The Road Home - Nailing It!

Saturday, August 1st: My day for a planned ride to Deadwood to see Butch at the hospital. Judy was already there and gave me directions on the best route. Earlier, Mel took off on a Badlands run with his pretty pal, Pat on back. They would make it to the hospital for a visit later that afternoon.

First, I would head for the Rapid City Convention Center, where the Harley-Davidson company would have their 2010 models displayed for the first time. I would also present my Harley Owner's Group membership card and pick up a free pin commemorating my attendance at the event. I drooled on a bunch of brand new bikes then picked up bike and accessory catalogs for Butch, Mel and I. Again, it was early in the morning and there were hundreds of visiting bikes parked there. During Bike Week, you will find the same large numbers everywhere including Sturgis, Deadwood, Rapid City, Hill City, Keystone and Custer.

Next, heading to visit Butch I took the most direct route... around 40 miles going past Sturgis with the last 10 miles running through the mountains. The contrast of deep greens there and blue sky along with the reddish cliffs was striking. The scattered white and grey clouds gave us the shadows needed to bath every scene in pleasant contrast. The three dimensional panoramas kept unfolding and revealing a new perspective every second. That ride prompted me to later tell my wife Julieann, "Let's make one thing clear, I love the Black Hills." She was lucky enough to have been born and raised there... she remembers the winters so she limits her love of the place to the summers. That would probably be my take on things too.

(photo r: Deadwood during the Rally)

I hung around the hospital long enough to annoy Butch and Judy, then headed into Sturgis to get my figurative radical fanatic rubbernecker card punched. I stopped at JP Cycles at the edge of the Lazelle street... then I walked a mile or so down the street, occasionally criss-crossing to get a closer view of some of the vendors. Along the way, I stopped in the Jack Daniels tent display and had a "Jack and Diet" in honor of my trouper son's favorite stage drink then headed for the other end of the row and the Broken Spoke saloon, "World's Largest Biker Bar."

After that I crossed over to Main street where most Sturgis photos are taken... there you will see bikes parked four wide for many blocks. To get set up that way, they are backed in to each curb and sit nose-to-nose in the middle. I took in the scene, walking past the huge bars and vendor displays there. It's probably worth noting that, during Sturgis bike week, there are enough t-shirts for sale there to clothe every man, woman and child in China... and perhaps a couple of neighboring countries. They have been staging this event for 69 years so you can imagine the sort of stories Lazelle and Main could tell.

(photo r - Main Street Sturgis - four wide)

Finally, I returned to Butch and Judy's home and spent a chunk of the evening on their porch with some Budweiser Lights and a stogie. In recognition of my senior status, I would be in the sack by 10 while hundreds of thousands partied in various Black Hills camp sites and homes. I know they all missed me too.

Sunday, August 2nd: My last day there. I began the day by calling Julie and mentioning that I was thinking of staying another day. She got a little testy at the suggestion and it had me picturing what my ass would look like in a sling so a few minutes later, I called her back again and told her I was starting the trip home the next day as planned. She didn't try to make sense out of the whole thing as she learned many years ago about my skills with making 'non-sense.

On the way to visit Butch at Deadwood again, I stopped at Black Hills Harley-Davidson... again. This was just to be sure there was nothing vital I had missed. Sure enough, I found a terrific seat at the Mustang vendor and was quickly convinced that it would do better on long hauls than the Corbin seat I had made at Hollister, CA last year. One of my purposes in doing this was to perhaps avoid the dreaded "crotch creep" phenomena. This happens to rider's who do not have a proper motorcycle seat and gives the sensation that their jeans are trying to wrap themselves around the rider's neck. While they were installing it, I went into the HD store and bought Butch a t-shirt.

Then, I made the biggest mistake of my trip... I bought the Coyote a t-shirt too. You see, I just couldn't stand the thought of him whimpering and scuffing the floor with his shoes when he realized I hadn't bought him anything. I know, I know... in the first installment of this journey I promised I would make him suffer for not joining me but I guess I am just an old softy.

Later, at the hospital, Butch was doing great. He even refused the nurse's offer to let him don pajama bottoms. I think he was enjoying the idea of mooning all of us periodically. A little while later, the nurse threatened to "kick (Mel's) ass" when he made a wise crack. I think we all lit up the entire ICU with laughter over that one. They sure make them tough in Deadwood...

Back at the house that evening, I cleaned the Hog and packed up then hit the sack early again... cleverly missing hundreds of raucous parties that would have been soooo much better if I had been there...

Monday, August 3rd: I was up at the crack and headed out early for Rock Springs, Wyoming.. around 500 miles down the road. the first 50 miles or so I was riding adjacent to and in the Black Hills so I got to say a long "see you later" to that wonderful land. About half the trip was across Wyoming flat lands... pretty God-forsaken at times and typically with a lot of

headwinds. Rock Springs is adjacent to the Flaming Gorge area though, another magnificent place on Earth you should see at least once in your life time.

(photo r - The Black Queen loaded and ready to leave the Rock Springs Holiday Inn.)

Tuesday, August 4th: Up at the crack again. Destination Elko, Nevada, a little over 400 miles. The day started on a spectacular note with a few panoramas offered up by Flaming Gorge. 400 miles of Interstate. Speed limit, 75. I set the cruise control at eight over. My 100 horse Street Glide just chewed up the highway like it was born to it. Not much wind from any direction so it was a smooth ride and I settled at the Holiday Inn Express pretty early.

I left the hotel in mid-afternoon searching for three things, a Texas hold-em game, a Mexican restaurant and a car wash so I could do a little bug removal work on the bike. First, I went to the Red Lion but found their poker room totally empty. Then, after riding around a while I found the last two in basically the same strip mall area. I washed the bike first then sat down to a fine meal of Carne Asada and one of the largest Cadillac margaritas I have seen. On that evening , hitting two out of three objectives was pretty terrific.

Wednesday, August 5th: The home stretch! Weather... perfect almost all the way. Temperatures in the 50's and 60's had me dressed in comfortable layers for over half the trip. Dressed down to a long sleeved shirt the last half when I found the heat of the Sacramento valley while riding down off Donner Pass .

East of Reno-Sparks, I had noticed a series of signs placed "Burma Shave" style, set in a series so you could take in one thought at a time. They said,

"A Lot Of Pretty Ladies.

To Sit On Your Lap.
Wild Horse Saloon.

Exit 28. Truck access."

I will leave you to figure that one....

Next I decided to name my Harley. I guess out of respect for all we had been through together in the previous couple of weeks. At first I thought of "Black Mariah" but then as I thought through use of the name I had some reservations. For instance, what if I was sitting in mixed company and volunteered that I had to go home to "clean up BM"? That wouldn't work too well right?! So I am tentatively settled on "Black Queen", after the Steven Stills song. I can call her "Queen" for short. I guess that would work eh? Let me know if you have any other suggestions.

The last stretch was one of the most difficult of the 3,000+ mile trip. I had been dreading the run from Reno to Sacramento as Interstate 80 was in such terrible shape. To my surprise, much of it is now being repaved and new lanes are being added in some spots. It was slow and tough negotiating the traffic at times but it will be a good ride when it is done.

End of story. Good to be home. As with most bike tours, I am already anticipating the next one. I would love to do the Rolling Thunder run across the United States for the Memorial Day ride in the Capital honoring our POW/MIA. Who knows?!

AFTERWORD - Tuesday, August 11th: Called Butch last night. He is doing great and, in fact, returned to work yesterday. We discussed the later part of Sturgis bike week too as Sunday was the last day. One rider was killed during the event (I am thinking that would have to be a record). The rider was on an Interstate ramp and had a straight-line accident - got on the shoulder somehow, lost control and that was it.

Sturgis also got some two and a half inches of rain over the weekend so all the sorry bikers probably had to hang out in bars to wait it out - thankfully bikers always have a back up plan though. With all the rain, it is still okay as veterans can tell you when it comes to weather, "we will have some" right?! I know, you remember that.

Also, the Black Hills can get hail that time of year and, at the same time it was raining in Sturgis, they got tennis ball sized hail at the famous Buffalo Chip campground (the place where Steven Tyler of Aerosmith expertly falls off stages). It was knocking out vehicle windshields and damaging gas tanks on motorcycles it was that bad. I got lucky when I left early eh?!

The Road Home - Looking Back

This trip...this Sturgis trip has been one of extremes. Here is an introduction, a little background on Sturgis and an accompanying chronology of sorts:

There were several reasons while I hightailed it to Sturgis this year; Sturgis bike week itself, friends and family who would be there, and son Tyler's bands were booked for two pre-rally shows in Rapid City.

(photo r w/captions... click on it and you should see a larger version)

Sturgis!

Look for estimates in the 500,000 range for the years overall attendance at the 69th Sturgis Rally. From mid-July to mid-August, no matter where you are in the United States you will see (mainly) Harley riders with large packs on the highways. You will also see trailers and RV's marked with Harley-Davidson and related logos. Ninety percent of them will be going to or coming from Sturgis. You could make book on that and likely get rich.

Also consider that a handful of of riders will be killed and at least one of them will be involved in a collision with a deer. I know that sounds terrible but understand that a city of several hundred thousand has suddenly sprung up in the Hills and it's population is riding millions of miles to get there, ride there and return home. With that in mind, the accident and relative fatality rate may even be low in comparison to similar sized cities. What makes this temporary city more special though is that it's people are on vacation, happy, and dedicated to living life large.

I have written a lot about this event so here I will focus on some small tales from one rider...one of the old Badasses. Earlier posts on this site, going back to "Rack'em!" on July 18th will explain how we got this far. Now, picking up where we left off...

Thursday, July 30th: My brother-in-law, and 'brother' Butch Thomas had to work that day so I set about cleaning the road scum off the bike. It was accumulated from a couple of showers during the Spokane to Rapid City run. When it rains, a grey mix of oil and water comes up off the highway and covers every surface of the motorcycle. Typically a spray wash doesn't cut the scum either. You have to hand wash every nook and cranny. No problem though as cleaning the bike is occupational therapy for Harley owners world-wide. Nothing different for me.

Next, I stopped by arguably the world's largest dealership, Black Hills Harley-Davidson. It was 3 days before the official opening yet there were hundreds of bikes parked in the vast lot there as riders took in the dealership along with dozens of vendors who had paid big bucks to set up shop in tents in several acres of parking lot. Yes, while there I bought a great rally shirt as a keepsake (No shirt for El Coyote though...nope. None.)

Later that day however, the bigger deal for me was riding with friend and brother-in-law Butch Thomas to Robbinsdale Lounge to check out the venue my son Tyler's bands would be playing the next night as part of the Sturgis pre-rally events. We were impressed with the stage size and set up of the place. It looked like a good club. They played two shows there over the next two days and I have described the experience on another blog post: Rock the House.

That evening Butch and I sat on his back porch with a couple of beers and stogies for company. We swapped lies and bashed fellow riders Mel Nelson (who would arrive from Henderson, NV later that night) and El Coyote (who would be notable in his absence).

Friday, July 31: Mel had arrived with his silver Street Glide so now there were three of us. That number elevated our group from a "tandem" to an official "pack" - always a nice word to have available when claiming "Badass" status. Mel's friend and flame, Pat had arrived as well. She would be riding on the back of Mel's bike that day.

We swilled a ton of coffee then headed for Black Hills Harley-Davidson where I had a Sturgis commemorative patch sewn on my riding jacket. I don't typically do that but was somehow motivated by the fact that the trip was extraordinary in it's length and that I was able to make it at all. We also looked at some new Street Glides Butch was considering after his wife Judy suggested he do so. That is a pretty remarkable thing...to have your wife suggest you look at a new Harley. From my perspective, the act has to go down with other great events in history...like the invention of beer and chrome and the opening of the first bar!

The wind was blowing pretty strong at that time so we decided to head for Sturgis through the Black Hills on Nemo Road instead of the more direct route on the Interstate. We took off through the mountains and sure enough there was less wind but we did notice some solid overcast in front of us toward Sturgis. We stopped and visited Butch's in-laws on the way. Wally and Ruth Ann Jensen have built a huge log home and separate bunk house right on a stream in that beautiful area. Ruth Ann is an industrious soul and hey have been been running their "Copper Canyon Lodge," renting their basement (for six) and Bunkhouse (as many as 10) to Sturgis bikers and Black Hills vacationers. 

Next, we stopped for lunch at the Nemo Guest Ranch. The 'grub' was all being cooked and

served outdoors and I opted for the pulled pork sandwich with a side of ranch style beans. Food always seems to taste better when it is cooked and served outdoors. That day was no exception.

(photo r - Nemo Guest Ranch)

Shortly after we left the ranch, a light rain began. At first it wasn't too bad. But then, it gained intensity and after a couple of miles Mel dropped back and gave me signal that we should turn around. I signaled agreement and we got Butch's attention with the same result. When we turned I ended up in the lead, Butch was the middle and Mel and Pat were on the third and last Harley. We were trying to duck the rain so our pace was fairly quick on the straightaways and slow on the turns... being mindful of the potentially slick roads.

My routine in the lead is pretty standard for most bikers no matter what their position...to continuously scan all the important points including front, side-to-side and both rear view mirrors. I was doing the same that day although I lingered a little longer on the front view in deference to the weather conditions. When I scanned my mirrors I would see Butch and Mel's headlights behind me. Then, all of a sudden I looked in my rear view mirrors and saw no one.

I thought... well those guys know the area a lot better than I and maybe I missed a turn off. They could be back there waiting for me or there may be some sort of problem. I stopped and waited a few moments for their lights to show. When that didn't happen I turned around and headed back into the rain to find out what happened. I didn't go far before the rain had completely stopped.

Then, I rounded a turn and saw three bikes and a car parked on the opposite side of the road. I knew there had been an accident and, as I pulled up to park Mel walked up to me. He said, something about seeing "him go down" and as he was saying that I was taking in the scene. I was wondering where Butch was and at first thought he was on the grassy shoulder helping the accident victim. I walked closer and then suddenly recognized the badly damaged motorcycle laying on it's side. It was Butch's.

The feelings I had at that moment were not for an average motorcycle victim, nor were they for someone's average brother-in-law. They were more like they would be for a brother and close friend of over 40 years...someone with the same selfless, thoughtful nature shared with his sister, my wife Julieann Marie.

Not far from the bike, I saw Pat, Mel's friend (and later wife) kneeling beside Butch. She was holding his left hand in hers and had her other hand on his helmet. I walked up and knelt beside them on Butch's right. He was conscious and alert. He had some small cuts on his face and a black eye. When I asked, he said "I felt it slide a little and knew I wasn't going to make it." Others there explained that 911 had been called and that police and ambulance were on their way. Butch would occasionally try to move his head, "How's my bike?" but Pat would gently remind him to be still.

The police showed after a few minutes and the ambulance arrived a short while later. The attendants got Butch strapped to a backboard...in the process cutting off a (lucky?) Yellowstone Harley shirt I had just purchased for him in Belgrade, Montana.

After the ambulance left, Mel took care of letting Butch's wife Judy know and getting the bike (totalled I am pretty sure) hauled out. I took off to Rapid City to see if Judy needed assistance. She was doing well with reports from us and took off for the hospital in Deadwood just after I got back. I stayed to go to a picnic Ty's cousin (Butch and Judy's son Rick) had scheduled and reserve tables for guests at that nights concert. Not long after, we got the first report, broken scapula and six broken ribs. An MRI later showed a bruised lung and slight cut on his spleen.

Butch went home a couple of days later after they confirmed the spleen would be okay - he did remarkably well... especially considering the six broken ribs.

Saturday, August 1st to Wednesday August 5: Further adventures in the next installment of this series. Yes, there will be more photos and yes, they will be more succinct... maybe.

El Coyote

Alonzo "el Coyote" Munguia; of Spanish descent. His ancestors include Texas ranchers who owned thousands of acres of cattle ranches before the gringos moved in and invented Shiner beer. They were expert horsemen which is why I occasionally refer to him as "The Last Gaucho." (photo: Two Badass bikers on the Snake River - L-R - El Coyote and Old Geezer) His father was a career Army man. Coyote' was once a pro baseball player, a wiry second baseman. He is also a retired Teamster which is why I often claim he knows where Jimmy Hoffa's body is buried. He is a master mechanic and a history buff who vows to be a teacher in the next life. For now, he teaches Sunday school. He is also married to one of the best nurses who ever lived, Norma Munguia. 

Alonso and I met about ten years ago at a cafe and meeting place for Sacramento HOG members who were gathering for an organized ride. We became fast friends when we realized we were both extremely high on the Harley-Davidson fanatic barometer. We have ridden thousands of miles since and he is one of the main protagonists in my book, "Badass (The Harley Davidson Experience)". 

Pause for a plug here: You can read all about it at www.badassbook.com. I can honestly claim that this is the best selling pebble grain leather bound Harley Davidson book that was ever written. This is mainly because it is likely the only leather bound book of its type. Pause for schmaltz here: I believe if you have one friend of Al's caliber in your lifetime you are a very fortunate person. I am blessed to have enough, including my wife Julieann, to fill more than one hand. Of course I don't deserve it... that's where the luck comes in know what I mean?!

(Why this story? Annie K., a reader of this blog to whom I am most grateful asked about him. And thank you again Annie!)

The Chance Dance

Working my way through the mountains, fields and prairies. On my way from Billings, Montana to Rapid City, South Dakota. It will be just short of a 400 mile day. There is rain everywhere. Huge dark clouds are all over the horizon.

(photo: TC's HOG covered with a lot of grey crud)

I am trying to time my trip on the Interstate to avoid getting drenched. The highway curves gently to accommodate a 75 mile an hour speed limit. The highway curves often to accommodate the transition from mountains to valleys and back. I catch a few sprinkles but not quite enough to warrant full blown rain gear.

Just out of Gillette, Wyoming I spot a large thunder cloud on the horizon directly in front of me. I pull over and quickly set up... adding a fifth layer to torso and a pair of leather leather chaps. It was already a cool day, running around 50 degrees all the way so I had on lots of gear. Two t-shirts, a poly fleece with the mandatory Harley embroidery on it, my trusty Harley leather jacket adorned with amulets of all sorts and then adding a "Jen-U-Whine" Harley Davidson rain jacket. I also have heavy gloves and under my helmet, a poly fleece face mask.

As I approached the storm the highway often appeared to directly face, then veer away from the storm. With that, I was at times relieved that I might stay dry and then, with the next turn disappointed that I would run smack into it.

It was a Chance Dance with the weather.

I was reminded of a comment I once heard from a fellow member of the Sacramento Harley Owner's Group. Randy Owen was briefing us all on an upcoming 1,500 mile "Iron Butt" ride. These rides stop only for gas and essentials. Randy said, "People often ask me about the weather and I say; Yes, we will have some." It was another way of saying you want to try and prepare for anything.

I sort of lost the Dance as I hit the fringe of the storm. Caught not too much water but did catch a lot of oily residue from vehicles in front of me. It is a light gray mixture of oil and water that gets on and in everything and is a bitch to remove. Nonetheless I hit Sturgis during a sunny break in the weather and immediately headed for Sturgis Harley Davidson to get my commemorative t-shirt fix. I was one of thousands who will do the same during the next week and a half.

Shortly thereafter, I was in Rapid City sipping a Corona Light with fellow biker, long time pal and brother-in-law Butch Thomas. Butch is among the world's luckiest riders who happens to live in the middle of biker mecca.

The Chance Dance. All bikers do it. Few prevail against the weather. Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to spend 95% of my time dry.

Thanks to the Big Harley Rider In The Sky.

Panther Piss - Today's Observations

Panther Piss

Yup, that's what it is.

Cheap gasoline that is.

When we were kids we often had to locate the cheapest gas station around and buy their gas.

We called it "panther piss".

"87" Octane...that's all you get folks!

A fine alliteration to be sure.

It wasn't the octane that warranted this classification in our minds.

It was more so the look of the dealership that made us question the quality of what came out of the pump.

Today, I ran low on gas again.

I was on a fairly remote stretch of Interstate 90.

So I had to stop and take what was available.

87 octane only... panther piss

I was thinking "My Hog is not going to forgive me for this".

I just put in a couple of gallons, honest!

Just enough to get me to Butte,

Where I loaded her up with the good stuff (91 octane).

She rewarded me by handling like a dream all day.

I rewarded her back by stopping in Butte and getting her an oil change,

"Synthetic only please".

Ohhhhh Montana!

Western Montana serves as proof that God rides a Harley.

After all, he must have created this state so he could ride through it now and then.

The mountains, the enormous sky... it's all there before, on, and after the Continental Divide.

Better than you will see it anywhere.

Cruising on the Interstate
(Only "the Shadow knows" who's got a grip)

Through Missoula, Bozeman, Butte and Billings.

The Interstate was smooth and fast,

Posted speed limit... 75.

I cruised it at around 7 over... all day.

Whitehall

At the cafe Elena,

I had trouble with the zipper on my vest.

The waitress came whipping around the counter

and fixed it for me, muttering that it always "happens to my husband".

They had huckleberry jam for the toast.

"Can I stay here forever?"

67 degrees at 11 AM.

I was thinking I was in heaven.

On Second Thought

When old pal Jack Ohl took me bass fishing Sunday evening,

He out-fished me 4 to 2.

Two of the bass he caught were right around 15 inches long

And weighed a pound and a half.

Now I ask you...

Is that any way to treat an old friend?

An old friend you haven't seen in 10-15 years?!

I think not.

More importantly, this serves as testimony to the versatility of the typical Harley rider.

That he can graciously handle this type of abuse.

Yellowstone Harley Davidson

Located in the Bozeman, Montana area.

These folks are truly a class act.

They had a drive-through tent set up.

It was there to protect visiting bikers and their rides from the weather.

When I asked the service manager if I could get an oil change

He volunteered that he would do it himself and fit it in between counter customers.

Around a half hour later, I was outta there... a happy camper

Thanks Yellowstone HD!

Around 400 miles today.

Tomorrow, another 400 miles or so...

Then Sturgis briefly and on to home base in Rapid City!

(Note for el Coyote - I visited three Harley dealerships today, Montana HD, Yellowstone HD and Beartooth HD. I bought you zero shirts. None. Nada. el Zippo. I am hoping to visit a number of other dealerships where I can also purchase no shirts for you.)

Cattle Drive

I was in the high desert.

Between Alkali Flat and Wagontire Oregon.

Cattle in groups of 10-50 were heading along the fence line in the opposite direction.

This went on for a what seemed like several miles.

There could have easily been a thousand head.

I couldn't see anyone making them move.

I couldn't figure them.

When I hit breakfast at the world famous

(Well maybe not but it should be.) Wagontire cafe,

I asked Cheryl about them.

"Yes, there are riders driving them.

Three riders and two dogs.

They are moving them down to Juniper Creek

So they don't have to haul water as far to them."

Not long after, I was back in civilization.

Or was I?

In retrospect, I think Wagontire may have had better qualifications.

(Later) Spokane is a beautiful town,

growing, vibrant and busy.

I spent time there with an old friend, of

more than thirty years, Jack Ohl, and I was able to catch two of son Tyler's tour shows.

(Plug time: Arden Park Roots)

It was good to get back on the road today though.

To look for more cattle drives.

To see beautiful Lake Coeur d'Alene.

To feel the crisp mountain air.

To stick those handlebars into the turns.

To straighten the sweeping Interstate twisties on the HOG.

(Note to The Coyote - yes, I promised I would make you suffer for not figuring out a way to join me on this trip... I visited Montana Harley Davidson today. They had a great t-shirt. I bought one. They had your size too. I did not buy you one. Yeah, yeah I know you will get me back by buying that 2010 Sunglo Red HD Street Glide and I will definitely be gritting my teeth over it but I will keep getting these digs in while I can.)

Two Battleships

Woke late in Lake View, Oregon

Trying to time it for "Coffee and rolls in the lobby"

As there was no coffee available in the room.

(Hey, I am roughing it out here okay?!)

But still, it was 5:30 and rather than wait for the "7:00 AM" treats.

I hit the dispensing machine and bought a diet coke.

At 6:30 I was on my way

The air was cool, but I had layers on.

I was on a stretch of US 395 that was so desolate...

It was so desolate that I saw two cars, one truck,

One unidentifiable road kill, two jackrabbits and one cotton tail

On maybe a 70 mile stretch.

It was stunning country though, with high desert and prairies surrounded by distant mountains, the sweet smell of sagebrush (yup, there is always some of that out here) and a highway in

excellent condition.

At one point I saw two majestic

ridgelines... they made me think of the prows of two giant World War I era battleships, moored to the prairie forever. (photo right)

I was looking for coffee, breakfast and gas and didn't come across it for 90 miles.

Not far past Alkali Flat (nothing there but a BLM building)... at Wagontire, Oregon, I saw it.

A little restaurant with a couple of gas pumps in front of it and the ramshackle remnants of what was once a motel.

I pulled up to the pumps. One was gas and one was diesel. The one with gas only had one selection, "87" octane. Everything else was taped over. There was a piece of large masking tape on it that said, "$4.00". I was really low and knew I was 30-50 miles from the next possible pit stop so I decided to go for it. A lady came out and unlocked the pump and I put about three gallons in the HOG. I apologized to her (the HOG that is) profusely because she is accustomed to nothing but premium.

I then followed the lady into her little restaurant and she fixed me one of most bodacious breakfasts you can imagine. The coffee was just right and the ham was over a half inch thick. It covered half the breakfast plate... biggest individual portion of ham I have ever seen. The eggs, "over medium" were cooked perfectly and there was a large portion of hash browns... all of that accompanied by a couple of slices of sourdough toast and a small jar of homemade strawberry jelly. I just couldn't quite knock off all that ham but I tried. She asked me how my eggs were, can you imagine? I told here they were perfect and there and then decided to commemorate it all in this blog. Her name is Cheryl and she lives out there in the middle of nowhere. Stop in sometime!

I went another 300 miles or so beyond Wagontire today,

On highway 395 North.

Through country that reminded me of US Highway 50,

"The Lonliest Highway in America".

Through other country that reminded me of the Black Hills.

I straightened out hundreds of "twisties" along the way,

curves with 35, 40 and 45 miles an hour marked for speed limits.

I would come in high, throw the inside of the handlebars at the pavement, tilt my head to the center line and whip around them, dropping inside and accelerating out wide to the center, typically at 20 over or more.

Sometimes there were enough in a row that I could set up a rhythm...

It was very similar to the back and forth motion used by a slalom skier.

When you do this, you are conscious of how your feet hang off the floorboards.

Often, it will be the bottom of your foot that touches pavement rather than the outside edge of the chrome floorboard... in either case, they are telling you to back off the throttle a little. Or else.

It's good here. Now. In the room.

Cooled down and looking forward to tomorrow's ride.

Grasshopper Moshing

First day of 3,000+ mile loop

Through Northern California

To Spokane then west to Sturgis

For the Mother of all bike weeks

Near southern Oregon fields

The Harley and I

Encountered our first herd of grasshoppers

In all my years of riding

I say 'herd' because those puppies were BIG

They were big, they were tough

And they knew how to hurt you

They must have been moshing over the highway

Because when I arrived they started moshing me

They were moshing so hard they disintegrated when they bounced off me

Took me an hour and a half to clean those mooshed moshers off the bike.

Must have been damn good music...

Rack'em!

In January of this year we wrestled with issues of an aging biker but rebounded big time with a "Hipshot!" (click on this for a rerun: Cairo Practica II and III).

We did great with that shot.. going some four months without significant discomfort and only walking like a gimp about 75% of the time instead of the usual 100.

We expected it back and it came with a vengeance but now, yes now... we have shot that puppy again! Yes, just a few days ago we went through Hipshot II so now we are loaded with cortisone and somewhat giddy with relief. (I am even more annoying than usual when I am running around giddy).

Why, Molly The World's Greatest Golden Retriever and I even went jogging... for the first time in months. In the interim I have been trying to teach her to to do the elliptical machine but she hasn't figured out what to do with the two extra paws yet. Isn't that just like a dog?!

Anyway, in my elated state I am now planning a bike trip of some 3,000 miles that will have me chasing some of son Tyler's tour concerts in Washington and South Dakota. 

I think the Coyote will join me for part of the trip and I will also get to see some old pals along the way. It also puts me on a direct path with the Mother of All Biker Rallies, Sturgis. Yes, with work and hip diversions it has been three years since I made it there. I miss South Dakota, the Black Hills, Rushmore and The Rally.

It is worthy to note that there is some question as to whether my absence from Sturgis is cause for the precipitous drop in attendance over the past couple of years. That's probably true but when someone questions me about it I just lay it off on the economy...

My rack mounted and ready.
Someone please explain to me
how it could get any better than this...

So, if I am to make this trip, I must have a rack that is strong enough to hold my tour bags and now I do! I picked one up from my local Harley dealer, somehow figured out the installation instructions and now I am there! All I have to do is dig up my electronic tour checklist and started running it. When I am done I will be fully packed and ready to go. It has been far too long since I have been on the road. To say I am pumped would be a massive understatement. So let's rack'em and hit it!

Cold Bugs

Three of us, on baggers, hit a very cold Donner Pass on Interstate 80 at around 10:30 a.m. Fortunately, we had the necessary warm clothing along. Unfortunately, most of it was in our bags, but that didn’t stop us. We were too pumped to stop and change so we blasted through with great anticipation for the warmth we knew was waiting for us in Reno and points beyond. We also briefly paid tribute to the survivors of the Donner Party and their incredible appetites.

At the top of the pass a swarm of pretty butterflies was darting merrily about, enjoying the brisk morning air. We hit them doing about 70… cold bugs splattering everywhere. There were big splotches of yellow on our pristine bikes. We were suddenly hauling some very cold, dead bugs.

Aw, what the hell, entomology and insect control is a standard sideline of every biker. Something we like to sink our 'teeth' into.   .... so to speak.

Chapter 24 - Wells, Nevada

As we left Sacramento I made one of my famous cynical remarks about the run to Wells being the worst of the trip and the Coyote kindly humored me.  He does that often as he has learned I am very good at saying stuff that proves to be dead wrong, or dumb, or both. Sure enough the Wells run was absolutely beautiful. (You know, I wonder if I could have a career as a reverse soothsayer.  For example; “I will buy this lottery ticket but I know I won’t win.” and then having said that I would win, right?!)

We had a smooth run over the mountains into Reno and headed across Nevada in very nice weather.  The whole setting was great all the way through to Wells.  We had an amazing sunset at our backs with clouds above compressing all the red light against a ridgeline.  We also noticed a very large mansion, cupolas and all, on a mountain in the middle of nowhere.  One of Howard Hughes old places, maybe?

Then there was a huge dust cloud just south of the freeway.  As we approached it, we figured out it was blast dust at a mine in the Humboldt National Forest.  We didn’t know what they were after there exactly, but it was an impressive sight.  We also saw a few sheets of rain, like white veils covering the countryside.  Fortunately they were all in the distance and they stayed right there leaving us literally high and dry.

(Photo: Ruby Mountains near Wells)

Once while I was in the lead, I had about a three-quarters view of the Coyote and his bike in my right rear-view mirror.  It was a hell of a sight: the badass-looking biker framed against the clouds and a beautiful sunset.  Hell, even Battle Mountain (Remember the old giant “BM” commemorated in white rocks on the side of a mountain?) looked pretty good that day.

Five Over

Along the way the Highway Patrol stopped us.  It was the first time for either Al or me– while on motorcycles, that is.  We had been in the hammer lane, the speed limit was 75 and I had the cruise control set at 80.  We both noticed the trooper as we passed him and didn’t think much of it. We did move to the far right lane, though. 

He caught up with us and sat in the hammer lane right off to our left.  I just kept the cruise set since I didn’t think he would bother us.  I figured he was just looking over our bikes, but then the old lights came on, so we pulled off.  I started to climb off the bike and walk back to where the patrolman was talking to the Coyote, but he instructed me to get back on the bike and keep it up off the kickstand. This meant I would be straddling it with both feet planted pretty firmly.  It made sense after I thought about it a little.  I couldn’t be much of a threat to him if I was busy holding up 800+ pounds of bagger. 

After he finished talking to the Coyote he came up to me and said I was going around 85.  I told him I had the cruise set at 80.  He said he usually didn’t worry about folks who were going less than 10 MPH over and that we better get our speedometers checked.  I said “okay” and he let us hit the road.  The Coyote said he told the trooper the same thing: his “speedometer said 80” and that is where we were cruising.  We both still believe his radar was off by 5 MPH, but there sure wouldn’t have been anything to gain from arguing.

(Excerpt from:  "Badass, The Harley Davidson Experience", https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004U7LZBC)

Handlebar - to - Handlebar

Just this morning

Cruising out of Lake Tahoe

To Sacramento

With friend Alonzo "Coyote" Munguia

Certain safe stretches

Based on ten years of riding together

We go handlebar - to - handlebar

Coyote on left side of lane, me on right

Motorcycles... Harley's... side-by-side

Synchronized rumble of pipes

Images and shadows reflecting off one another

Trusting in skills and awareness

You have seen or heard this before

Countless times as in:

"Foxhole buddies"

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"

"Thelma and Louise" (grin)

"Wyatt and Billy" (Easy Rider)

Norma and Al Munguia

Judy and Butch Thomas

Julie and Tom Campbell

All know the good path and the value of friendship

Besides, you gotta' love those pipes!!!

 

To Heel...Or Not To Heel

Therein lies the proverbial rub.

Folks who are  learning to ride, or making the switch from dirt bikes or other motorcycles to Harley's are often confronted with an unfamiliar mechanical device.  This happened to me when my sainted wife first insisted that I purchase one in the late '90s.  OK, maybe she just said "Go ahead and take a look" but to a desperate person this sounds like a direct command.

Right: Shifters to immediate right of footboard.  Heel shifter (bottom) has been extended 1".  Bike is immaculate - it's the camera that is so picky...honest!

One of the first things I noticed was an additional shifter on the transmission spline. There were two instead of one; one pointed forward and the other pointed backward.  I asked and was told it was the "heel shifter".  I tried it a couple of times and to me is was just a nuisance...it blocked off the back of the footboard and left me with fewer positions to place my foot while riding.

Anyone who does distance rides knows it is important to be able to move your feet to different positions periodically.  That is why you often see foot pegs added to Harley touring bike crash bars... so the rider can use them in addition to the standard footboards.

I quickly found out that aftermarket parts manufacturers made all kinds of nice chrome add-ons to cover the spline when the rear shifter is removed so I jumped in immediately.  Thereafter, I had more area to rest my left foot.  With this configuration I was a happy camper and stayed that way through three Harleys.

  

But then, shortly after I purchased my last Harley I attended Reno, Nevada's Street Vibrations bike week. While making my customary rounds to drool over chrome and leather accessories I noticed a vendor selling extended rear foot shifters that didn't block part of the footboard. Desperate (yes, I am always desperate for chrome and leather) I decided to try it. Figuring if nothing else I had some more great looking chrome hung on the bike.

 

We got it all set up and on the first ride I became addicted to it.  Amazing, simpler, smoother shifts particularly when tired.  I can't believe I went through three Harleys before discovering this.  I first thought of it as an "appendix"...useless and now I think of it as vital...go figure!

 

"To heel or not to heel?"  I know the answer to that question!

   

Live to Write... Write to Live

 “If you would not be forgotten

As soon as you are dead and rotten.

Either write things worth reading

Or do things worth writing.”

-Ben Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanac, circa late 1700s

“Or both”

- Tom Campbell, May 8, 2006

(Click the photo to enlarge your perspective.) 

Custer and His Last Stand

There is just no place like the Black Hills for cruising and admiring the sights.  There are some great stops along the way though.  

We lit out in the morning with The Coyote hell bent on spending some time in Custer’s Battlefield National Park, which was conveniently right along our route.  You see he wanted to visit there a couple years earlier when we were on our Sturgis trip, but we (read “I”) failed to properly consult a map and took the wrong highway.

We got there and had a very impressive visit.  I was most intrigued by the grave markers of Custer and his troops.  They are all confined to a fairly small, say 50’ by 50’ area on a very gentle, grassy slope.  The sandstone markers are uniformly tan except for Custer’s, which is black.  It is impressive how you seem to be able to see so far from the hill where the battlefield lies. 

You wonder how Custer and his men could have been caught there.  But as you listen to the guides and read the reference material you begin to realize that the rolling terrain can easily conceal all but the closest horses and men. In fact you could crawl to within 100 feet of the graveyard and remain concealed even in daylight. 

We listened for some time to a Native American guide and artist, Patrick Hill, as he described the setting and the battle.  Mr. Hill is an extremely articulate historian who peppers his presentation with irony and humor.  I was taken by his grasp of the events and the way he immersed himself in them, moving his arms from point to point on the horizon and across the battlefield to point out significant landmarks.

Patrick wore a national park service uniform and was Native American through and through.  He looked that way, he talked that way and he moved that way. You could tell he was proud of the battlefield victory that day but sad that it had to take place to begin with.  I would like to go back and hear him again. (Mr. Hill is shown in the photo that accompanys this entry.) 

In fact I think I will go back and hear him again.  You see later in the day Al was checking out the pictures he took there with his digital camera.  He takes pictures the way he collects T-shirts, that is to say a hell of a lot of them. Yes this is the “Law of Large Numbers” at work once again. Anyway he was fiddling with his camera after we got to Butch’s place in Rapid City and accidentally deleted the entire shoot.

Al was pretty devastated there for a while and was threatening to ride the entire 250 or so miles to the battlefield, retake the pictures and ride back the same day.  Finally he figured the way to do it was return one day with his wife so she could see and experience the place.  Then he could retake the entire lot and more.  I also consoled him a little by offering to share copies of the pitiful few photos I took that day.  So here is the proverbial bottom line– if Al rides there again, I will want to ride with him.

(Excerpt from "Badass, The Harley Davidson Experience", www.badassbook.com)

Cairo Practica II and III

Last July, in the blog entry titled  "Cairo Practica", I presented some background, and a working definition of this ancient healing maneuver.  This now, is a follow-up on that entry.  Thank you for joining me on this part of the journey.  I know you all have parallel stories...

Cairo Practica II 

So, we were working on my back in an effort to allow me to return to riding the Harley somewhat pain free.  We made regular visits to the Chiropractor to practice pretzel back maneuvers.  That helped my back but did nothing for my hot hip.  We met, and fired an Acupuncturist who dared suggest that I quit riding.  Then, a couple of months later I returned to visits with my personal trainer, a gorgeous French woman who charmed me into following her torturous instructions to stretch my pitiful body into something that borders on normal. 

Therefore, be it known that I am happy to report we may be making progress.  The more I stretch, the more my gait changes from shuffling to normal and the more I seem to be able to sit in the saddle of the Hog.  It is too early to say “we have a cure” here but I am now my usual overly optimistic self.  It’s not bad for my golf game either.  I seem to be getting more of my lower body into the swing and that is bringing some of my distance back. 

But wait!  There’s more!

Cairo Practica III

In ensuing months, it became clearer that my travels in the chiropractic, acupuncture and personal trainer worlds would not fully do the job.  Of the three, the trainer and exercises helped the most but still, my beloved iron steed rested in the garage, waiting for that long-haul trip when she could stretch to her full potential.

We (my guidance counselor/wife of some 40 years, Juleiann and I) tossed the old "sciatica" idea and finally agreed I should consult with a physician.  Our family doc, a terrific internist named "Li" moved my legs around a little and declared "arthritis" in my left hip, described the stages, "exercise, shots, replacement" and sent me off for an x-ray to be followed by a consult with an orthopedist.

I hauled the x-ray around in between appointments and Julieann got to take quick look at it. Her declaration, "Your hip looks like that of an eighty-year old woman".  (Why she couldn't have said "eighty-year old MAN" is beyond me...)

Duly chastened, I headed off to Doc #2, an Orthopod who immediately verified Julie and Dr. Li's diagnoses and threatened me with hip replacement unless I checked out the shot approach...

Hipshot!

Nah, I wasn't slappin' leather, I was following a tech to a dressing room where I was firmly instructed to "Take off all your clothes".  I looked for a hint of lechery in her eye and was disappointed to see none but complied anyway.  I wrestled on the 'robe' and headed out for more of whatever.  I quickly found myself lying prone on a radiology table (designed specifically to induce visions of torture... far beyond that prescribed in the official Army Field Manual).  

The technician explained the process and we waited for the doc. A few minutes later, as my hip was telling me in no uncertain terms it didn't like being in that position... on that hard surface, the doc showed and we got started.  He lined the machine up, gave me a numbing dose (slight discomfort), injected dye so he could see where his needle was going (no problem), and began probing with the needle for the cortisone injection (Ow!!!... but only for an instant). He finished quickly after that.  I thanked him, told him he did a good job and then advised him he should have offered me a shot of whiskey before he started (When did they stop doing that?!).

On the way out, my non-lecherous tech made sure I could walk okay and explained that the effect of the procedure could last from "one day to eleven or twelve months".  

I was feeling pretty good when I got home.  I had no idea quite when the numbing effect of the lidocaine would go away and the cortisone would kick in but I felt pretty good at that point.  So, I cranked up the Harley and did a 20 mile round trip to test the effect.  It was pretty good!  I must have been running on lidocaine, the temporary local agent, because that night my hip decided to remind me who was boss.  The next day though it seemed that the cortisone kicked in because I was feeling damn good.

And so it goes... we'll keep testing the bike to see if I get my  range back.  By "range" I mean I will be gauging how far I can travel without serious discomfort.  I am looking for something like 6,000 miles as I would like to do the "Rolling Thunder" run across country and back this Spring (or any Spring) in honor of our vets. 

Cortisone:  Don't leave home without it.  It's good for a gimp hip. 

PS... Aught - I know you set the bar high with your Nick Nolte DUI in mufti imitation.  I apologize for not attempting to do the same by adding a gross hip photo here.

Clean your Harley - Perfectly

That's the way you want to do it.

Clean your Harley... perfectly.

Therein lies the literal 'rub'.

Yes, there is zen at work here.

Get your Hog up on a jack, Grab a mechanic's stool,

A beer and a stogie...

Include requisite cleaning material and you are off on a few hours

Of therapy that cleans your mind more than your bike.

However, you will learn the hard way never to wipe off your bike with anything dry.

This method rubs dust and fine particles into the paint and scratchs it.

Simple as that.

You must always use something wet.

You must always use something soft.

You must never rub hard.

Like most, I have a dozen or more cleaning products around for my Hog;

Washes, waxes, polishes and protectorants.

I like them all and their common denominator?...

They are all wet. (Some would say just like me.)

I have the best rags known to man.

I have Harley manufactured wipes for applying cleaning and waxing products.

I have micro-fiber rags for wiping off the aforementioned.

I have slightly used family towels for any purpose.

I have shop rags for the dirty work.

While rags may be universally recognized as a symbol of poverty,

I could easily go broke purchasing them.

All in the name of doing the job... perfectly.

Go to Harley forums for advice, Google the topic as well.

You will find a million different products and methods

For doing the job... perfectly.

What is inevitable though is...

There will be scratches.

For all your efforts, it will not come out... perfectly.

That is why you have keep the beer and stogie close at hand.

They fit the scenario... perfectly.

Of Amulets and Things

It’s probably worth explaining about a much witnessed but little understood phenomenon that occurs among bikers.  It’s the wearing of various types of amulets.  These are items that, when hung appropriately on your person or bike, may or may not help you arrive safely at your chosen destination with bike and body intact. 

So, let’s run down the items a fairly typical biker (me) might carry on his person or bike.  This is not to say I am a superstitious person. I am not at all (yeah, right). Nonetheless, I don’t want to be caught on the road without something that just might matter. Having pointed that out, let’s take a look at the paraphernalia that adorns my bike and jacket.

First, the bike:  Shortly after I bought my first Harley, my family bought me a good luck bell to hang on it.  It’s a little thing about the size of a large thimble.  All of them look silver and there are hundreds of different designs.  As the story goes, they don’t work if you buy them yourself.  A loved one must give them to you.  All have the same purpose– to ward off evil things like accidents and potholes.  They seem to work really well for everyone who hasn’t had an accident and everyone who hasn’t hit a pothole… yet.

Gotta Have Metal… On the Jacket

Next, the jacket:  I have a leather riding jacket, genuine Harley-Davidson®, the Nevada model.  First let me point out something significant about this jacket.  I love it.  It is clearly one of the greatest leather jackets made by man and no, I am not getting any grease by mentioning this.

My HD Nevada is loaded with zippers and as a result, zipper pulls.  It has the regular front zipper, two front pocket zippers, two front ventilation zippers and two rear ventilation zippers.  It also has two zippers for cinching up the sleeves around the wrists.  That’s nine if you are counting.  Four of them are ideal for hanging lots of zipper pulls:  the two front pocket zippers and the two front ventilation zippers. The ventilation zippers, when in their usual position, are right at the two front snap pockets on the chest.  So here’s the rundown on what I have hanging off those four.

On the left ventilation zipper:  A silver Saint Christopher medal given to me by my wife Julieann around 30 years ago.  Hey!  He is the patron saint of travelers, right?  Also, there is a small engraved silhouette of Mickey Mouse.  This was given to me on a key ring 10 or more years ago by my daughter Samantha. The front is engraved with “Dad” and on the back it says “Love Sam 95.”

Sam was seven years old when she gave me that.  In fact, she would still be seven today if she would have minded my instructions to “stop growing” then.  I guess wanting her to remain a little girl forever is just one more thing I can’t have knowwhatimean Vern?  Anyway, these two gifts of love have to be good for you, right?

On the right ventilation zipper:  A small gold-encapsulated statue of Buddha.  A friend gave this to me almost 35 years ago.  He was a Thai kick boxer and we became friends while I was assigned at Utapao Air Force base on the Gulf of Siam with the Air Force.  In addition to my Air Force day job, I was working part time managing stock in the Officer and NCO Club warehouse and he was one of my crew.  He had a wife and two kids and they lived in a one-room shack on stilts. I was honored to be a dinner guest there once. 

In gratitude for the dinner, I later invited him and his wife to join me at the outdoor theater on the base and take in a movie.  It was a fine setting very near the beach.  It was fairly unique in that you could buy beer along with other more normal concession items.  In fact, we used to check the movie times to gauge the amount of beer we would buy. For example, if it was anywhere over 2 hours long I would buy a six pack.  If it was under 2 hours, I would buy 3 or 4 depending on how hot it was outside.

When we attended, I bought some popcorn and beer for the three of us and we proceeded to enjoy the show.  I recall he was so overwhelmed with the gravity of the occasion; he leaned over and gave me a Thai kiss.  This is done by placing your nose on the other person’s cheek and sniffing deeply.  I was pretty stunned by that act but then, I was also grateful I had remembered to shower that day. 

On the left pocket zipper:  A fairly large chrome ZZ Top logo.  These guys have made most of the good biker music that exists.  Also, a .44 caliber bullet, gunpowder removed (I think), that is affixed to a chain.  I can’t exactly explain this one.  I saw it in a small store in Virginia City, Nevada and thought it would look cool hanging off my jacket.  I guess these two are not purely for luck.  They are just there to help maintain the essential badass image.

On the right pocket zipper:  This is the granddaddy of them all… literally.  It is a hand-made brass fishing spoon with the hooks clipped off.  It has red and white feathers hung on it to help attract a fish. It is not really garish.  In fact, it is pretty tasteful looking for a fishing lure.  My grandfather made it 50 or more years ago.  On the back he used a hammer and punch to stamp the word “Tomy.”  That is because he made it just for me, though he forgot about the spelling.  I probably don’t have to explain why this should be considered a good omen, even though I have had mixed results with this one.

Hooked on Leather… Really

For example, a couple years ago, on a Fourth of July weekend in Tahoe, I was getting ready to take the Harley for a ride around the lakeshore.  I was on it and getting it all warmed up when I realized I needed to get something out of my right jeans pocket. It was pretty cold so my hands were a little numb, sort of anesthetized you might say.  Many would argue my brain probably was too.

So, there I was sitting on the bike, trying to jam my right hand in my jeans pocket.  It was a tight fit so I was being pretty forceful.  All of a sudden, the hook on Granddad’s fishing lure pierced the webbing between my thumb and index finger!  In fact, it was in past the barb, which meant it wasn’t going to come out too easily.  Earlier, when I had cut the ends of the hooks off with pliers to dull them, I had not removed enough.  So there I was, physically attached to my leather jacket.

I got off the bike, grabbed my tool kit out of one of the bike’s bags with my free hand and walked back to the room with my right hand literally stuck to my waist.  I went into the room and explained the weird occurrence to Julieann, Samantha, our good friend Don Brunelle and a couple other folks who were visiting with us.  So, there was a little shocked pregnant pause while everyone mulled over my stupidity and then Don and I set about trying to remove it.

First, we drove it through the webbing past the barb. Fortunately my hand was pretty numb during this part of the process.  Then we were trying to cut off the barbed portion with a pair of pliers equipped for that sort of thing.  It didn’t work because the hook was made out of a kind of tempered chrome and we were having a hard time getting good purchase on it with the pliers.  You see, my hand was in the way. 

Finally after a long time messing with trying to cut it, we broke off the offending barb by bending it back and forth several times at the base.  Then it slipped right through my hand.  

The whole process must have taken 15 minutes easily and I will bet my Grandpa, who passed away over 30 years ago and my Dad, who had passed away a few earlier, were both up there somewhere laughing at me the whole time. 

My jacket also has a riding angel pinned on the lapel.  My daughter Samantha gave it to me and it is there to protect me when I do stupid things.  This means I often call on it for support.

So there you have it.  Amulets and other assorted tacky stuff hanging all over my jacket and bike.  Hellofa deal, isn’t it?!

My vest is similarly loaded with stuff, including genuine signatures from Willie G. Davidson and his son Bill.  But that, as they say, is another story.