said.”

“Got it,” Bandit said. “It’s just what I need.”

 

Bandit nodded, slipping on his jockey’s helmet and brown deerskin gloves. He fired up the Knucklehead and could tell straddling the beast that his balance was impaired. Once underway, his bike had a mind of its own, like an embattled warhorse. He could tell it wanted out of the sun and he found a modicum of shade under a canopy in front of Maria’s Burritos.

Climbing off the bike, he looked up as Maria approached. His intoxicated eyes saw a lovely mystic from a faraway dream, at peace with her universe. Something to do with the vibrant hues on her burrito palace, her colorful Mexican dress, a natural radiance of her youth and Bandit was hit as if a sting pinning his heart. She caught his gloved hand and wrapped his flanneled arm around her shoulder. He kicked out his kickstand and carried the cross of his drunken-self inside her Cantina. Indoors, he collapsed on a couch. Whiskey, desert sun, and no sleep for 24 hours took its toll.

Passed out on her bright red velvet couch, his mental blues drifted into innate darkness of deeds of past. Three weeks later, he was still sleeping on that rickety couch. Maria’s eyes convinced him to stay, and her sumptuous burritos satiated all other concerns.

Her old man was the town’s welder, fabricator, but he suddenly disappeared five years ago. Julio and Maria were just teenagers, when their father, a heavy drinker got his ass kicked out of Vegas. He didn’t have the funds to take his kids any farther than Baker. Folks came to the family for Maria’s burritos, chile rellenos, and tacos. Julio worked in the station, but his dad’s welding gear sat idle in the garage under a swaying light bulb. The torches, MIG welder, bender and tool box collected dust. He had a sizeable welding table, two vices and a drill press. Folks continued to stop by when they needed something welded or repaired, but the broken father of two could not fix himself and disappeared.

Able Bandit set to fixing metal tables for the kitchen, mending the bad doors, hinges and gates around the digs. He taught Julio how to weld, bend iron and cut with the plasma cutter after the hose was repaired. They started to make extra money and folks came with broken equipment and rusted gates.

“We should equip an old truck with welding gear.” Bandit said to Julio. “We could make good money traveling around the area taking on jobs. You could quit working at the station.”

“That would be very cool,” Julio said.

“Save your paycheck for a couple of months,” Bandit instructed, “we’re doing okay without it. Then we’ll buy a truck and outfit it.”

“Could we build me a chopper,” Julio asked.

“We can do anything,” Bandit said. “I need to go to the bike shop for something. Wanna go? You can ride on the back of the Knuck!”

“I don’t think so,” Julio said. “Remember those guys?”

“Yeah,” Bandit said, briefly remembering the day they met at the gas station. “I need something for my bike. I’ll go check it out.”

Bandit fired up his trusted friend, past a couple of blocks toward the highway and around a dusty corner. Everything in Baker was worn. He could weld for the rest of his life and never be able to repair all the rusty fences and gates in town. It stood isolated, a last stop for lost souls between Los Angeles and Vegas.

The shop, located in a galvanized tin building, was near collapse. Two Dynas were parked out front sporting club decals. Bandit looked at the decal on the blacked out hot rod with foot-tall risers. He could tell serious funds went into this performance bike with high-dollar mag wheels, exhaust, billet air cleaner and lots of accessories.

He walked into the shop, his boots firm on the sandy floor and reached a counter, with teetering wooden and glass tops. They hadn’t been painted, varnished or even dusted in years. One parts catalog rested on the counter with only a new copy of Cycle Source magazine bringing life to the dull surrounding. A rusting counter-bell layered with dust was perched on the scratched glass top. Bandit hit it with the palm of his hand, “Service, goddammit,” he demanded, making dust fly off the entire decadent counter.

Suddenly the sounds in the back stopped and boots stomped against a hot asphalt floor toward the front. Three men burst through the door on the wall separating the front from the service area in the back. Bandit could see stacks of tires, old exhaust systems, air filters and bent fenders stacked against the wall.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked a skinny lanky rider reaching into his leather club vest.

“I’ll handle it,” a short white guy said stepping forward. “I’m Jake, can I help you?”

The last outlaw stood in the doorway with a long fixed blade in one hand, picking his nails with its point, leaning against the doorway. “You don’t handle anything, anymore,” he grunted. “We run this shop.” It was the big guy from the gas station where Julio worked.

“I don’t give a fuck who does what,” Bandit said. I need a quart of 60 weight oil and a couple of Champion spark plugs. Think one of you bad-ass bikers can handle that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jake said.

Like over-amped pitbulls, the two other outlaws snarled at Bandit. The guy with the pig-sticker played with the sharp edge and said, “I don’t know who you are, but we run Baker. Don’t get in our way, muthafucker.”

Jake tried to remain calm, but the situation was written all over his face. He wasn’t happy, but he grabbed a quart of oil from an open box behind the counter, a couple of Champion spark plugs from under the counter and rang it up on an old manual cash register.

“What are you riding?” Jake asked, trying to appear cordial, handing Bandit his change.

“A ’44 Knucklehead,” Bandit said. “Thanks. I’ll be around,” he added, meeting the eyes of the knife wielding biker.

Just those last words lit a glint of hope in Jake’s dreary eyes. “Thanks,” he said, as if he meant to say ‘welcome’ instead.

Bandit walked out and fired up his Knuck in a single mounting kick. Then he let it idle out front for many minutes as he popped the quart of oil open and poured it into his hand-built oil tank. He tossed the plugs in a saddlebag and rode around the block in the opposite direction, seemingly toward the highway. Reaching the open stretch, he let the motorcycle gather some speed, as if he was headed out of town, but he wasn’t.

His mind’s compass circled a magnetic vortex of vice and virtue. “That’s twice,” he took a mental note.

He weaved, idling his way back to Maria’s Mexican food joint. He could sense some chemistry there, but his blues hung on like an albatross around a sailor’s neck and she knew it. When Julio returned from work they strolled to the shop at the back of the restaurant and tinkered with new projects and more welding jobs. Bandit replaced the old single bulb with a couple of brighter fluorescent units. The shop started to take on a professional air.

“What’s with this club?” Bandit asked.

“No one stays around here long,” Julio said, “But these guys started showing up and taking over businesses. Doesn’t make any sense. Except for the fast-food joints and gas stations, nothing survives. If Maria and I could get out of here we would.”

“Is there a boss?” Bandit asked. “And that bizarre patch! What is it?”

“A man called Armand,” Julio said, “he’s a little guy and always shows up in a Mercedes limo with lots of musclemen. Rico, however, is the boss of the club riders, the hairy one with a beard. I don’t know where Armand is from, but he doesn’t seem to care what happens in Baker.”

“There’s an answer,” Bandit said. “There always is.”

The two of them got busy and continued to grind on a neighbor’s gate. Within half an hour, it was repaired. Julio took it to its owner with an invoice for the work done.

 

A week passed and Bandit warmed to Maria’s advances. She wanted a man to stay and make their lives complete. Bandit was busy with work as the welding business with Julio took off. They were occupied 8-hours a day with more fabricating, repairing gates, garage doors and automotive parts. The focused ironwork flexed Bandit’s arms and flattened his abdomen. His legs could carry heavier equipment and his mind could sense everything more sharply as he paid attention to flame fabrication. It also heightened the feminine instinct of Maria as an unmentioned attraction of opposites kindred in between gas stove and welding heat.

Friday morning came around and Maria toiled in the kitchen since 4:00 a.m. to meet the morning orders. A shiny new black pickup pulled up out front and a member of the Arat Brothers got out. Maria met him at the door with a large bag of burritos and containers of her special sauce.

“Thanks Maria, these are the best,” said the young member draped in all black attire. He gave her a sizeable tip.

“Thank you, senor,” Maria said and handed the young white guy the hefty bag with a slight bow of respect.

“We heard Julio is fixing stuff and welding?” The young member inquired.

“Yes, can we help you,” Maria said.

“Come out to the truck,” the member said pointing to the back of the pickup. “We need these posts fixed for the airport.”

As Maria stood on tip toes to look into the bed, Julio followed her. Studying the damaged 3-inch galvanized post, which were old, Julio assured, “Sure, we can fix them. When do you need them?”

“How about 4:00 this afternoon?” This kid seemed to be new to the gang. His patch was slick and flashy. Other than a long mustache he was clean shaven with short, cropped hair, as if recently out of military service.

“We can do it,” Julio said.

“They must be done by 4:00 or…” the kid stated, as he began unloading two large crates of running lights from the back of the bed.

“No sweat, we will get it done,” Julio tried to reassure the edgy kid.

“We will take care of you financially if you can get them finished,” the kid declared, then crawled into the cab, over lavish supple leather.

Bandit and Julio hauled the crates to the back of the shop and went to work straightening, welding and in some instances, rewiring each unit. The kid made a point to bring along a box of new LED bulbs.

At 3:45 p.m. the same glistening black pickup screeched to a stop in front of Maria’s eatery. This time, two members jumped out of the cab, Rico and the kid. They stormed inside where Maria scurried around cleaning la cosina, preparing for the following day.

The kid worked with Julio to load the truck. He paid Julio handsomely, but just as they climbed into the truck, Rico grabbed Maria.

“I need a date for tonight,” he grinned, shoving her into the cab.

Bandit had remained out of the picture, but when he heard Julio hollering Maria’s name, he darted out of the shop through the kitchen and into the yard.

“Maria,” Julio screamed and ran into the street as the pickup sped away. Bandit saw enough to surmise what had happened.

“That’s three,” Bandit said.

“What do you mean?” Julio asked.

“You’ll see,” Bandit said. “We’ve got work to do.” Bandit fired up his Knucklehead and rode it around to the shop.

Together, they took off his top motor-mount and welded extensions to stick out on each side, just clear of both sides of the engine. Bandit pulled over the duffel-bag and fetched two weapons with holsters. The duo made brackets so as to holster a 30-round AR-15 resting safely on the left along with a Vietnam-era M79 holstered on the right. They slipped in snugly, ready to draw. Bandit adjusted his handlebars so he could maneuver the chopper.

“Listen kid, I’m going after your sister,” Bandit informed. “I won’t come back without her.”

“What can I do,” Julio asked, as the sun descended in the west, the air slightly cooler, the atmosphere grim with uncertainties.

“I need you to go to the Mad Greek restaurant,” Bandit said, “Just a hunch!”.

“Okay,” Julio obliged while wondering about the connection.

“Let me know when shit starts to happen.” Bandit instructed briefly.

Julio ran down the dusty lane.

Bandit splashed water on his face and suited up, his sweatshirt rippling over his firm shoulders. He strapped 30-round clips in his vest and two grenades. Pulling on his riding boots, he noticed a glistening spot on a nearby table. He started to reach for that half-pint of Jack Daniels, but this reflex made him furious. He tossed the bottle against the wall, where is shattered. This was not a biker shindig… it was taking care of family! The air cooled by the minute, with the darkening horizon and Bandit paced, wondering what they would do to Maria. His tightened fists strained his forearms. He needed to do something, anything, even if it was wrong. He no longer gave a shit about anything except Maria. He needed to get going and his long legs strode toward his Knucklehead.

Firing it to life, he backed it out of the shop. Loaded for action, he aimed it toward the highway and Julio came into view.

“There’s a dozen bikes, a Mercedes limo and a black van at the Mad Greek,” stammered Julio anxiously, restless with worry.

As Julio told the story, the Arat Brothers stormed the Mad Greek Restaurant under Rico’s leadership. He stood just inside the door while his soldiers surrounded him. The room went silent.

Bandit grabbed Julio’s shoulders to steady him enough for new set of instructions. “We will handle this.” assured Bandit, getting Julio’s attention. “Now go back to the restaurant. Sneak in through the back door. Force the staff to leave, then prop the back door open.

At the restaurant, Rico announced to the patrons, “Grab your shit and hit the road!” Snatching a young man out of his chair, he pushed him out the door, where he stumbled on the porch and fell onto the cracked asphalt. The brothers smacked another two blokes, and they crashed out the wrecked entrance door. The ladies screamed in horror and ran.

One armed citizen stood up and reached for his weapon. He was dead before he hit the wooden floor. Another big angry patron jumped to his feet heroically. “This is bullshit,” he snapped. A waitress tried to bring them to-go containers, but one of the outlaws smacked her down.

Two brothers attacked the dissenting man with ballpeen hammers. The dining room was soon empty as this off-menu serving was too much for them to digest.

Dining room to themselves, the brothers arranged the tables so that the outlaws took their seats with gleaming pride of conquest. A short man in a black suit entered, taking a seat at the head of the table. Rico stood at the other end.

“What the fuck?” Armand said. “I thought you had control of this town.”

“I do,” Rico snarled. He shoved Maria, planting her next to himself, a trophy girl.

“Who the fuck is that?” Armand said. “This night is all about business.”

Rico’s hot-shit status waned and Maria’s bruised arm didn’t help. “Let’s eat.” Rico announced, imagining the staff awaited his commands, but no one was around. One waiter crawled out from under a table to approach the bikers. Taking orders for their drinks, he rapidly brought along large platter of beer bottles, but then he disappeared.

Armand disenchanted with the situation, the meeting wasn’t intended to be a party, nor was he used to sitting with his back toward the kitchen door. His eyes subtly motioned to his driver while he got to his feet.

Rico beamed across the table as the bikers collectively started to party. The roar of a lone Knucklehead chopper blasted into the kitchen and through the swinging doors into the dining room. Bandit slid to a stop, snatched the 30-round AR 15 from its cradle and let loose. Rico’s team scattered like rats on fire. Bandit dived behind the counter taking fire from several locations.

The counter splintered like dried out chopsticks and handgun fire took its toll, but Bandit held his ground, keeping his sights on Armand who dashed out the door with his driver. Rico dragged Maria out the front door.

The boss in his slick black Armani suit sought the security of his pitch black Mercedes. Rico shoved Maria into a van and jumped in after her. The van sped, following the Mercedes.

The club soldiers were dead, wounded or running for their lives. Bandit scrambled to his feet and straddled the Knucklehead. The chopper ripped through the dining room and chased into the street after the vehicles.

They barreled just a block and turned left or north through the town heading for the small rundown community airport only a couple of miles away.

Halfway there the Mercedes driver hit the brakes hard and drifted the long limo into a 45 degree angle and an abrupt stop kicking up sand and dust in the open desert. The front limo-driver door burst open and so did the rear passenger door. As the van screeched to a sliding stop only a few feet behind the Mercedes, the two men opened fire on the van, shattering the windshield and blowing out the front tires.

Rico scrambled out of the Van as Armand stepped out of the limo. “What the fuck,” Rico said and opened his vest to reveal two stainless 9mm Browning semi-autos.

“I told you from the beginning,” Armand said, “I wouldn’t put up with any of your biker bully bullshit. We’re here for business, clean and simple, and you fucked-up.”

High as a kite, Rico reached for one of his weapons. “You foreign bastards aren’t shit without me.”

Armand let him reach and even start to draw before signaling to one of his henchmen, who shot him in the thigh. Rico screamed and dropped his weapon as he fell to the dark asphalt.

Armand strolled to the van and opened the door. Maria, shaken, stepped out of the van and the slick Armand led her to Rico’s side, quivering and bleeding profusely from his wound.

Rico’s demeanor switch to consoling as the two guards stepped up on either side of Armand and Maria. “See him,” Armand said. “This is going to happen to your boyfriend if we don’t take care of our business.”

One of the guards put a round into Rico’s opposite knee and he screamed. Armand’s grip on Maria’s arm tightened and he glared into her concerned dark eyes. He pulled his own snub nose and while peering into Maria’s terrified gaze shot Rico in the temple.

“What can I do?” Maria pleaded for mercy.

“That’s on you,” Armand said drug her to the car.

As the limo pulled away, Bandit saw the lights and slowed and then slid to a stop. He dismounted and ran to the passenger door terrified of the worst possible outcome. He yanked it open, no Maria. He circled the van and discovered Rico dead on the blood splattered pavement in front of the van.

He ground his teeth and ran back to his idling chopper. He mounted it and rode around the van and in the direction of the airport and the stretched limo. He didn’t know what his next move would or could possibly be. He had one shoulder missile in the chamber of the launcher, the AR-15 slung over his shoulder and his .45 revolver, but he couldn’t end this without Maria.

As he approached the airport, he could see an small 4-seater Cessna approaching, but there were no runway lights. In desperation, the limo driver drove to the end of the runway and began to flash his lights. Bandit slid off the road, stashed his motorcycle behind a semi, pulled the AR and took out the headlights.

The driver jumped out of the limo and opened up on Bandit in the ditch, but light waned and airport’s lights were minimal. Out of ammo, Bandit tossed the AR in the gulley and pulled the .45. With one round he knocked down the big burly driver, but the plane was fast approaching.

Bandit ran through the dusty gulley along the runway in the dark, waiting for Armand to make a move. He signaled to Julio to flash the runway lights. They blinked and went out.

Armand scrambled out of the Mercedes with Maria, his 9mm aimed at her head. “Lights or die,” he hollered in the night.

“Set the girl free or you won’t see the dawn,” Bandit answered firing his .45. He clipped the roof of the Mercedes, an inch away from Armand’s shoulder. Armand ducked and let the girl go. Maria ran for the rickety wooden control tower.

As the Cessna approached, Armand didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He fired his pistol wildly in the air to warn off the plane, but it touched down and Armand ran for the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. Bandit returned to his idling Knucklehead and drew the grenade launcher—firing a single round aiming at the spot where the airplane would turn to taxi off the runway. It blew out a sizeable pothole in the tarmac, destroying the front wheel as the machine dipped and became lodged in the pothole. Authorities flashed their lights, as sirens screamed in the night sky.

The airfield surrounded and secured, Bandit turned off his lights and rumbled out of the damned place picking up the siblings. With Julio sitting on his gas tank and Maria holding tight onto Bandit’s back, they idled quietly around the outskirts of town, then back to Maria’s kitchen.

As they rolled to a stop at the shop behind Maria’s, Maria didn’t want to let go. “How about one of your special burrito’s tonight,” said Bandit and kissed her as if neither of them knew love ever before this moment.

“I think we all deserve a margarita tonight,” offered Maria.

Julio moved to the makeshift bar and started to make the drinks. “Maybe we should call this Bandit’s Cantina.” 

* * * 

Editor’s Note: This story was first published on 29th June 2022 and has been reimagined for your pleasure. Want to read the original as well? Click here.

Fly down that rabbit hole; visit the Two-Wheeled Adventures Section by clicking here.

Freddie Cuba, a longtime custom bike builder of dubious renown grew up in Hastings, Nebraska, but bought a cabin 28 miles outside of town in Deweese in 1999. So get this, he flat-track raced for several years, but got disillusioned. His brother said something about driving hundreds of miles to race for a costly experience and said, “Fuck it, let’s build a track out by your cabin.”

His brother Junior cleared the land. “At times he had more imagination than I did,” Fred said. Junior built the beautiful track with his construction equipment.

There you have it, buck the system, build your own track and so, Freddie Cuba produced his own races in Deweese for 20 years and then moved.

Fred woke up one morning and said, “Why are we driving back and forth from Hastings to Deweese. Let’s move,” and they did. Since 2021 this has been Bev and Fred’s new home.

Here’s the critical component to Fred’s endeavor and I quote, “Boobs would be pointless without nipples,” Mr. Cuba said. “We started this in 1999 for me and my buddies to play and watch their kids grow. We saw dirty youngsters runnin’ around in diapers years ago and now watch them win races and carry the checkered flag around the track.”

He doesn’t charge a dime for racers or spectators.
They set up on Friday, race all day Saturday, and Sunday some guys flog the track practicing for the following year. “Monday, I lick my wounds,” Fred said.

Fred had a close fried Jerry Homes who was more than a friend. “He was a brother,” Fred added. “He was here from day one, telling me I had a good ideas or once in a while he would shout, ‘What the fuck are you thinking.’” Jerry passed away recently. The brothers rode backwards to dust the dirt with Jerry’s ashes.

Let’s see if I can get this straight. First, they let the go-carts race because they pack the track down for motorcycles. Then Big tire mini-bikes race followed by little tire Mini-bikes. There’s a 150cc class affording all small motorcycles to compete. There are age group competitions, team races and a flathead class or doodle-bugs.

The number 13 on the logo represents Gavin Garth’s racing number as a tribute. “He raced here last year and was looking forward to coming back,” Fred said, “but tragically lost his life in an automobile accident.”

 

Each year they look for whacky trophies and this year a local oil company threw away several hundred warning signs and they went to the dump, but Fred rescued ‘em. On the back it warns the winner that removal of this sign could cost ‘em a hefty $500 fine…

“The American flag on the t-shirt sleeve represents Kim Niederhouse,” Fred said. “We called him Pete. We went to school together from the 2nd grade. The flag we flew at the event was given to him on July 4th 1998.” As it turned out the Navy awarded it to him at his retirement gift from the USS Arizona. “He gave it to us to fly during the event,” Fred said. Pete passed away last spring.

The wonder woman was a TRUE wonder woman. Kathy Strong Morehead lost her fight with cancer this year. “She was my sweatheart in 2nd and 5th grade,” Fred quipped. “When I was in 7th grade, I fell off the back of a car and cracked by skull. Kathy (I called her Kate) came to see me in the hospital daily for a week. She was more like a sister to me than a friend.” She’ll be missed by everyone.

Wait, there’s something or someone very uplifting who added a race of gentlemen touch to this event, the flag girl Diva Weber. Her father builds rat rods and she knows exactly what to do with her body when it comes to events. More brothers will be back next year because Freddie kept asking Diva to jump higher.

Hang on for the free Twisted Nipple flat track racing event for 2024, which will be the 25th Anniversary. Be there, Be there, Be there.

–Bandit