Events sometimes conspire to lead you places you had no intention of going. I met Bandit in June 2011 when he rode the Smoke Out XII Long Road beginning in New Orleans. I live in the New Orleans area and picked Bandit up at the airport and deposited his lanky frame in the heart of USA debauchery. There is nothing like a summer weekend in the Africa tropic heat of the New Orleans French Quarter. The weekend found us walking the French Quarter, talking bikes, consuming cold liquor and my dispatching my profound thoughts on motorcycle journalism. I returned home to nurse my hangover and Bandit rode the Long Road to the Smoke Out 2011. At that point I figured he had enough of my blabbering and would never return another call or email. How wrong I was.
The summer of 2012 rolled around and I timidly wrote Bandit as to whether he was attending Smoke Out XIII. He replied that he was again invited to ride the Long Road and I was expected to be at the Smoke Out no excuses. What the heck? I work offshore on the deepwater oil and gas rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. I sketched out my schedule and the Smoke Out was the weekend of my week off. I RSVP’d that he would see me there and started packing. I don’t ride every day. I take my summer week on the road, scoot around town on the weekends and that is about it. My bike is a 2005 FLHT with a 95-inch top end kit, 2007 cam tensioner kit and stock 5-speed transmission. It has Burly FLH ape hangers, a Mustang touring seat and Progressive rear shocks. It handles good, is comfortable and has plenty of get with it. I secured a tent and sleeping bag to the luggage rack and tossed my clothes in one of the saddlebags. The other saddlebag held my small tool kit, documents and rain gear. I was packed and ready to rumble.
It is 850 miles from my home to Rockingham, NC. My son was working in South Carolina as a raft guide on the Chattooga River. I split the trip in two parts and rode the first 650 miles to visit my son on Friday evening. The trip was a long hot 12-hour ride wondering why a guy leaves his GMC truck with cold AC at home while taking his life in his hands dodging blown tire carcasses on the interstate. The bike ran well, and somehow I made it thru Atlanta without killing myself in evening traffic. I arrived to cold beer and Mexican food at my son’s place. I told him my plan to head up to Rockingham in the morning and he showed me where to crash and I passed out. The next morning I checked the bike over, we shared breakfast and I hit the road.
I took the two lane route thru northern South Carolina up into North Carolina. I was only traveling 200 miles that day and took my time. Late in the afternoon I slipped into Rockingham, NC. I stopped at my first city intersection and wondered which way the Smoke Out was. I looked to my left and there was the Welcome to Rockingham Information Center. I pulled in and before I could get off my bike a gentleman came out the door pointed and said, “It’s all that way.” He then went inside and I took off in the direction he pointed. He was right, it was that way. I rode out of town and fell into a line of bikes. We rode straight to the Rockingham Raceway and the Smoke Out.
I rode to the entrance gate, pulled off my helmet and pulled out my ear plugs. And that is when I heard the noise. My first reaction was to look around and see if it was someone else’s bike with a lower-end knock. I knew the sound. Years gone by, my 1975 FLH had the same lower end knock coming back from Daytona. I sold the FLH and bought a used Heritage Evo FL that served me well for many miles. Now here I was 850 miles from home and that same haunting sound was back. My beloved TC95 engine sounded like it was about to leave me stranded.
I placed a call to Bandit and he arrived with his friend Jeff Najar. We did reintroductions and I asked Bandit to listen to my FLHT. The look on his face said it all “Brother, that ain’t good”. Then he handed me half of a Rueben sandwich and a gate pass and said “Let’s go see what’s going on.” What cha going to do? You just rode two days to see the man and accept his invite to one of the best biker events of the summer. I went with the flow and we made our way thru the gate into Smoke Out XIII.
I felt something was different about this event right away. Folks were zipping around on mini-bikes and choppers. The bikes were not limited to Harleys. There were top fuel dragsters, a stunt bike show, Jap choppers, mad max bikes, show bikes, rat bikes, hot rods, Hells Angels, punk kids, good looking women and old road dogs.
The Smoke Out is one crazed sensory experience. Something is always in motion. This is not about kicking back, spending the evening sipping cocktails at some mountain lodge or seaside café. We immediately chugged moonshine, while watching some fool burn off his tire against a truck bumper in the campground. The event is a constant show. The Master of Ceremonies, Commander Edge, was in full tilt boogie mode, a man on a proverbial mission of complete success or die trying.
The first evening events included a phenomenal stunt rider who could do things on a Sportster I never thought possible. That was followed with the top fuel dragsters. The smell of nitro and melted rubber got your heart pounding. The track was then open to the public. The Bikernet Gals waved the starting flag and the bikes tore down the track in the hot summer evening. Bandit was off to do his thing, and I hit the vendor stands and walked the crowd. I passed the Hells Angels stand and an Angel called me over. He asked that I purchase a HA support shirt. I replied I didn’t think the shirt would go over well in the New Orleans area as that is Bandido territory. We got into a short conversation and he said he knew a Bandido that raced at the Rockingham track. Turned out I knew the guy he knew. In fact, the Bandido’s mom and I used to live on the same block in Lafayette, Louisiana. We shook hands and he let me pass on the shirt deal. It was one of those “small world” moments.
If you are a Back Street Choppers magazine reader you know George the Painter. I read GTP’s column first when I receive my subscription. George is somewhere in the universe I cannot imagine being. He infuriates me, he entertains me, he makes me wonder how in the hell a guy like that gets by. Then I realize this is the USA and we have the freedom to choose who we want to be. George personifies that freedom for me. I introduced myself to George and told him he was my hero. He told me to get a life and we shared the laugh.
I then went back to the gate and reclaimed my FLHT. I rode up to the campground entrance and paid the camp fee and set up camp. The bike was quiet and the dreaded lower end knocking sound was gone.
I made my way back to the Back Street Choppers and Bikernet tent. There I teamed up again with Bandit and company. Bandit introduced me to the lovely Marilyn Stemp, Iron Works magazine editor. The Bikernet executive decision was made to head to town for dinner. This resulted in my riding to town with Marilyn in her Mini-Cooper which was just a hoot. Bandit chose a Thai restaurant and we shared company, food and social-political discussion. I consider myself a regular Joe and somehow view motorcycle magazine editors as out of my league. Given the fact I had rode up to Rockingham to attend a biker bash, enjoying this Thai dinner with these esteemed journalists seemed a bit surreal.
I rode back to the raceway with Marilyn and after she left I headed over to the Led Sled bus to drop off some copies of her Iron Works magazine that featured one the Led Sled biker builds. Then I walked over to the main stage to see what music was on tap. Rebel Son was on stage and proceeded to rock the yard with their heavy rockabilly southern country influenced music style. These guys are nuts! If the Confederacy would have had these guys on the front line the South would not have lost the Civil War. They are unabashed promoters of the Old South. Songs like “Drinkin’ with Robert E Lee” had the crowd hollering for more. I was astonished to see the few black bikers yelling along with their white biker bros as Rebel Son called for a return to Old Dixie. The event shut down at 11 pm and the crowd moved into the campground. I called it a night and thought what the hell would Saturday bring?
I would like to say I spent a quiet night in my pup tent snoring away. It was anything but. Folks were up drinking and carrying on to the wee hours. I could hear bikes burning out and drag pipes rapping as the night passed. I must have set up camp in a traffic lane because bikes were passing around me until almost dawn. I woke up feeling like hell and needing an aspirin.
I dragged my tent situation behind my fellow campers to get out of the “road.” Then I did the water bottle shower routine and got cleaned up. I rode into town for breakfast and bought a case of water and ice. The engine lower knock sound had returned by now. I found a large flatbed trailer and leaned the bike up against it and pulled out my tool bag. I was looking at my pitiful tool selection when a guy walked up drinking a morning Budweiser to ask what I was doing.
I told him I was going to pull the primary to see if I could find the cause of the engine knock. He returned with his brother lugging a huge tool chest. They dropped it alongside my bike and told me I was welcome to it. His terms were simple, “Clean everything when finished and it all better be back in the box.” I thanked them and proceeded to drain the primary fluid into a couple plastic cups I found and pulled the primary. I poked at this and that and didn’t find anything out of place. I tightened up the primary chain and put it all back together. Dragged the tool box back to the brothers and rode around the campground. All was quiet and I thought maybe it was all good.
Saturday afternoon I got back with Bandit and Jeff. First thing Bandit asked “Would I like to paint a naked lady?”
Do not reply “Huh”, if someone ever asks you that question. I hesitated and lost out. Bandit stepped up and had the editorial task of adorning a beautiful gal with paint for the next hour and a half. He applied the paint with concentration and a detail to brushstroke that would make George the Painter envious. The model was collected and calm as the Bikernet logo was applied. I ducked here and there taking photos of the proceedings. I don’t know if it was allowed, but I would have applied the paint like a six-year old in a finger painting contest.
The Painted Lady competition was fierce as the summer sun. When it was over Bandit and his model had placed in the finals. The paint was dripping and I was exhausted from just watching. I repeat, do not say “Huh” if anyone ever asks if you want to participate in a naked lady painting session.
Bandit secured a golf cart and we scooted the event grounds that afternoon in style. We scoped out the custom bike show and I learned that Bandit has a thing for handcrafted items on a bike. Things like handlebar clamps and exhausts. I am more about the complete bike. I am not a fan of theme bikes. I like a clean bike that is devoid of gimmickry. The bike show was strange if you have attended the Daytona beach walk style of show. This show was not about paint and wheels. It was about effort. It didn’t matter what you rode as long as it showed effort. No pretty bikes posing at this event.
Somewhere along this time we headed back to town to grab a bite to eat, enjoy a margarita and Sam Adams before returning for the Smoke Out mini-bike competition. This was my favorite event– it was hilarious. The summer sun gave way to thundershowers and the logical thing would have been to cancel the race. It was not to be. The mini-bike race took place regardless.
The racers dressed in costume to make the race more fun. There was Wonder Woman, Rocket Man, a Viking, Bert and Ernie and the Brew Dude. The bikes ranged from a mini-chopper, to the traditional mini-bike, to whatever on two mini-wheels. Beaner had a side hack and Bandit joined him for a couple laps around the track. Bert had his head-piece spin around and he crashed into a barrier with only his pride hurt. Two guys did am impromptu drag race and one ended up under the Domino’s delivery pizza truck without injury. It was way too funny and too crazy.
The evening ended back at the stage with presentations for the Long Road riders, the Stampede riders, the Chop off events, the pat on the back events, the Wet T-shirt event with the great Roadside Marty. When it was all over I shook hands with Ralph “Hammer” Janus and thanked him. The guy is a monster! He quietly thanked me for my support and didn’t break my hand in the process. I said my goodbyes to Bandit and Jeff and headed over to the campground to take a break. Yeah, right.
In the campground I met Andie, an Australian, who had bought a bike in the States and was doing a summer stateside “Rideabout.” I lusted for Andie’s 1968 stock Shovelhead FLH. I offered to buy it when his summer rider was over. He made the kind offer of $20 grand and I respectfully declined. It brought back memories of the 1965 Panhead I had in 1971. I paid $1200 for that FL.
I walked the campground looking at the shenanigans, bikes, rat rods, naked gals and it got dark. I was drinking a beer with my local natives when I heard the strains of AC/DC from the stage. I decided to go see what it was about. Glad I did. The band was Highway to Hell from Tampa and they rocked the stage with AC/DC all night long.
At one point the singer invited anyone who thought they could sing up on stage to give it a shot. The first guy went down hard; the woman singer was bad as well. Then a young Hells Angel got up on stage. The guy was killer! He had it down pat and the crowd went nuts. The band applauded and the HA dove off the stage mosh pit style. It was perfect. The band rocked past the 11 pm curfew until they had to stop. My bandana was off to Edge for selecting them to play the Smoke Out.
Sunday I actually woke feeling pretty damn good. Folks milled about and tore down camps. I packed up and headed out early to enjoy the morning and get my head right. I was going back to South Carolina to spend a couple days with my son before heading home. I got on what I thought was the main road and started traveling. About an hour later I found myself on an interstate, hungry and feeling lost. I pulled into Waffle House and over breakfast had all the locals pointing me which way to go. I took their advice and headed somewhat back the way I had just spent the last hour traveling.
The bike was quiet and the knock sound absent. I rode the 200 miles back to my son’s place without incident and could not have asked for a better ride. I spent two days rafting with my son on the river. At one point I attempted to slide down a river rock and busted my tailbone. It hurt; it hurt badly, like real bad. I thought it was a bruise, whatever it was took six weeks to heal. The visit with my son went real well. He is a good man and a good son. We enjoyed each others’ company and it was great seeing him. He gets a kick out of my bike travels. He travels with a kayak on top of his 1984 Toyota 4WD pickup and a mattress under the camper shell. I envy him and his youth. He thinks I have lived a pretty cool life, so we get along damn well.
The 650 mile ride back with the busted tailbone was saved by one thing, the Mustang Tour seat. The seat is built to take the pressure off the butt and transfer it to your legs and back. It was perfect. The only time I felt the pain was when I got off the bike or hit a major bump in the road. The engine knock came back after passing thru Atlanta, GA. I thought about finding a dealer, but it was Monday morning. Since the bike was still running well I pushed on. I could only hear the knock at idle. Once underway the knock disappeared and the bike ran well as ever at 70 mph. I purchased a taller windshield prior to making the trip. That morning before Atlanta I hit a blackbird square on. The windshield deflected the bird and I was not hurt. With my shorty 6-inch windshield, the bird would have it me in the face. The bird died, I continued to ride. Enough said about that.
The ride back was hot and the interstate was full of tire debris and other items. I hit a few road bumps and made the mental note to change my fork oil when I got home. Twelve hours after I left South Carolina I pulled into my garage, put down the kickstand, went to the fridge and knocked back a shot of ice-cold tequila. I left the bike the way it was, called my son to tell him I was safe and hit the sack.
Postscript:
I ordered a replacement nut H-D PN 40392-91and tore the primary down. That was in fact what the problem was. The nut had stripped the inner threads. The factory fix calls for a .090 shim H-D PN 24033-70 being installed with the nut to allow the nut to fully tighten. I installed the shim, new compensator nut and red permanent Loctite and tightened per H-D service bulletin M-1170.
Nothing in the primary was affected from riding with the damaged compensator nut. Another symptom of a loose compensating nut is a back firing engine during start. My FLHT had that symptom prior to the repair. It has not occurred since and after 200 miles of riding the engine knock has not returned. I did the fix at home with no special tools.
My bike is a 2005 FLHT. That year model had the left side cartridge front fork. The right side is a conventional fork. The cartridge fork was discontinued in 2007. I chose to convert the left side cartridge fork to the conventional fork following my Smoke Out ride. The reason was ease of changing the fork oil. The cartridge fork does not allow for ease of the change operation. The factory method requires the complete disassembly of the fork.
I did a parts search and installed the factory OEM dampener and fork tube along with a set of Progressive Suspension PN 11-1131 standard height fork springs and Bel-Ray 15W fork oil. The bike rides and handles much better. It floats over road bumps that would shake the fork prior to the conversion. I did the conversion at home and purchased a Motion Pro fork nut socket PN 08-0139 to allow me to remove the fork tube caps with the inner fairing installed. No other special tools were required.
The tall 10-inch windshield saved me from injury. It may have saved my life. I ordered an 8 inch windshield from the same manufacturer Dakota Shields and installed it. It is not as cool as my 6- inch windshield but with the lower Mustang Day Tripper seat I use for local riding the medium height windshield keeps the road hazards out of my face.
I have two Mustang seats for my FLHT. One is a touring model and one is a slim seat model. I am glad I chose the tour seat for the trip. There is no way I could have ridden home with my busted ass on a slim seat.
Bandit’s invitation to Smoke Out XIII led me to places and happenings I never intended to go. My ride out to the Smoke Out was my summer adventure. It led to upgrading my FLHT with parts swapped out after the ride. My thanks to the crew at Back Street Choppers and Commander Edge for Smoke Out XIII. Just remember, if someone asks if you want to paint a naked lady, don’t hesitate. 
