Sturgis 2000 – Part 2

He had been awake for three weeks and was beginning to look like the guy from the “Living Dead.” Japanese Jay threw up his hands, jumped on the bike from the Harley fleet center, and hauled ass for the border. Renegade bitched and moaned, but under his breath, after smoking several joints, said, “Nice bike.” We knew then I was good to go.

I dialed Giggie in a frenzy, “Could I have knocked the clutch hub loose?”

“Don’t sweat it,” he said, “It’s tight, but what about the plates?”

We had installed a plate wrong and metal-to-metal grating was taking place. With that fixed, I moved on to a shim to prevent the starter jackshaft from peeling away the aluminum on the inside of the BDL support bracket. I was beginning to feel that tight feeling of a motorcycle without any loose ends, except for the speedometer, which I was holding in my hand behind the top triple tree. It seemed to fit and I ran the cable. No problem except the cap holding the cable into the bottom of the speedo didn’t seem to work. It came with another cap and that didn’t work either. My mind raced with options. Throw it into the street and forget it? Find something with the correct thread size and make a cap? That seemed to be an option and I jumped into the flamed T-Chicken and roared to the marine store.

 The threads were fine and the same size as any toggle switch nut, except nothing was available except toggle switch waver nuts. I tried the hardware store. The owner who never smiles, then the employees, the Asian with one bad arm who doesn’t speak, and the Hispanic who is always eating burritos no matter what time of day it is pointed at the fastener wall and ignored me. I searched and searched until I had to ask for help. They shook their heads and I searched some more. I screamed, they hid behind paint cans. I couldn’t believe that they would have every size 1/2-inch nut except this one. I roared off to Neptune’s electronics. The owner, in the shop that hadn’t changed since the ’50s, looked at me and said, “Yep, had some of those, but I don’t know where.” He didn’t and I left feeling dejected. It was almost 4:30 as I tore along the harbor while dialing the cell phone. “Phil,” I said gritting my teeth, “You know anything about speedo cables?”

“Yep,” he said, as he eyed my CCI cable, “it’s easy to get these things wrong,” and referred me to Drag Bike Engineering on Artesia Boulevard in Gardena. I drove up Western Boulevard, which sucks. It runs north and south through the middle of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. It’s a four-lane boulevard that’s bordered by every goddamn franchise jip joint, fast food place, square boring store front on the planet. The only item it contains more of is stop lights. So I drove, and stopped and drove, and the street narrowed.  I rolled out of San Pedro into Lomita, then Torrance and into some places I had never heard of when I finally hit Artesia. I hung a left and there was Drag Bike Engineering, a clean, well-stocked shop. Phil told me to ask for Jim and I did. Only two knowledgeable riders were in the pristine shop and one said, “Don’t I know you?”

I looked at him hard and thought about all 30-some years I’ve been riding and stumbling in and out of events, parties and runs. I hadn’t a clue.

“Yeah, a couple of years ago at Kern River,” he said, smiling.

The most vivid memory of the Kern was hitting a guy in the face with a bottle of Cuervo Gold ’cause he pulled a knife on one of our guys for the second time. I warned him the first. It wasn’t him, thank God. I introduced myself again, apologized for not remembering anything except what was on my check-off list for Sturgis and asked about the cable.  

Jim came out from the back. “Yep, those cables are tough to match.” He wandered over to his rack, pulled off another CCI cable and tossed it on the counter. “See if this will do the trick.” I pulled my knife and began to slice at the plastic wrapper, immediately slitting my thumb wide open. Maybe the pressure was getting to me. The cable was perfect and I bled all over his counter. Jim gave me a Band-aid as his partner put a plastic coating over the braided cable and I hit the road.

Good byes are tough, sometimes, and we bounced joyously into the wee hours before she slipped from my arms and into the harbor night. Blissfully high on several stimulants, I attempted to mount the speedo. I had to drill a 3/8-inch hole in the top triple tree. I did so crooked and with that disappointment dampening a near-perfect evening, I went to bed. I was beginning to cut into overtime. Had the Agent left from the east coast? I could care less. He had his bike a month ago. If he chose to dick around, well that was his problem. I had my list to contend with.

The final nights were spent saying goodbye to a woman who had made my summer come alive. She was different than so many women I had met. There was no pretense. She had been born and raised in San Pedro and she could give a shit less about Hollywood, stardom or money. She lived a simple life as a single mother of three kids while looking after her aging father. She had roots and was securely attached to them. There appeared to be no agenda, although since splitting from her abusive biker, druggie husband of 15 years she felt ripped off by him and life. She wanted the family /husband and ordinary home and hated the fact that it all was torn from her.         There was also something nasty about this woman who seemed to glide along on tender feet. Her dark wavy hair looked wonderful no matter how she combed it. It seemed astonishing that if she grabbed it and shoved it into a rubber band she suddenly took on a whole new look, yet just as beautiful as the one before. She also had a thirst that once unleashed seemed to permeate her being. If I cared for her, she blossomed, like a brilliant sunlit bloom. And so her sexual appetite was replanted in fresh soil to flourish. It’s as if a woman needs only to have the door carefully opened and the bud goes wild.

As I sat back and watched this flower bloom again and again, I relished the minutes we had together. Although my body was floating on air, my mind was aghast with the trivial elements of the trip. I awoke with a start. Only 24 hours to go. She held on as I threw socks over my shoulder into the pile burying the Bandit’s bed roll and began a hectic countdown.

The morning began with calls to the patch maker.

He gave me some bullshit story about a supplier overseas after the son of a bitch told me they did all their work in-house. I made my way to the garage and reinstalled the speedo several times, corrected the clutch and then hit the spare bedroom and the pile of laundry over the bedroll. I loaded it and unloaded it, checked and rechecked. Then I slipped the heavy bag above my headlight. Tie wraps usually work well to hold it in place, but sometimes not well enough. It seemed to shift six inches off center as soon as I stood the bike upright.

I fired the loaded bike in the late afternoon and headed for a refueling station. The Blue Flame had less than two miles on the new speedo when I pulled it back into the garage for final tightening. It was good to go and she was about to come. I locked the back door. The next time I would open it would be to head out at the crack of dawn the next morning.

I had planned to wake up at 4 a.m. and leave at 5, but when she rolled on top of me, for some reason I couldn’t move or toss her aside. I didn’t struggle, but as the sun broke above the harbor like a fresh egg cracked into a hot frying pan, I pushed the rigid into the growing warmth and fired her to life. I pushed off with a full tank of gas and no idea of my capacity or mileage. I rolled along the harbor as the 18-wheelers were beginning to rumble in and out of the teeming container docks. The tug whistle blasted above the sound of my modified drag pipes as I rolled onto the freeway heading north to the 91 and north again to the 605 and north again to the 10, where I would set for 430 miles, heading east to Phoenix.

I have a code, that I like to cut through at least 100 miles the first leg out. Depending on the length of the day, I slice off smaller chunks as the day dwindles. You know the saying: “Let’s ride, we’re burnin’ daylight.” My first stop was 101 miles out and the tilted, 3.2- gallon gas tank took 1.841 gallons. That was 54 miles to the gallon. I stopped just past Yucaipa, and I thought of Rip and all his trips from Yucaipa to the Valley. ‘Bout 100 miles in rush hour traffic to work on a motorcycle is nothing to sneeze at, and it’s surprising that something other than motorcycles killed him. As I fueled, I started to strip off the outer layers. Since it was cool when I left, I had on thermal undies, Wranglers, an Excelsior-Henderson sweatshirt, the Prison Blues denim and little Joe’s leather vest, except this one I ordered in brown. I had to wear something different and it was cut larger than the first black one. I would like to be able to afford another lambskin shirt out of brown, also. In the process of stripping off the jacket and strapping it to my bedroll along with a spare primary belt, I bungeed the bedroll to the trees and bars and it quit bouncing around.

        I rode another 30 miles and came across Hadley’s, a famous spot for date shakes. Unlike my usual gotta-get-there demeanor, I pulled off the freeway and took a break. Already I was feeling solid about the bike as I stood and watched the sun turn up the amps. The outlook for flat Phoenix was 115 degrees of misery, and I would be riding into the pressure cooker just when the flame reached its max. Behind the scheduled departure time by one hour, I felt both the pressure to keep moving and the release of being on vacation. Yet was this competition with the bastard on the far coast a vacation? Or was it an endurance contest to test my cracked and bruised bones to the Black Hills on a rigid? A rigid? I pondered the question. I hadn’t noticed any discernible terror permeating my 52-year-old muscles or frame by the rigidity of the structure I was riding. Was I deceiving myself about the ride or was it acceptable? Without checking a damn thing on the bike, I gulped down the mixture of dates, bananas and ice cream and hit the road. Damn, that was delicious, but I had a desert to cross on a new motorcycle, through a no-man’s land during the sizzling summer.

I kept telling myself that this Sturgis would be different. I was riding a rigid. I would take it easy. The bike needed a break-in period, it needed to be checked out, watched over and I wasn’t no spring chicken. Fuck all that shit. I had worked hard all summer building two bikes. I’d been riding bikes before I drove a car so I wasn’t going to change my style. I rode hard and the bike was going to be forced to handle it. I kept moving up the freeway, through Palm Springs toward Blythe, on the border of the sunshine state and Arizona. For me, Blythe represents reaching the outskirts of Los Angeles and escaping into the forgotten lands of a desert, of Indian reservations and not much else. I like that. I enjoyed the two-lane road that meandered through the low shrubbery and intermittent cactus, surrounded by miles of fine white sand that stings your eyes and catches in the sweat on your sunburnt brow. There’s a silence out there, a solitude that’s hard to find in L.A. Sure, once out of the city there are other counties, other communities, but it’s all the same. One franchise after another, shouting at travelers from the sides of the freeway.

I needed to get away and I don’t feel as if I’ve gone a mile until I hit Blythe. It’s a small, sun-bleached truck stop in the middle of nowhere where a biker can refuel and have a meal, then ride a mile to the border and shit-can his helmet. The remainder of the trip would be helmet free. I pulled in under a canopy at the Chevron and refueled. It was hot and I took my slicker, spare drive belt and Prison Blues jacket off my bedroll and unzipped the tool pouch. I have a pack of Allen wrenches in the pocket. I went in the station after refueling and stretched in the cool air of the interior. The two girls behind the counter gawked at the road warrior standing before them and hurriedly gave me the change for my jug of chilled water. I could feel them checking me sideways as I walked into the sun. I had passed a caravan of VW drivers on some sort of product test. The group of Europeans compared notes about the cars and tried to discuss my stretched chopper with me. I don’t speak German. Hell, even my Spanish is rough, but I made do.

        I tried my best while adjusting the peg angle on the Joker machine forward controls, to tell them the code of the west and how choppers had taken California from the Spanish. They wandered off pointing at the Blue Flame in amazement. The bike was handling well and the ride was superb. For A rigid, I seemed to be floating on air. I must give the H-D folks the credit and Nuutboy, the man responsible for narrowing the seat pan and building a support frame under the seat. There was no side-to-side slack. The up and down movement was unhampered and the springs carried my weight without a problem. When I first hit the road, I was concerned about my fat-assed weight on the two spindly coil springs and tried to sit forward on the seat to prevent fatigue and over extending their life. I realized before long that there was no way I was going to put my riding position behind the longevity of the springs. I couldn’t stay focused on preventing trucks from running over me.

The Joker Machine pegs were well designed and executed. The were designed to allow me to change the angle in case my feet were vibrating off the pegs and change the pivot angle. I made one of the pegs flat and slightly lifted the heel rest on the other. It was a test. The polished chrome surface of the pegs was slick and my old Niki hiking boots were dancing off the surface, precariously close to bouncing off the brutally abrasive concrete below.

I chose to wear these leather, low-cut boots for a couple reasons. I generally wear leather cowboy boots. Here’s why: If you wear tennis shoes or rubber soled boots and need to put your foot on the pavement while the bike is rolling, anything that sticks will shove off to the rear and you’ll immediately find yourself bouncing along on your knee. If you can’t put your foot down in an emergency, what the fuck good are you? Many riders wear rubber-soled boots for a specific reason: They’re resistant to oil and chemicals. If you’re in dust or dirt and trying to push your machining around, you get better traction (you should be riding, not pushing). But that’s slow-speed shit. To me, it’s the fast shit you need to concern yourself with. Your boots should have tough but slick leather soles for serious survival. So when picking my wardrobe for the run, I wanted something with some give for the slick foot pegs. Leather soled boots would glide right off. On the other hand, I wanted something hard enough to be less than tire-sticky on the pavement. These hardened Nikis seemed to do the job. Fortunately I never had to test their high-speed capabilities. With the pegs adjusted and enough water in my gullet to keep me from passing out in the heat, I rolled out from under the shade of the gas station canopy and back into the blistering sun.

I pulled off the side of the highway under a sprawling billboard welcoming me to the Arizona desert ahead. The sign said freedom to me. I wanted to yank off the jockey-styled helmet and throw it in the gulley with the creosote, tumbleweed and empty junk food containers that line Interstate 10 all the way to the east coast. I let my helmet go a couple of years ago in Utah on my way to the rally, but this year my budget was tight. It took every dime to build the bikes and pay the bills before I headed out. I left Los Angeles with only a $100 bill in my Wrangler pocket. My brother in Phoenix would refill my run fund because I had put our Sturgis motel on my credit card. I would take his cut in cash. Enough cash to keep me going, I hoped.

With 160 miles left to make the 429 to Phoenix, I kept rolling. I was already confident that I could make 100 miles without hitting reserve, so I cleared the trip gauge before I left each gas station and it acted as my gas gauge. As I rolled into the desert, the sun was reaching noon high and I thought about the machine beneath me. There’s a sense of fight and might or doom and gloom in each machine I ride. You just know after a couple hundred miles whether the bike is good for the long haul, hanging on for dear life or crumbling under your feet. It’s a matter of sound, vibration and a feel for the driveline balance. I had worked hard to keep the driveline poised, but I had no concept of how the Daytec frame, the Weerd Bros. front end or the Road Wings wheels would stand up under the continued strain. I had been disturbed at the poor pre-load spacing of the Timken bearings in the wheels. The company seemed to be floundering. A collapsed wheel at 80 mph would make me wish I had skis strapped to my ankles. I had allowed a longtime friend of mine and a man who understands and owns long bikes ride my bike during the break-in period. I rode along side him on his black West Coast stretch. I concentrated on watching the frame and front end on the uneven surface of the Santa Monica Freeway. I was surprised to see a 14-over front end work that well. The polished aluminum tubes glided effortlessly up and down after I had installed six ounces of heavyweight Rev Tech oil in each already-wet tube. If the front end had been dry, we would have poured eight ounces in each. The wheels were hard to read. I hadn’t balanced the front, but it didn’t seem to hop on the grated concrete. When the pavement was smooth, the bike appeared to glide along.

As I reached the California border, I knew I had over 500 miles on the engine and could raise the speed limit. Until that point, I had kept the revs alternating and not locked on any particular speed, but now it was time to start checking the vibration barriers. I wanted the engine and driveline to hang tight up to about 80 mph and so far the vibration was minimal past 70, so I worked up the speed slightly to test the resonance. Some 20 miles past the border, I began a 75-80 mph test. 

The adjustment to the foot peg angle worked perfectly. No longer was I forced to put slight pressure on the outside of my feet to hold the hiking boots on the pegs. The back and forth pivot adjustment seemed to afford me a better position for resting my feet. At times though, I wished for mid controls. I could push it to 80 mph and my feet stayed on the pegs. I began rolling at a constant 75-85 mph range. The driveline appeared to be tight. I would need to check fasteners once I rolled into Phoenix. They would tell me how the frame felt about the ride. 

Something else milled around in my feeble brain cells, besides my melting forehead and Agent Zebra on the east coast with a two week head start. I knew how he rode, how he abused motorcycles. He would be lucky to make it to the Florida state line. Aside from a mental check list of a myriad mechanical considerations, there was another woman seeping into my consciousness. A silky-haired Asian woman with dark eyes and a taller-than-average form. We had never discussed a relationship like I had with the dark-haired beauty. Sin would just stop by from time to time at lunch and crawl into bed almost without a word. She was emotionally soft and timid. She studied at Cal State Long Beach, something about sea life, seals, otters and such, but she grew up in San Pedro. She was young, in her late 20s, and I knew she would be moving on when the summer ended. She was a bashful volcano, waiting to erupt on several fronts. As Sturgis neared, I had become so caught up in what had to be done that I didn’t pay attention to what was going on around me. Sin became suddenly sullen about a month out. She didn’t say anything as I babbled about the bikes, the Web site and the trip. At first she seemed preoccupied with a buxom blond named Coral, whom she met at the beach a half mile away. 

Coral was obviously bi and aggressive and was tempting Sin into a fling. The encounter became hot bedtime talk and our love making hit an all-time fevered pitch. Sin was aware that she was attracted to the hot blond with the bubbly personality and tits to match. Sin wanted me to watch out for her and began to talk about a tryst at the headquarters. Although quiet and bashful, Sin had a complete back tattoo with a Geisha girl at the center. A mermaid covered one shoulder, but the Geisha girl, fully clothed with a gown that flowed down her spine, was the center of intrigue. The woman in the tattoo seemed torn, yet proud and centered. As Sin bent over the bed, she talked about Coral’s body and her touch. I looked at the permanent illustration of the Geisha and could see the questioning in her eyes. I had told Sin about the dark-haired one and she respected my involvement and didn’t pressure me. This was all supposed to be fun but I sensed her attraction to Coral was growing, and I knew from Coral’s e-mails that she was hungry for Sin’s tall form, milky skin and big boob-job tits.

The mixture was pure ecstasy for me. I was dancing on a dangerous cloud and as I headed across the desert, gradually twisting the Joker machine throttle farther and farther past the 85-mph line, I realized that emotions were beginning to reach a collision point. Coral was introducing herself into my life, one that was being shared by the unknowing dark-haired beauty with a quiet stillness about her and Sin, a women so beautiful I knew the thought of keeping her was out of the question. It was a firy bouquet that couldn’t bloom for long. 

An 18-wheeler retread exploded and pieces of tire jettisoned in every direction. The truck directly behind the offending vehicle veered and for a few treacherous moments it acted as a steel snake slithering in and out of my lane. I may fall apart in some situations, but in an impending accident I become calm and watchful, hoping to make the appropriate maneuvers. I kept my eyes open for a slight movement, an escape hatch, or another idiot to become involved. I blasted through a cloud of dust and returned to my thoughts of Sin’s tits bouncing below me, her sleek youthful fingertips taunting her nipples, and her words of lust toward another woman drawing me to the brink. Many times I craved for the bikes to be completed so I could have Sin over more.

Tonopah finally showed up on a sign as I careened past at 85 mph and the ambient temperature passed 100 degrees. I pulled in and refueled. I was still pulling down 50 mpg, which blew me away. Theoretically I could get 150 miles out of this shapely 3.2-gallon Sportster tank. One of these days, I would like to take two weeks to get to the Bad Lands. I’d like to ride like a fuckin’ tourist, taking all the small roads, gawking at the tundra and pulling off at the viewpoints to check out the majestic canyons. Instead, I ride like I have one day left to live, like I will receive a ten spot for every vehicle I pass, and I want to make a million in a day. It’s fun, I can’t deny it. On the other hand it’s ridiculous. A small Lexus will do 160-mph without blinking an eye and could out-accelerate, out-maneuver and outrun my ass, yet I’m the one pushing the limits. Guess I’ll never learn. I had an ice cream in Tonapah and every son of a bitch I passed over the last 100 miles gently rolled by while kids in the back listened to CD’s and the folks bitched about loud bikes, promising to write their senator when they returned from vacation. Truckers I had blown past rolled on by and by the time I got back on the road I could ride for all I was worth (not much at the moment), and I could just catch ’em before I hit the city limits of Phoenix. But goddamnit, I was going to give it a helluva try. I fired up the Blue Flame, dropped the clutch and wheelied onto the freeway. “Look out you bastards, I’m comin’,” I screamed as I hit 80 mph and merged into the No. 2 lane.

I have yet to read a map before entering the Phoenix freeway system. I always roll in and wonder where the fuck I am. I ask around and finally find the way to Easyriders of Scottsdale. This time, the I-10 interchange was closed and I was forced to exit. As I pulled off the freeway, I asked a bunch of Native Americans in the pickup next to me how to get to Scottsdale. They looked at each other in bewilderment, pointed in several directions and finally the driver gave me directions that I couldn’t understand and was dubious to believe. I’m more and more surprised when asking directions of locals, the percentage who don’t know where the fuck they are. Most can’t speak English, especially kids. I asked one kid where Broadway was in Phoenix. He didn’t have the slightest. Ironically, the gas station he was working in was on Broadway.

I finally got the word that I could take a big busy street directly into Scottsdale or take another one that led me through a bad section of the area on the way to my destination. It was 115 degrees when I pulled off the freeway and started bouncing from one stop light to another. My informant failed to tell me that the street I chose lead me directly into the international airport, so I suddenly found myself weaving in and out of terminal traffic. I came out of the airport unscathed and was dropped onto a freeway. I was fuckin’ lost.

The freeway lead me directly to the one and only Scottsdale offramp and I gladly jumped off the freeway. I knew I didn’t have far to go to get to downtown, but I could sense the engine was tiring of the 118-degree heat and needed a break. It had performed perfectly and deserved to relax. I pulled into Myron’s Easyriders store adjacent to his Billet Bar, coasted under a canopy and shut off the engine. It ticked a sigh of metal relief as I walked into the shop and shouted for service. Fonz, the parts man, and Myron stood basking in a frosty level of air conditioning. Brownie, a veteran mechanic, immediately checked out the Blue Flame, changed the oil to straight 60 weight as prescribed by the manual for consistent temps above 80 degrees and recommended an alternator plug strap. I had made a mental note to bolt one in place several times, but never acted upon it. One of the guys handed Brownie the strap and he eyed it suspiciously and looked at me. “You like this one or do you want me to use one that works?”

        “Needs to work,” I said, and they found a Custom Chrome strap that I hadn’t seen before. It is held on by two case bolts and the plug can’t move.

        Myron owns the ER store, the bar next door and the Scottsdale Worlds gym, so when I’m in town, I have Brownie work on my bike while I hide under the misters in the Billet Bar patio and play pool. When the master of disaster can get away, we head to his gym. I was behind in my workouts so we hit it hard — chest, triceps, back, biceps and abs. I spent two hours trying to make up for sporadic workouts over the last two months. Myron’s gym doesn’t have that day spa look of soft tones and plush carpeting. It’s more reminiscent of the iron pit at San Quentin, if they allow them anymore. There’s lots of chain link separating various areas of equipment. Lots of mirrors, black rubber padding and polished diamond plate. The ceiling is high and industrial and the brother spends 11 grand a month on air-conditioning in the summer. Cindy, Myron’s wife, runs it and teaches aerobics. That evening, I had dinner with Myron and Cindy at their home, with three snarling dogs at my side throughout the meal. I wasn’t sure if they wanted me or the marinated chicken breasts on my plate. I sat very still and tried to make idle conversation before I returned to Karl’s house for the night.

Karl is the fire chief for the rural metro area of greater Phoenix. He’s about 6-foot-3, 250 pounds, an ox of a man with a constant smile. Although it was 118 degrees during the day, the thunderstorms rolled in by the late afternoon and hit hard in the evening. Just as we were about to bed down, lightning rocked the windows and slabs of sideways rain slammed against the stucco home. Tree branches broke off, filling the pool with pine needles. Ten minutes into the gale, the lights went out and Karl went into action. He’s been trained to be calm when the shit hits the fan and he did just that. He gave orders, checked for electrical outages and possible fire hazards, then settled the rattled family down. His wife, the bouncing beautiful Cheri, is an emotional whirlwind unplugged, which seems to control big Karl. I was trying to sleep on the couch while the women screamed at the crackle of lightning and the crash of timbers. Flashlight beams crisscrossed in the darkness. I like Arizona, but the heat coupled with violent storms had me itchin’ to get the fuck out of Dodge. It was time to move.