Here's the original deal as published in Hot Bike and on Bikernet. It all changed, though, for the better.
We're leaving and having a helluva ride. This form will give you all the basics, so we're all on the same page.
This will also document the hotel locations and basic ride directions.
First Stop Phoenix:
From Phoenix we head north on the 17 into Flagstaff about 130 miles. We can stop for lunch and check out the Grand Canyon. I've never seen it. (That's bullshit. You can't see the Grand Canyon from Flag. It's another 80 miles north of Flag. What was I thinking?)
From Flag we take the 89 North, for 50 miles and stop in Cameron for gas.
Another 17 miles and we slide off on 160 toward the bleak town of Kayenta at 90 miles.
We cut north there on the 163 and head into Monument Valley for 24 miles.
Then we catch 262 east to the 41 then 160 into Durango another 83 miles. (Actually it's 450 miles to Durango from Phoenix.)
Day Two
From Durango we head north up the 550 to Montrose, 107 miles. We can stop in Silverton for Breakfast.
Then we turn right or east on the 50 to Monarch at 129 miles where we stop for Lunch or catch the 24 north and stop at Buena Vista for Lunch.
25 Miles up the 24 we catch the 82 into Aspen about 38 miles.
Day Three
Now we head out the 82 east for 38 miles to the 24 North and in 13 miles catch Highway 91 North to interstate 70 east 50 miles. Georgetown on the 70 maybe a lunch stop.
Or we keep going to the 40 North and catch the 34 into the Rocky Mountain National Park. We could stop in Grandby for lunch. It turns east and leads us directly in interstate 25 North about 70 miles into Loveland.
From Loveland it's 42 miles into Cheyenne.
Hey,
Day Four
From Cheyenne were almost home. We jump on the 25 North, but immediately catch the 85 North for 73 miles into Torrington.
There's a shift in Torrington, but we stay on the 85 for 47 miles into Lusk where we meet up with the Hamsters for lunch.
Another 80 Miles on the 85 and we run into Newcastle and we're 29 miles from 4 Corners.
Then it's 11 miles into Lead and Deadwood and we're home.
Here's the background. At one time I rode with the Hamsters each year and we carved out a week, which allowed us one day of rest halfway there (2000 miles generally). It's the only way to go. I was at HOT BIKE at the time this plan was laid out and they discussed the ride they organized for the past two years. It was a mad dash to Sturgis in three days. It also had the smell of being a private clique of riders and I wanted to offer it to readers and additional advertisers. I spread it out to five days for a more comfortable ride.
Then I left HOT BIKE, but was going to be the editor-at-large and still help out. That didn't last long once the egos were set free to roam the halls. I won't mention names, but they jumped back to the private clique ride. Don't get me wrong, many of the guys on their organized ride are friends of mine. But when you're in the magazine business it's tough not to invite everyone. That was up to them, but I couldn't ignore a few readers who wanted to ride, so I kept the fires burning. Upon reflection, I should have immediately switched to the proven Hamster philosophy, since the ride out is everything. Hell, the Hamsters invited me to ride along, but my plan was published-the show must go on. It's all about what this industry revolves around, the ride and the readers, right?
As the weeks crept up on me along with the Choppers Only show in Hawaii and the LA Calendar show, I wrenched on the project Shovel, worked on mags and Bikernet. I was rapidly burnin' daylight. The Shovel fired the week before the LA Calendar show, but wasn't running right. First, I needed to switch out the Compu-Fire electric starter ignition for the kicker model. It's true that electric start ignitions turn the bike over three times before the plugs fire. Can't generate that action fast enough with a kicker. When Nui, Roger, Keith and George arrived from Hawaii, with their bikes, for the Calendar show they dropped everything to wrench on the Shovelhead. We realigned the Rivera intake manifold and attempted to install the wide rubber bands, but didn't have the clamps, so we shifted back to the O-ring style and filled the gaps with silicone. The key is the heads and they needed to be aligned with the Rivera manifold before they were bolted down. Then the O-rings would have sealed. I'll fix that next week with a new set of S&S heads.
We waited overnight and tightened the stainless straps which fixed the leaky manifold. Then we fired the bike once more. It wouldn't idle and ran too lean on the low end. I dug through my carb locker for jets and found a larger pilot jet. Roger pulled the carb down and replaced it. The bike finally ran strong and I started my Eddie Trotta break-in business. I rode it for a block then checked it over. The front axle was loose. The Big Boar battery sparked violently against the frame. There was still a problem with the BDL alignment.
I rode it to the show, but was sliding off the Lucky Devil Seat. Kent recommended taller seat springs. I ran to Ed Walker's shop for main shaft shims and 5-inch seat springs. I was attempting to build a strong, long-lasting Shovel chop, but ultimately discovered the error of my mechanical ways. It's interesting, each year as we build customs and fuck with the tried-and-true ways of building bikes just to be different. It's part of the code, but it also points out why people build bikes a particular way then stick with it. For instance, I went to the World Championship of custom bike building this year and discovered that a couple of builders were using Heim joints to hold spring mounted solo seats in place. It was very cool, I thought and tried it. It's doesn't hold the seat aligned like the old straps, which created problems. Just one of those things.
I attempted to ride the bike daily and then make adjustments right up to the final day. Brothers and sisters rolled into town. Bikes were shipped from Hawaii. I serviced my Road King for an Australian moto-journalist and we jammed to launch as many articles on Bikernet as possible. We were burnin' daylight.
I'll point out the other errors of my bike building ways as we roll out. This was a different sorta Sturgis ride in so many ways. I suppose each year of our lives have a new slant, new women, new lifestyles, and new roads. Then there's the open road, a fresh new chopper and the adventures that lie ahead. I don't know that I ever just straddle a motorcycle and rode to Sturgis, like an average Joe slipping into a station wagon for a cruise across the country. I enjoy and get a kick out of the adventure side of the coin, screw the fast food and cruise control, as you will see.
I'm going to paste in a couple of paragraphs from various Bikernet News and Sunday Posts just prior to departure. You'll experience the various adjustments prior to riding out.
Hey, it's pre-Sturgis week and bikes are being delivered to the headquarters for the Run. Johnny, the young Texan writer, is meeting us in Durango. I just installed a couple of Pro One running lights on the Sturgis Chop since Japanese Jay couldn't see me in the Long Beach ghetto and almost ran over my ass while we hunted for his favorite Taco joint. Just one more mechanical project to deal with then more test rides, changing oil and tightening bolts.
You wouldn't believe the bullshit mistakes and scary elements. I finally ran it onto reserve. I didn't have any notion of the gas capacity. It took 2.76 gallons. With reserve that's maybe 3 gallons. So 2.76 times 35 mpg gives me 96 miles before I hit reserve. I can live with that-I Hope.
Wanna hear one more bullshit mistake? Crime Scene Choppers recommended that I drill a needle-sized hole in the top of the gas cap for ventilation, if the tank wasn't vented. It's easy to break a bit that small, so I drilled a 1/8 inch guide hole, but drilled too far-through the cap. Okay, so one solution would be to spot-weld the underside and re-drill, but my aluminum welder was just evicted from this property. The owner sold it.
So it tapped the hole with a 10-32 and drilled a tiny stainless set screw and in she went. Let's hit the news.
BACK TO THE LIFT–I'm about to hit the lift and fix my glitch and my BDL engine pulley. Every time I build a bike I ponder the weak links, until they're fixed. They haunt me. It might be a potential clearance problem, the manner in which I mounted something or something I left off. Here's my list for the Sturgis Chop: I mounted the taillight in too close to the frame which blocks rear visibility. Motorcycles need visibility, as much as I like side mounted tail and license plate systems. So I'm going to run a couple of Pro One bullet running lights.
Next I mounted all the electrics where the Starter usually fits. It's mighty close to the chain that's flying past on the backside. I'm going to fix that with a Teflon guard thanks to Larry Settle of Settle Motorcycle Shop in Harbor City.
My last glitch, almost, is the BDL front pulley. There seems to be a problem installing the main shaft nut over the splines. It loosens up. Can't have that. I'll try to fix it this afternoon. I believe it's the shelf in the nut that's riding on the splines and not allowing the nut to seat.
Last night I worked again until 11:00 p.m. changing fluids and then tuning the front end. I checked the trail with Sin Wu's assistance. We ran a rod down the center of the neck on the left side until it touched the floor. Then I dropped a line off the axle and measure between the two. My trail is running between five and six inches.
Then I jacked up the front of the bike and lifted the rockers. I felt a notorious clunking sound. There was way too much play in the neck bearings. Something had dangerously settled. I removed the bars, risers and top tree, snugged up the stem nut, tested it, snugged it again and put the sucker back together.
IT'S A WRAP FOR NOW–We'll hit the road at O-dark 30 Tuesday morning and head for the desert. We leave at the crack of dawn for several reasons. Los Angeles is like a no-man's metal battlefield during rush hour. The sooner we can peel out of town the better. We'll watch the sun rise and be in Phoenix in the early afternoon.
I have this thing about Los Angeles spreading across the desert floor toward the Arizona border and Vegas. It's a nasty plague against the land, and you better get up early to escape.
We'll be in and out of touch for the next couple of weeks. Home base is destined to be the Full Throttle Saloon on Lazelle. They have computer hook-ups so hopefully I can report in from time to time. No news next week.
Okay, so here's my superstition bit for the day. I had a blast building this bike until a particular point, then I ran into humbling glitches. One of the knickknacks on the bike was my hand made oil tank plug. I welded a copper washer to the brass plug and hung a brass antique Douglas Aircraft parking token from it as a novelty. At the same time I had a brass bell, but decided on the bullshit token, which meant nothing to me except that it was quirky. I continued to look for a location for the bell, but never discovered one.
So last night during the oil change I pulled the oil plug, which incessantly leaked when I first installed it. I turned and there was the lucky Bell waiting for me. I yanked the token for the brass good-natured security item. After I installed it Chris, Nyla's brother, walked in the Bikernet shop and handed me a 15-year-old bottle of Scotch and offered to stand by while I tuned the front end. For the first time I felt that the machine was road ready. The bell's working already.
Weight Comparisons
All 2006 Models, running weight
1200 Custom Sportster 575
V-Rod 629
Softail Deluxe 724
Softail Heritage 703
FLH Street Glide 776
Road King 750
Sturgis Shovel 520
We cut a dusty trail out of Wilmington, California at 5:00 a.m. and hit the Long Beach Freeway next to West Coast Choppers, which is in upheaval. Jesse fired his main man Bill Dodge after almost 10- years with him. Bill's wife Renee and Mark quit and many of the staff are threatening. Even today, a couple of days after Sturgis, I know customers who are scrambling to grab their ordered parts before WCC implodes. I don't think it will. Sometimes a shake-up is good to clear the air. We'll report more in the near future.
We jammed north on the LB Freeway to the 91 or Artesia Freeway East. The 91 turns into the 60 or Pomona Freeway then slips into the interstate 10 toward Blythe on the border of California and Arizona. It's about 380 miles from LA to Phoenix where we planned to hook up with friends and riding partners from the past. My first mistake hit me hard on the rugged city freeway miles peeling out of metropolitan Los Angeles. It's a no-man's land for much of the day. If you want out of the City, you hit the road early, like 5:00 a.m. You don't stop for breakfast until you're half way to the border, in the center of the desert near Palm Springs. The morning traffic will eat you alive.
We held tight to our rumbling handlebars for 92 miles before we stopped in Banning. All seemed to be fine with the Sturgis chop. Sure, I'll point out all the negative aspects to share the info with you, but on the positive side the bike was built to ride and be comfortable. The sitting position was glorious, relaxed and the Paughco front end handled well with 35 degrees of rake in the neck and three in the Paughco Springer trees. The bike was light and agile, handled like a dream with the 180 Avon, CCI 18-inch stainless spoked wheel in the back. But my gearing was off. I was pushing the RPMs too much and the vibration swept my feet off the Joker Machine pegs. If you read one of the last techs, it will explain the problem and why I wasn't prepared. I sat astride a 5-speed Rev Tech transmission installed in a late model 4-speed with a kicker-only. I originally planned the build with a JIMS 6-speed, but the kicker element forced a change. I should have switched my rear sprocket from a 51-tooth chain to a 48 or lower. The 48 is currently on order from Custom Chrome.
Couple the gearing with the new motor and trans on a rigid and the vibration was costly. I adjusted the Joker Machine Peg angle for a position that would cause my new work boots to float inward, instead of the other direction.
Here's my editorial comment about building bikes and in particular building this one. I'm a biker because I enjoy the lonely aspects of riding alone, building alone and controlling my destiny. But I'm never actually alone. Building a bike is pure pleasure with the industry we have at our fingertips. So it's not about being alone at all, it's about building a brotherhood of experts who will share their knowledge at the drop of a hat.
I'll mention a couple of people who helped from the very beginning including the base for my project, Ron Paugh at Paughco, James Simonelli from S&S, Martin Tesh and Giggie from Compu Fire, Ben Kudon at Rivera, Bob at BDL and the list goes on. These guys and shop owners like Kent at Lucky Devil Metal Works in Houston, Lee Clemens at Departure Bike Works in Richmond, Larry Curik from Mid West, and John Reed from Custom Chrome are all terrific friends and when I need an answer, they're willing to help.
There's more and I'll mention brothers and sisters who assisted while rumbling across the country. Okay, so we're buzzing into the Mohave desert. The Australian Connection, Glenn Priddle and his lovely wife Kerry, Chris Tronolone and the Queen Joerline. Humble Johnny was waiting in Arizona where we hooked up with Billy and his sidecar. He's handicapped and promised to write a couple of articles about setting up a sidecar rig for a paraplegic.
It's interesting to hit the road on a ground-up, kick-only, rigid Shovelhead surrounded by a bunch of stock bikes, yet Chris's '03 blacked out 95-inch Standard was the first bike to breakdown. Chris T. planned to hook up with his brother, Bob T., in Yucca Valley the day before and we were going to wave him down in Palm Springs. His starter quit the day before, and we had to swap out a new one from BDL, that I wasn't using. We also fed the standard a new battery from California Harley-Davidson and he was good to go, we thought.
At the first gas stop in Banning, California I took 2.3 gallons and we had peeled through 92 miles for a nuts-on 40 mpg. Not bad for the high revving Shovel. We were keeping our speeds down to a reasonable 70-75 mph, since at that point, almost 7:00 in the morning on LA freeways I still only had accumulated only 300 miles on the new build.
As we cut across the state and my speed increased to 90 mph we stopped at the Chircaco Summit after 76 miles and I took 2 gallons of gas for 38 mpg. Then in Blithe at the Arizona Border I poured 2 gallons of gas into the tank and we had just peeled through 64 miles, for 32 mpg-strange.
In Vicksburg I loaded the aluminum XR tank with two gallons, but only had 60 miles on Glenn's Road King clock. I adjusted the pegs and pondered 30 miles to the gallon. Little did I know my speed had nothing to do with gas consumption. It was already well over 100 degrees and we were flying. Myron Larrabbe, from the Scottsdale Billet bar was waiting in Phoenix with the drinks and entertainment and Charlie from Custom Performance had a table reserved at Banderos, the finest Rib Joint in Scottsdale.
I could sense and smell the drinks and chow and our speed increased proportionately. I was begging to detect the strengths and weaknesses of this motorcycle. My Joker billet pegs were unfinished. I needed rubber inserts and a tail lip to keep my feed firmly planted, but the light bike cruised with ease. The Paughco Springer handled speeds and wind shifts like a dream. The bike was light and I plan to have her weighed before this article is completed. My drawback was the vibration due to the new motor and trans at just over 500 miles and my poor choice of gearing. Still I was beginning to pass trucks as if they were standing still.
That's when it happened. At just 60 miles out of Phoenix, with the smell for fresh Tortillas wafting in the 110 degree air, my Shovel shut off, quit, ca-put. I was in the left lane doing 90-something and I looked down to see if the plug wires escaped. I fucked with the Spyke petcock, as if I hadn't turned it on and the float bowl fuel lasted for 30 miles. No such luck. I changed lanes to the right one and down shifted. We ran out of Long Beach on the 710 to the 91 east which turns into the 60 and slowed to a standstill through 15 miles of two lane construction, then it met the 10 and two lanes became five, then back to two as we entered the Mojave desert.
More and more that 2-laner should be four as the crowds and construction spreads toward the Arizona border. The speed limit is 70 mph with 55 for the trucks, but they're flying. I pulled off into the rugged, partially gravel emergency lane and stopped with the crew and our lowered Ford F-150 back-up truck. Nyla held the wheel and her daughter Karley was co-pilot. Immediately a half dozen rumbling, spitting and steaming hot semis, which we had just passed, screamed upon us like mad dinosaurs hoping to stomp the bugs that got away.
We were 60 miles from Phoenix as I sat there and looked down between my legs. Gas was running all over the rear cylinder. I reached down and the ignition switch was turned off. How that happened, I don't have the slightest, but it was one of those mysterious Harley moments.
I jumped off the seat and made sure none of the guys were within flame throwing distance. It could have exploded as gas spilled onto the rear cylinder, but I didn't. Yet the dark angel of death that roams the earth turned off my ignition and whispered in my ear, “Get off that motorcycle quick mother-fucker. It's gonna blow.”
We pulled the spare can of gas out of the back of the truck, yanked the line off the Mikuni carb and Glenn began to attempt to unload the tank via the traditional way as it continued to spill fuel all over the smoldering engine. It never blinked in the desert heat as hundreds of tons of metal sped past kicking gravel and chunks of discarded chains in our direction. We emptied the tank, pulled the ramp, reloaded the gear, loaded the Shovel and jumped back on the road.
Phoenix is one of those terrible indications of sprawling society to come. It's spreading across the desert like a plaque faster than they can build freeways. We figured our path to the hotel and let the crew hide from the heat, then I called Charlie, one of the partners of Custom Performance, located near the Deer ValleyAirport, next to Bourgets and Jim Nasi's shops. Custom Performance (623) 879-8488, is a supporter of Branscomb Richmond's efforts to raise funds for the Crazy Horse monument in the Badlands. He also builds turbo systems for V-Rods and twin cams. At 4200 rpm these puppies double the horsepower of any bike without the damaging effects of a nitrous system. I followed Charlie's directions to the Custom Performance headquarters where their motto is “Making Fast Bikes Faster”(FastbikesArizona.com).
We barged in on them the afternoon after 2/3s of the crew split for Sturgis. Nick, the partner, fortunately was still on hand. I had split the aluminum tank wide open around the rear left bung, I added for additional rubber-mounted support. “The rubber mounts are too stiff,” Nick said as he reviewed the damage Tuesday afternoon. “Was the bike buzzing as you crossed the desert?”
I hadn't encountered that term before, but damn I could relate. It fit perfectly as my slippery boots in the desert heat spun against the Joker billet and I sensed a deepening vibration. I needed another gear. Nick delivered the tank to a professional welder. The wild bracket I made to support the Mikuni carb snapped and one nut backed off the rear exhaust manifold. Not bad, but there was no way we'd make it to Durango the next day. That was cool.
As the thunderstorms turned the blistering heat into another world, we ate fine barbecue then had a drink at the Billet Bar. I'll try to get the hell out of Phoenix, but I need to mention an ACE hardware in the Deer Valley area. I ran up there with Glenn while Chris hauled his FLH Standard to Hacienda the dealership that won't work on sidecar rigs. We searched for the Ace to buy some _-inch studs to replace the tank Allens. Nick suggested Loctite sealed studs to prevent constant thread meshing in the bungs. We also needed softer, thicker rubber- mounts. Rubber grommets aren't easy to find, but this Ace had a serious selection. I bought every goddamn grommet that would remotely fit.
As Chris rolled into Phoenix on a new battery he noticed that his charging system shut down. He blasted to Hacienda while we peeled to Deer Valley. They replaced his stator and regulator, but five miles out of the shop it acted up again, and he returned just in time before the roll-up door closed. We were stuck for the night.
A notorious electrical killer are poor grounds, especially on rubber-mounts. The engine needs proper grounding and so does the frame, since they're not connected like a rigid. Chris requested that the dealership run another ground to the frame from the Battery. The next day we hooked up with Billy, a paraplegic from Hawaii who recently displaced himself to Phoenix. We hauled to Custom Performance in the morning and by noon we were ready to rock. Everywhere we hauled in Phoenix took 45 minutes. I can't thank the staff of Custom Performance enough. Every member on-hand helped in anyway they could. I rode the Turbo V-Rod and was blown away. Fast and smooth isn't the word. It's a goddamn rocket ship.
This is where the travel plan changed and I'm glad it did. As the afternoon sun set, we headed due north out of Phoenix to Flagstaff just 150 miles, but directly into the hills on the 17. Plus a daily weather pattern was set is darkening clouds. If we didn't grab an early start, we'd face the threat of thunderstorms every damn day. We rode directly into an afternoon downpour. I removed my front fender before departure. Above 40 mph, no problem, but putting around town was a nightmare. It was as if I had a hose aimed right at my ugly mug, spewing street water and granite sand. We had a blast hunting for our hotel, getting kicked out and finding another one. Dirty Bikers.
Generally the ride from Phoenix is a journey from hells kitchen to the gates of Heaven. It's a beautiful departure from the sand, cactus and heat into the Tonto National Forest. I love the road to Prescott, then my favorite highway 89A into Jerome, Cottenwood and Sedona. Phoenix isn't a bad city. The women are beautiful, there's cleanliness about the city, but it's one of the fastest growing bergs in the country.
We copped a terrific meal at some restaurant, can’t remember the name, where the Bourget crew was chowing down, then crashed for the night. I tightened the tank the next morning and rolled down the hill to the Conoco gas station to discover the Mikuni side vent was spewing fuel. I was beginning to snag and explosive aura. The trip nemesis was fuel threats. That's twice I could have burst into flames. I called Lee Chaffin, from Mikuni, on my cell and he explained that the float was snagged open, probably due to crap in the float bowl. Chris Tronolone held a small container as I released the cap on the float bowl and watched _ a cup of gas spill into my modified soda cup. Yep, it was full of fine crap, perhaps from welding on the tank. We replaced the cap, turned on the gas and it quit venting.
We hit the road toward Durango through the vast dry and desolate Hopi Indian Reservation. We called ahead and friends were waiting in Durango. We peeled up the 89 North toward Cameron, the best spot for Turquoise jewelry in Arizona at the Cameron Junction. They've scored a tremendous cache of opals but there's an ancient code. It's not good luck to buy yourself an Opal. I let the Lovely Nyla pick something out then I bought it. The girls were loosing site of the daylight as Dawson said once in Wyoming, “Dem clouds are bunchin' against the hills. We better keep moving.”
I shouted, “Wind 'em up!” The toursists ran for cover and the girls barely moved. We caught 160 east and rolled through Kayenta into Mexican Water to refuel. Just another 40 miles and we crossed the border into Colorado. We didn't stop to see the four-corners monument, but that didn't help. In Cortez we pulled up for a late lunch and a beer. The food was good, but we shoulda kept rolling. The sky was darkening as we neared the twisting highway into Durango. We pulled over and suited up for the rain, but I didn't don the rain pants. It rained on us for 40 miles right into town. The Shovel ran like a champ and even started easier the wetter we became.
I also discovered that I didn't need to climb on the kicker at 8.5:1 compression. I could push her through and she fired. We were soaked and couldn't see a damn thing as we darted around the wet tourist traffic. Scheduled for rooms at the Iron Horse, I stopped at a station and collected the other riders. We hadn't seen the hotel as we slid through town and tried to make out neon through fogged and wet glasses.
“I'll tell you exactly where it is,” the young attendant said and looked up the hotel in the phone book. Unfortunately he didn't know North from South. “It's back through town.” He was very specific, but the hotel didn't exist in the center of town and two smiling shop clerks braved the rain and chill to explain the error of our ways. We all flipped-off the Exxon station attendant as we rumbled through the pouring rain once more and moseyed out of town where the bristling wind picked up.
Thinking it was just a couple of blocks I took my smeared Panoptic glasses off to find my way with improved vision. The showering weather worsened as we left the city limits hidden in a protected canyon. Just outside of town the wind whipped through the valley and I couldn't see shit. I pulled off to the side of the road and Johnny rolled ahead, found the sign for the hotel and pulled off. When he lingered and we didn't show up he turned around, a gust of wind caught his torso leaning against highbars and blew him over just as we arrived. We left him there to rot and pulled off the highway, anything to escape the rain, the cold and the wind.
Don't ever stay at the Iron Horse. The help sucked, an unfriendly bunch, and the rooms are odd mixes of patchwork and wood paneling. It was freezing yet there were no logs for the fireplace. My buddy, Joe Lankau looked at me sideways when he picked us up for dinner, “It hasn't rain here in three weeks,” he said and drove us to a hippie steak house (is that possible?) on the other side of the highway. The food and service was incredible. Joe's pal, Trip, followed us to the restaurant on an '04 Big Dog. He loved the bike although fought electrical problems from time to time. “You've got to get the hell through the pass, passed Silverton and Ouray before it starts to rain,” he said and wiped the rain out of his face.
The next morning was ominous, but dry. Gray clouds covered the sky and it was cold. We met up with Joe, his wife Paula, and their kids as we stopped for gas. I wanted to pour fuel quick and split as I constantly glanced at the sky, but we held up for group shots. I've known Joe since about '83. We had some wild times although he wasn't a rider. He talked about bikes constantly as he motored from one yuppie phase to another. His base salary came from being a Los Angeles fireman, although he never lived in LA. No Shit. I met him in Camarillo, California. Then he moved to Phoenix and commuted and finally he retired and escaped to Durango to be a State Farm agent. Good people, he finally bought a Screamin' Eagle Deuce in Phoenix. A month later his wife, Paula, rolled up the driveway on her own Softail.
We peeled north along one of the most classic mountain roads in the country into Silverton an old mining town. I filled and it took 2.5 gallons for 90 miles through 10,600 feet of elevation (36 mpg). I remembered jamming along the same road on the Touring Chopper built by the crew at West Coast Choppers. That bike was super low and had wide steel bags. It wouldn't turn, but I handled it like a dirt bike through the mountains for a wild ride. This bike was designed narrow and had all the ground clearance in the world, but I was holding back on account of the tank and vibration. I would have loved to spend a week there carving up and down that road.
Glenn and his wife Kerry straddled the King and loved every minute of it. Chris's 95-incher, even when the Hawaiian Queen Joerline was riding in the truck, struggled in the hills. Johnny's Softail played along but the light, 93-inch Shovel lead the pack. That puppy is so light compared to a dresser, she just danced through the twisties. Twice she coughed or missed and I always held my breath. She ran a tad rich, but that's okay for the break-in spell. The Shovel set the gas stop regulations for a while. Everyone else had at least 4-gallon tanks and could carve through 200 miles between stops. Billy's sidecar rig was heavy and powered with a 107 TP engine. He began to point at his tank from time to time, indicating low fuel. He felt his capacity only allowed him 125 miles, so we watched it.
Our original plans called for a right in Montrose on the 50 to the 25 and north to the Aspen Highway, but the thunder clouds had spooked us. We were jamming for the 70 interstate and Glenwood springs. We beat the rain out of the pass and were bundled in preparation for stinking weather as we entered Montrose then Delta 21 miles down the road. We were heading north but large and small groups of bikes were flew by, in the opposite direction, and the riders, to a man and woman, wore vests without T-shirts, tank-tops and t-shirts.
In Delta we took a vote. A mad dash into Grand Junction for the interstate, or a roaming highway 65 into Grand Mesa. Some investigation told us that 65 was under construction. That answered the question. A couple of times we ran into the road construction threat. That and thundering clouds pushed us along the fastest, most direct route. We were a day behind and burnin' daylight.
Even the 141 cutoff on the outskirts of Grand Junction to Palisade held warnings of delays and construction. We peeled directly into town and the freeway east for 100 miles into Glenwood Springs a picturesque berg with the worst traffic signal in the world. What a fuckin' mess, but we found a Harley Shop so Billy could have his clutch checked and we discovered Doc Holiday's bar on the edge of town, after we cruised the bubbling hot springs on the Colorado River. I discovered that my wheel sprocket bolts were loosening so I replace them with new stainless jobs, washers and nyloc locking nuts. A gentleman at our hotel took a liking to my beast and gave me an Eagle Feather for luck. I carefully stashed it with my rain gear in my Bandit's Dayroll, which also carried a full assortment of tools. Rumor had it we had clear skies for 250 miles to Cheyenne. We'd see.
That brings me to the contention that bikes, especially Harleys have a life. They speak to you if you're listening. I heard a slight squeak in the rear and that's how I discovered the loose sprocket fasteners. Even though I replace them, the bike reminded me to replace the sprocket by tricking me into buying the wrong size fasteners. I needed 7/16, which I will install with the new, correct 48-tooth sprocket.
We hung around until Billy showed up with his factory inspected motorcycle and sidecar. He was apparently good to go, so we cut a dusty trail toward Denver and again we pulled off the freeway and took a vote. Take the 40 north into the Arapaho National Forest toward the Thunder clouds or jam right into Saturday, Mile-High City traffic. Again the clouds hung ominously against the hills and we peeled out for the city. It was a helluva ride, winding out into the White River National Forest, through Vale and across the Summit in Frisco, Colorado, until we hit the city limits, then my frame screamed as we encountered concrete lips, metal spinal cord breakers and nasty potholes. I hit one so hard my bars changed direction and a heat shield snapped off the left exhaust pipe and bounced down the road. Johnny tried to snatch it for a souvenir.
Interstate highway 25 North is a virtual straight shot over roaming hills sides into Wyoming. I've ridden this highway directly into the badlands before. Even three years ago, once out of Denver, there wasn't anything as far as the eye could see except soft rolling hills and farmlands. Suddenly, over the last three years construction has added one town after another, two massive Harley-Davidson dealerships, Budweiser event center, and a sprawling Budweiser plant. As we rolled onto the 25 a mountain climber warned us that it was pouring in Fort Collins, Colorado. “But you know the word,” He muttered under his breath? “The weather changes every 15 minutes whether you like it or not.” The Skys were clear as a bell as we rumbled through Fort Collins, checked our watches and blew into Wyoming to the Best Western Hitchin' Post in Cheyenne. First we had to check the Eagle's Nest. an old A-frame biker bar. It was packed. Once more we had a killer dinner full of laughs and wonderful road tales.
We blew out of Cheyenne early. One last day into Deadwood. I noticed that my tank was leaking again, but only slightly. I prayed it was the petcock. I watched every aspect of that motorcycle, checked and tightened it constantly. It endured one harsh break-in run and so far it survived. Even as we roamed north on the 85 through bleak barren lands over smooth and rough roads I held my breath slightly. The bike was hanging, but I didn't know for how long, just like the rain. It was threatening, but we didn't know how far we would make it before it cut loose again, so we kept riding, telling jokes and having a helluva good time. I spoke to Rogue in the morning. They were scheduled to meet us in Cheyenne, but he arrived a day early, or were we a day late.
We hit Lusk, the meeting spot for the Hamsters the day before. We missed lunch but gassed and the stations were jammed up with riders. Some 90 percent of the bikes we passed or passed us were new twin cam models. It wasn't until we were within 500 miles of the badlands that older bikes showed up, metrics and even a Pan and an early flathead Indian. Didn't hardly see a production chopper, except Trip's Big Dog in Durango. My mileage was dropping again. I poured 1.6 gallons in the tank after 53 miles for 33 mpg. Then in Newcastle, with 81 miles under my belt it, took 2 gallons for 40mpg. I was wondering what the hell was going on as we ducked the rain once more as we slid into the badlands and we found Chris's turn-off outside Lead. It was just beginning to pour.
We rolled into Deadwood and I found Hamsters, but couldn't find Eric Herrmann's digs on the outskirts of town. We picked up some directions and discovered that we were only a mile off the mark. I pulled into the yard in front of Eric's rented house and stood off the seat. With a gloved hand I reached under the tank and it came back wet. I kneeled down and watched it drip gas on the rear sparkplug.
It's difficult to define. Sturgis was a traffic jam of action, events, parties, dinners and rides. I wish I could have attended each and every function I was invited to, but it wasn't possible. From the moment we rolled into town it was non-stop. First I need to apologize to Billy Lane and Darcy Betlach for never making the dirt trail to the Buffalo Chip or Broken to the Blood Sweat and Gears display that Bikernet Sponsored and followed all year long. I also didn't make it to the Seminole Roadhouse on Main that we also sponsored and we'll bring you reports on throughout the year. There's one helluva bike raffle going on at that booth. Nyla did sneak by and deliver a stack of Bikernet stickers. We will feature all four Bikes onBikernet. One will be given away and each one is a world-class custom, not like my Shovelhead. Doug Kiem built one, then Johnny Chop, Roland Sands and Jesse Rooke. The winner gets to pick. Incredible.
So here's a quick blast through the week. We arrived a day late, Sunday afternoon and I called Rogue. I was ordered to meet him and Berry Wardlaw from Accurate Engineering for dinner above the Number 10 Saloon in Deadwood. Next year my Sturgis build will be based around a 120-inch Accurate Engineering Panhead, a Baker Transmission and a John Reed sportbike-V chassis. I'm calling it the first Panhead Sportbike.
Berry was pissed off as he ordered another bottle of Fat Bastard Wine and I ordered Jack on the Rocks. “We raced to Wyoming and you didn't show,” he said, guzzled wine and played grab ass with the waitress. “Remember when you tried to steal my girl in Bonneville, when you guys set the record?”
I took a shot of Jack and remembered my last fist-fight. Deadwood was just the place. “But I love you, brother,” Berry said and took another slug of wine.
I looked across the table. I was out numbered. He had a gang of people with him including Rogue and his son. Sometimes, “I love you,” means, “I love you, but I'm gonna kick your ass tonight.” You know how that works.
Seems to me as the night wore on I found out about another notorious Bandit act that resided forever in the back of Berry's mind. I could do nothing right. But we also heard a story that will forever be remembered and relished. Berry build a Sportster years ago and took it to Bonneville. He named it the Enola Gay after the B-59 that delivered the atom bomb. Get this, several years later he offered to give it to a girl in Tennessee. He told her that her she couldn't change the name of the bike. As it turned out her name was Samantha Enola Gay. Her father was an rigger on the project and named her after the plane. I told you Harleys have a life and a soul.
Monday I was convinced that the leak in the tank had something to do with the Spyke petcock. I stripped the spigot before I left and prayed that it would hold. I was also loosing oil out of one of the hard copper lines, so I made a made dash to J&P in Sturgis. They set-up the only major aftermarket shop in the city and it was teaming with customers. I bought everything I needed and hit a hardware store on the outside of town, Campbells, for hard line components.
On the way back to Deadwood we spotted Dave Perewitz, the Prez of the Hamsters. He asked me if I would like to come back into the fold and invited us to the annual Hamster Dinner. I worked on the Shovel all afternoon and thought I had it fixed until I filled the tank once more. Then we showered and rolled down the mountain to the Spearfish Holiday in for the dinner, watched new Hamster being inducted and the raffle that raised $38,000 for Kids and Chrome effort to support a Rapid City Children's hospital and the Sturgis Museum. I was a Hamster for 13 years and it was good to see the brothers and I was proud of their efforts for this charity.
Tuesday I was scheduled to sign books at the Sturgis Museum and I took my wounded tank, on the off chance I could have it repaired or sealed (most builders cringe when I mention sealing any tank). While setting up to sign Orwells and give half the proceeds to the Museum, Ray Wheeler, a Monterey biker I met a couple of times before over the year, roamed into the museum and I told him about the tank. He disappeared and in 15 minutes returned. He found a welder who had the facility to repair the tank. I gave him the tank and he disappeared into the main street crowd.
At noon we wrapped up the signing after selling 50 books, the box we hauled from the west coast. Unfortunately the rain pierced some of them. We were ready to roll, but the tank was nowhere to be found. Nyla's daughter looked at me as if I was nuts to give my tank to a stranger, especially in Sturgis. We roamed through the crowded streets to Two-Wheelers where I found my old friend Arlin Fatland. He said the only welding shop closed up and rolled his eyes when I told him the story. I knew, and expressed to Karley, that the brother would return with the tank. That's one of the major wonderful things about this lifestyle, the brotherhood. If a Brother says he'll fix something, he will.
We ate lunch, I found the welder, John, at Dave's Welding down the street from the Napa Auto Parts. The tank couldn't be repaired at his shop. He only housed a MIG welder and it needed a TIG. Raymond had returned my tank to our pickup. His partner was in Rapid, and he would come out, pick up the tank and fix it. So I left the tank behind and we returned to Deadwood to prepare for Mike Lichter's Journey Museum party in Rapid. Nyla kept pointing out a low tire on the truck. I dismissed it, the pressure was only five pounds lower than the other tires. I shot it with some air then discovered a massive metal screw embedded in the thread. I yanked it and plugged the hole. Shot some air in it with Fix-O-Flat and crept up to a local Conoco for a refill. She was good to go, but we were too late to make it to Rapid City, so we canceled.
Wednesday morning was a special day. The induction breakfast into the Sturgis Hall of Fame, and two brothers from Bikernet were being inducted, my Bandit self and Rogue for his years as a leader in the motorcycle Freedom Movement. We were back at the Spearfish Holiday in once more and what a breakfast it was. A room full of friends, from New York Mike as the MC, then Branscomb Richmond, Pepper Massey-Swan the executive director of the Sturgis Museum, Dave Perewitz introduced me, Dave Nichols respected me by saying that he wouldn't have his start without me. Mick Lichter did the same as he accepted his induction. The room was packed with industry folks, past inductees and Hamsters.
I returned the girls to the Bandit hideout in Deadwood and cut a dusty trail toward Rapid City to retrieve my tank once more. The shop for Reb's Welding was planted on the hillside behind the booming Black Hills Harley-Davidson dealership. The tank looked strong enough to ride forever and I beamed with confidence that I would finally ride the Sturgis Chop through downtown and out to the Crazy Horse Charity ride to support the monument on Thursday. Then Ed, or Reb, or Red, as he called himself muttered, “I don't know what happened to the petcock. Dave or John must have left it in the tank while they welded it.”
I looked at the petcock and shrugged my shoulders. Sure it looked fried, but I thought it would work until I inspected it close. No way. The inlet hole was packed with slag or boiled chrome. Nyla scolded me about the cash we were spending, while she stayed glued to the phone shuffling balances and deposits to keep our action afloat.
I still swung into the Black Hills Dealership lot and made a bee-line for the parts counter. Natch, they didn't carry any old shit, so in the rain I moseyed back toward the Badlands. We had another dinner engagement at the Kids And Chrome banquet/Auction at the Spearfish Holiday Inn once again. The dining room took on a completely different atmosphere this time around. It was lavish to say the least and the auction items including Eric Herrmann and Scott Jacob's prints lined the walls. Ted Sands was the guest host and handled the proceeding with aplomb. Dave Perewitz helped with the auction and I needed to find out the sales amount. We supported the Kids and Chrome effort from the beginning through Bikernet, but Nyla kicked me under the table if I attempted to bid on any item.
Thursday was the last day for us Bikernetters. The girls dropped my sorry ass off at the Full Throttle Saloon, the largest bar in Sturgis, for Branscomb Richmond's Celebrity Crazy Horse ride to the monument. Glenn Priddle and Kerry rolled in along with 60 other riders, including Senator Dave Zien from Wisconsin. We followed Branscomb up the hill towards Deadwood, Lead and some 70 miles through the Black Hills.What a killer ride except for the threat of rain that rumbled into the hills, clouds stacking against one another until the threat became a reality and it poured.
We missed any precipitation on the ride out and the vast parking lot under the monument to the American Indian was packed with riders. Branscomb set up a stage while we watched an historic documentary on the evolution. I didn't know that sculptor Korczak Ziolkowski, who was born in Boston of polish descent was approached by Indian chieftain Standing Bear, while he worked on Mount Rushmore, to create an Indian monument in the name of warrior Crazy Horse. The first blast rocking the mountain occured a few months after I was born on June 3, 1948. I was fortunate enough to meet his wife Ruth during the ceremony, when we offered up the $6,000 we raised including $250 from Bikernet Sponsor Michael Hupy. I also didn't know that Branscomb supported this effort with celebrity rides for the last six years. He's all right.
I didn't ride the Shovel but a late model Indian painted red and white with American Flag graphics that belonged to Mike, a friend of Branscomb's. It was a terrific ride and I can't express how much I appreciate any man who loans out his motorcycle. Plus it was a treat to meet the wife of Mr. Korczak, who passed on several years ago. Ruth was a delightful woman who continued the tradition to build the monument, the Indian Scholarship fund, a medical center and school on the property. She handles it with six of her eight kids who have stayed on board to see the historic mission through. They've come along way since I visited four years ago. I will always support their efforts.
In a sense they're rebels like many of us bikers. They've fought to complete the devoted Indian center without government grants or funding. Since the Scholarship fund was developed they've given over a million dollars to American Indians for schooling. Ultimately the Future of Crazy Horse will include the Indian Museum of North America, the Indian University of North America and Medical Training Center and the visitors complex. Crazy Horse was born on Rapid Creek in the Black Hills of South Dakota in about 1842. While at Fort Robinson, Nebraska, under a flag of truce, he was stabbed in the back by an American soldier and died September 6, 1877. “They made us promises, more than I can remember-They never kept but one: They promised to take our land, and they took it.” Red Cloud, Lakota, 1891.Glenn, Kerry and I looked at the clouds bunching against the hills and said, “We've got to cut a dusty trail.” We took off down the mountain dodging rain until we reached Trout Haven. We snatched lunch while watching bikers fish for their grub out back. While we ate trout it rained and we watched drops splashing on the pond out back. By the time we finished our beers and chow the rain let up and we peeled north along the meandering highway toward Deadwood on the 385. We dodged curtains of rain over every mountain and across every valley. Our lucky dice were running strong as we gassed up in Deadwood and wound down the mountain into Sturgis.
Glenn and Kerry jumped off the snarled main drag of Lazelle to reach their Sturgis digs. I kept going thinking that it would break once I passed the Junction intersection. No Fuckin' way. Worse that any Los Angeles traffic jam, that I would have split lanes through, It was humid with cloud covering but still blistering hot. I felt for the lumbering Indian and pulled off on a side street to give it a break. I had refueled the loaner, and I wasn't going deliver a smoldering air-cooled twin home. I rested on the corner of the street adjacent to the Broken Spoke until she cooled then rumbled out of town to the next traffic jam at the Full Throttle and Strokers Sturgis, set up by Rick Fairless. What a fuckin' madhouse.
Relieved to return to the American Motorcycle 1902 booth in the Full Throttle Chop Lot of vendors, I stepped off the bike, returned the keys to the shapely girl in the booth and for the first time made my way into the largest Saloon in Sturgis, the Full Throttle. It contained Stages, girls, comfortable lounge chairs, burn-out pits, sellers of T-shirts, knives, massages, girls, several bars, chow hall, carny sports, circus acts, and Charlie's Custom Performance Horse Power competition. The damn joint was jammed with people, and there was one girl in particular who assisted with the bike show the day before. She was a bubbly as a soda fountain, intelligent, and her body was a mixture of eye candy and hardened muscle. I'll pray for a shot of her from Bob Page, Branscomb's partner.
As the sun set and a constant flow of bikes entered the lot I ran into Dexter, from Ft. Worth (he works in a shop, but I can't find his card), who rode a rigid '51 Pan to Cheyenne in a day and endured 150 miles of rain. He covered 950 miles, with 16 gas stops, and he's 51 years old. Not bad.
Branscomb Richmond, Bob Page, of American Motorcycle 1902, Larry Crowe, of Competitive Edge Gun Works, Berry Wardlaw, of Accurate Engineering had something up their sleeves as we jumped on the stage between acts and announced Barry's new line-up of Outlaw Panheads engines (120-inches of raw power). Larry Crow pulled a 45 Caliber revolver out of his pants and awarded it to Berry to commemorate his achievement then grabbed the mic and announced, “For your hard work in the industry I'd like to award you with this highly modified Rugar, .45 Caliber revolver.” He had another one in his pants and yanked it free. These guns are wild cannons of precision and classic design. I'll show you more as we work with Custom Chrome to build a John Reed designed V, or the first production, big twin Sportbike powered by an Accurate Engineering, 120 inch Panhead. That night was the icing on the cake for me, and this run to Sturgis.
The next morning I threw the Shovel in the back of my truck, along with all our gear and we split to the west. In less than two days we covered 1,400 miles past the Devil's Tower, through Devil's Gate, over the Devil's Playground, into Death Valley and through the Calico Ghost Town. It was bitchin to kick back and flip-off any thunderclouds we encountered.
So ended the clamoring Sturgis 2005 Run. I already have a 48-tooth sprocket for the rear, to fix the Shovelhead gearing. Every time I attempt to check the plugs the thread inserts want out, so I'm going to replace the heads with a new set of S&S Performance Shovelheads. I may have the pipes jet hot coated black and I'm going to lower the seat and change the hinge in the front. That was a bad move. I'm also going to change all the copper hard lines and replace the fittings with vibration dampening ferrules. Ah, one more critical item, the pegs. I need a tail lip or rubber inserts to prevent my boot from being carved on by the engine pulley. That should do it and she'll be ready to rock for good.
Hope you had a helluva ride, if not hope you enjoy our Bikernet adventure.
–Ride Forever,
–Bandit
Go on to the next page for pictures of Sturgis and alone the way.
