Harley-Davidson... and Associated Tales

Pins

2011-10-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

Rode dirt bikes in the 70's
Nothing in the 80's
Then in the late 90's
Finally, in the great scheme of things
Was able to buy my first Harley
Wife's fatal words that day were,
"Why don't you go ahead and look?"*
That was my ticket outta' Palookaville

*The one sentence in our 40+ years together that she likely regrets.
Well, maybe after "I do."

I caught a serious case of fanaticism

"The Vest"
Notice autographs of Willie G and his son Bill Davidson
For Sale: $1,000,000 or your first born
(I am looking for a grand son)

Scouring catalogues and other bikes
For cool things I could do to personalize mine
Also for clothes, knick-knacks, you name it
Anything related to Harley-Davidson
Much to my wife's dismay
After all, how do you correct a kid
Who has hit his mid-fifties?!

I was also travelling a lot in my work
That took me to a lot of cities
I took to looking up all dealers there
To visit... and to exercise my fanaticism
A habit likely related to my 1/4 Native American origins
Counting coup... except, rather than hitting my enemy with a stick
As my ancestors preferred
I would purchase a dealer pin for my collection

Okay, bad comparison
But I still like to think of it that way
At first I attached the ones I really liked to my leather riding vest
Along with pins customarily given to commemorate bike runs
And pinned others to a cork board I purchased for my office
Then I ran out of room on my vest
In fact, it got so heavy I retired it from wear
Eventually I also had to buy a bigger cork board

After the first couple of years
I also got a little more selective
Having noticed, in a very brief moment of lucid thinking
Some dealers stocked pretty pathetic representations of their logos

Perhaps I had the makings of a rational man after all.......
Nah.

"The Corkboard"
I have been fortunate to visit every one of these, and more
Click on it for astonishing detail... well, maybe not.

Now, I have a couple hundred pins I guess - Give or take
From all over the U.S. - Texas to Florida, California to Ohio
Washington to the Carolinas (Didn't find one in NY)
Even Florence, Italy and Cancun, Mexico
A lot of them are also from biker Mecca, Sturgis
Also other biker events such as The Laughlin River Run
And Reno's Street Vibrations
The far right includes a collection of annual Harley Owner's Group member pins

Pins... just one more way for a Harley rider to punch the old
Figurative fanatic's card
Like the t-shirt says (yea I have a mess of those too)
"I Was There", counting coup in homage to my heritage of course...

I am missing many... no not marbles....pins.
There is still work to be done.

Veni. Vidi. Velveeta... (They don't make'em...)

2011-09-23T19:15:00.000-07:00

Reno's famous Virginia Street during Street Vibrations

...like they used to.

September 20th, 2011 - dateline Reno

Veni
The Coyote, his bride and I
Were to meet early for our annual trek
To Reno, Nevada for the biker event "Street Vibrations"

Coyote and wife both had to work late
The previous night
So begged off our departure time
I had to get there as I also had
A World Poker Tour tournament
I wanted to enter
I left ahead of them

I should have been forewarned things might be cockeyed that day
But I pressed on
Warm temperatures on both sides of the Sierras so I dressed light
T-shirt, shirt and light jacket
Figured I would endure the cold on Donner pass

The trip was smooth and uneventful
Set the cruise control on 80 and let'er rip...
I hit Reno in a couple hours with a little time to spare
So I headed for Chester's Harley Davidson
To present my HOG (Harley Owner's Group) fanatic card
And pick up my 'proof of life',
A commemorative event pin for members only

Got that done then went to the wrong casino
To enter the tournament
They were both off the main strip
And I'm easily confused
But then repacked the bike
And found my way to the right casino in time

Vedi
There I quickly paid up
And had a few moments to grab a bite
Went to the table a couple of minutes early
Sat in my assigned seat
And noticed a player there who looked familiar
I asked, "Is it possible I have seen you on the rectangular screen?"
He said "Yes."

This is TJ
He doesn't look mean at all in real life.
(It took a Poker Hall of Fame pro to knock me out of that
tournament... I'd like to spin it that way.)

I said, "Please forgive me for forgetting but you are...?"
He said, "TJ" and the dealer said his last name but I couldn't make it out
So I said something dumb like; "Well, its awesome to be sitting at the same table with you."
He turned out to be TJ Clotier
My first genuine poker pro and I was gambling with him
Me and eight others that is

(I'm thinking; 'Wow, these are all pros here?... I am in wayyyy over my head.)

Velveeta

I broke (yes, a play on words) into tournament poker here in Sacramento a few months ago

And have played with some pretty tough hombres

So I was surprisingly comfortable with the table

Got about an hour and a half into the puppy

Was a couple thousand ahead

Then after small initial bets ("blinds"), TJ and I were head to head

After the flop I had a flush draw.

TJ was first to act and pushed all in with over 12 thousand in chips

There was a king in the flop and I correctly assumed he had one

But was still surprised at the size of the bet

I knew I had a 15-20% chance, twice to hit the flush

It would be on the turn (sixth card) or the river (seventh and final) card

I had recently seen one of the top players in the world, Phil Hellmuth

Miss a flush in similar circumstances... three consecutive times in a televised tournament

So I had a little more vivid picture of my chances in spite of the odds

Yet, I had a chance to knock out a Hall of Fame poker player

I took the chance and called

It wasn't to be

I again thanked TJ for the privilege of playing against him

Wished the rest of the table luck (two had been knocked out before me)

And headed on my way with another precious memory

To tuck into the treasure chest

In all, TJ is a really friendly person who plays fairly tight poker
(But I am truly unworthy of judging)

And entertains the entire table with short stories of his past adventures

(That part I CAN judge...)

As for the rest of the trip...

I had a $49 dollar room that night at Reno's Silver Legacy

Right on the strip and in the middle of the biker/vendor action

They close down Virginia Street for bikes and spectators only

It was impressive how low key things were...

Not as many bikers and not as many vendors as years past

The recession has made it less than half of what it once was

But the Coyote, his bride and I still got a chance to mosey

Down the middle of the street,

Enjoying the night lights, a damn good Santana tribute band

A couple of beers and a couple of stogies

So it was... beat out of a tourney, a low density crowd and few vendors

Cheap and cheesy.. just the way I like it... Velveeta
...and a little spam can't hurt either!

There Are No Harleys...

2011-04-25T16:49:00.000-07:00

... in this post.
But, if you feel something
For the wonderful spirit
You are about to see
You will begin to understand
The Harley-Davidson experience...

Pimp Walk

2011-03-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I was learning to accommodate

My pimped out 100th Anniversary Road King.
Changed her for a new Street Glide in '08.
I miss her and all her bling!
Click on the photo to enlarge

An arthritic hip and associated back problems
That made me adjust my gait
When I had a memorable chance encounter.

I was at the grocer's
Had parked and was walk/shuffling/limping into the store
When an employee, a black man
Returning carts to its entrance noticed me and inquired, "Hey man... Is that your pimp walk or did you hurt your leg?"

I laughed and all I could think of to respond was; "Both!"

Fast forward to yesterday
Hip just replaced, I now have a fairly normal looking walk.

Daughter Samantha and I were in a theater parking lot
And I said, "Hey Sam! Remember that story about the pimp walk?
Now that my hip is fixed I can really do it watch!

I then did my best impression and she quickly said,
"Dad, I don't think you own it."
I said, "What?" (A word my pitiful ears have made me internationally famous for.)
"Own," she said, "I don't think you own it."

Another fine laugh and memory.
I love how these things keep accumulating
Adding to a treasure chest of warm hearted moments.

So you are asking yourself what this has to do with a blog about riding Harley's right?
Well, before the hip and pimp walk fix... I would hardly ride a mile without feeling like I had a toothache in my rear end... toothache gone!

Pit E. Full

2010-12-19T14:43:00.000-08:00

The World's Greatest Rehab Tech and Yours Truly.

I sit here... on a rainy Sunday.
Bathed in the soft glow of of the fickle lights on
The Christmas Tree From Hell.
I notice the four family socks
Hung gracefully on the fireplace mantel.
I am surrounded by little things
Aimed to comfort me as I heal.
Water, coffee, cell phone, laptop
TV remote, extra blanket, dog Molly.
I am fresh off major sugery
A week tomorrow.
The results exceed my expectations.
I plan to ride across the United States in May.
To participate in the Rolling Thunder Rally for Veterans (POW/MIA) in Washington DC.
This surgery is aimed to get me there.
The trip was on my "bucket list" before the term was invented.
Julieann is spoiling me, yes more so than usual.
She is trying her best to anticipate my every need.
She is succeeding.
I am riding high on pain meds and good old TLC.
I should be ashamed of myself.
I'm not.

*For earlier posts that anticipated this situation please refer to "Cairo Practica, Cairo Practica II and III and Rack'em!"

For an update on the surgery 'its own self' see:

"Minimally Invasive" - The Sordid Details

Tc's InstaGrandson

2010-11-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

It's like this.

TC doesn't have a grand child and he want's one.. or more.

He has asked his son Ty and daughter Sam repeatedly to "Get busy." to no avail.

Once, he even asked Sam to have a little bastard. She replied, "Hmmm. With Jake Guyenhall?

To which he replied, "No problem." She has since rejected poor Jake as a possibility.

So TC's nephew Dakota has graciously agreed to stand in as official or instaGrandson.

Until Tom's Son or Daughter come around.

And here they are together in August, 2010

Bonding

Doing Grandson/Grandad things.

'Ima' Happy Camper.

A "Badass"' Book Review

2010-04-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, it seems I have an abiding moral obligation to quote this entire critique by pal and fellow blogger, Annie King. Over the past two years, I have had the pleasure to get acquainted with Annie through her terrific stories, poems and observations on life. Last year, Annie graced me by ordering a copy of my internationally famous best seller (Sold one copy to an Australian!). Annie's amazingly accurate critical review followed:

"TC's Hog" latest version

“It’s Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood.” The significance of that line sinks in after multiple re-reads of it within the text of Tom Campbell’s entertaining biker book:Badass: The Harley-Davidson Experience. Tom Campbell is a family man, a Harley owner and rider, a medical consultant, and a reluctant poet. You can read his prose and poetry on his blog, This is… the Life. Oh Yes it is. CABG is a recent favorite of mine, along with an entry about his trip to New Orleans.

Badass: The Harley-Davidson Experience is part advice book and part travelogue, chronicling Tom’s ride from his home in Sacramento, California to Sturgis, South Dakota for the annual biker rally. In the second half of the book, Tom expands his narrative style with longer entries and descriptive passages. One of my favorite sections is an entry that has nothing to do with motorcycle riding at all, but everything to do with life: If You Think Motorcycles Are Dangerous, ‘Tri’ a Triathlon! The writing is vivid, and you feel every scrape and bump and exhilarating moment along the way.

Finally, in the Epilogue, Tom admits he is more milquetoast than badass (as if the reader hasn’t figured it out!), and his confession is all the more endearing as he thanks his wife, in an earlier section, for her support. I believe he is more explorer, nature lover, and student of life than milquetoast, but we will leave that assessment up to Tom!

For anyone who has ever ridden or driven a motorcycle, and anyone who wants to take that special ride with Tom, you can follow his journey to happiness by reading Badass. If you order the book, it comes leather bound with hand-sewn hemp stitching, and Tom’s personal autograph. As the tale of one man’s journey, and the portrait of a good guy, the book is a joy to own. (But if your name is Billy, and you rode with Tom to Sturgis, or if you like both orange juice and milk with your morning coffee, don’t read this book!)

Thank you Annie King! You are a nice person!

Flappin' Cheeks

2010-03-08T11:23:00.000-08:00

“Al had decided he was going to become one with the road so he left his detachable windshield at the hotel. I glanced over at him while we had the baggers mellowed at 3,000 rpm (about 80mph) and his cheeks were plastered back around his ears. He looked like he was pulling around 8 G’s, but it was just the wind making his face into silly putty. I wanted to slow down so he wouldn’t look like he was suffering too much but I managed to overcome the thought and he kept flappin’."

(photo rt: TC, Willie G. Davidson hisownself and Alonzo "El Coyote" Munguia - rear with hat is Bill Davidson, Willie's son and newly appointed CEO of HD as of April 2010 - I have Sharpie authographs of both on the vest I am wearing in the picture)

Signed Hand Leather Bound copies available at: www.badassbook.com

Winter

2009-12-16T12:30:00.000-08:00

Need a last minute Xmas gift for that biker you love?

(Remember it is okay to love yourself - and your bike...)

Check out www.badassbook.com

It will help that biker you love

Get through the cold days

While cooped up indoors

The Road Home - Nailing It!

2009-08-09T15:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-04T18:41:00.001-07:00

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 this 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 (www.badassbook.com) 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 has been renting their basement (for six) and Bunkhouse (as many as 10) to Sturgis bikers and Black Hills vacationers. She also uses the home and grounds to host weddings.

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

served out doors 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 out doors. 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 someones 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 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 back board... 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

2009-07-30T05:38:00.000-07:00

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 Mungia.

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 it's 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

2009-07-30T04:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

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".

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.

(photo right - 87 octane)

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 again... 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 country 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.

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.

(photo right..."the shadow knows...")

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 outfished 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 no 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

2009-07-27T18:46:00.001-07:00

I was in the high desert.

Between Alkali Flat and Wagontire

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.

Spokane is a beautiful town,

growing, vibrant and busy.

I spent time there with an old friend, Jack Ohl of

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

(Plug time: www.aproots.com)

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 straighten the sweeping Interstate twisties.

To track down another of the world's greatest restaurants.

To be back in civilization.

(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

2009-07-23T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-22T17:20:00.000-07:00

First day of 3,000+ mile loop

Through Northern California

To Spokane then west to Sturgis

For 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!

2009-07-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

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...

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!

To your right... my rack mounted and ready. Someone please explain to me how it could get any better than this...

Cold Bugs

2009-06-06T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-06T11:26:00.000-07:00

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 10 MPH, but there sure wouldn’t have been anything to gain from arguing.

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

Handlebar - to - Handlebar

2009-04-23T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T10:55:00.000-07:00

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 footpegs added to Harley touring bike crashbars... 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 alse 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

2009-04-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-03-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-01-22T08:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Perfectly

2009-01-18T16:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-06T10:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Gone But Not Forgotten

2008-12-04T12:21:00.000-08:00

“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, Badass (Mostly True Tales About the Harley-Davidson Experience), May 8, 2006, www.badassbook.com

Just Stop… and Tip Over

2008-11-26T09:13:00.000-08:00

While the Coyote and I were on our glorious run along “The Loneliest Highway”, Highway 50, I had an attack. It was rapture of the outdoors (a total surprise to anyone who knows me). As a result, I began keeping an eye out for photo opportunities. Somewhere on the lonely highway we passed a very scenic outcropping of rock. I noticed it had an area right in front where the bikes would look great for a photo. I happened to be in the lead at the time so I slowed down and gave Al a couple of hundred million signals to indicate we were turning back. As we approached I left the highway to take a short gravel road to the site.

About the time I got the bike on the gravel I noticed a small almost dry creek was crossing the road. It also had what looked like a pretty large muddy area I would have to cross. I only had a split second to assess the situation and came up with zip… nada. I mean, I could not tell how deep the mud was and I was not going to put almost a thousand pounds of bike, gear and person on it to find out. So I grabbed a handful of brake, put my foot down to steady the bike, got no purchase in the gravel and gently laid the bike down. What I mean is… I fell over.

If you remember the television show, Laugh In, you may recall Arte Johnson used to do that all the time. Picture a full grown man riding around on a little tricycle, coming abruptly to a halt and falling over. That is what Arte did and that is just what I did. Thanks for the idea Arte! So Al came up, laughed at me for a while and then began trying to help me get the bike out of there.

We couldn’t get the puppy up so we finally decided to unload my packs and try. That worked and we were soon underway none the worse for the wear. So much for the badass biker concept right?!

Falling over... it has happened to me several times, typically while motionless. If it has to happen this is the best time as the worst development is typically a slightly bruised ego. Conversely, if it happens while you are moving, there are an infinite number of very bad things that can happen.

“So what” you say, “I have ridden for ten months or ten years or longer and it has never happened to me.” Don’t worry it will. As the old Brook Benton standard says, "Its Just a Matter of Time."

Autumn Ride

2008-11-21T12:24:00.000-08:00

A gorgeous fall day...

Riding gear hanging on garage wall next to parked 2008 Harley-Davidson FLHX (A hard bagger commonly known as a Street Glide).

The recipe for the day:

Remove vintage WWII olive drab woolen Army blanket protecting bike from dust.

The fact that the blanket was “appropriated” over 40 years ago automatically gives your bike a certain amount of character.

The blanket releases a not unfamiliar smell combining faint scents of wax, leather, newer plastics, fiberglass epoxy, oil and gas.

Remove rolled up leather chaps from fishnet holder on garage wall.
Buckle chaps, then reach down and zip each leg, then fasten two snaps at bottom of each leg.
Start motorcycle and let run to warm up.

The great sound of the bagger at idle is enough to distract you from properly completing the rest of your “recipe” or checklist so you have to regroup just a little before you go on.

Put on and zip up hooded sweat shirt
Put on and fasten snaps on leather vest
If temperature is around 50F or less, add scarf
Put on leather jacket, leaving wrists momentarily unzipped.

A lot of layers yes. But as the day progresses and as the temperature warms you will be able to selectively remove them and put them in your badass baggers bags baby.

Put on “do-rag” to help prevent dreaded “helmet itch”.
Put on sun glasses.
Put on helmet and secure strap
Put on gloves
Zip up jacket sleeves snugly around gloves.

You will often forget this simple task... zipping the sleeves…don’t ask me why but you will realize it as soon as you get on the street and notice a chill wind finding its way around your gloves and up your arms.

Perform visual bike inspection to make sure everything is attached and closed properly

There will be times you will be so excited you will forget to do this as well – it’s a fact.

Mount bagger
Shuffle feet to back bike out of garage
Check surroundings
Check azimuth of the sun to determine travel direction

This is often the only criterion for the day’s ride… you pick your direction so the sun will not be in your face.

Hit first gear
Hit the road
Begin absorbing input from all senses and from all possible angles
Assume everything moving… cars, motorcycles, bicycles, people, animals will do something incorrectly and somehow end up in your path
Be prepared to take evasive action
Always have an escape route in mind:

Can you suddenly move left or right or is there something in the way that precludes it?
Can you accelerate out of danger if necessary or will that put you in the path of other objects?
Can you slam on the brakes if necessary or is there something moving closely behind you?

Somewhere down that road, there will be a steaming cup of hot coffee and a fresh donut waiting for you. It’s well worth the effort, in fact it’s priceless!

Chasing Bullitt

2008-11-17T13:48:00.000-08:00

We have some terrific countryside here in Northern California for most of our motorcycle runs– through Gold Country, Wine Country and so on. The “FOG HOG” was very different as it really involved no “country” at all. It was an organized motorcycle tour through the streets of San Francisco and it really worked great.

Here’s why:

Dudley Perkins Harley-Davidson® was the “Mother” dealership for this event and they did a fine job of getting everyone lined up. Dudley is a grand old dealership that has been in San Francisco since 1914.

After Al “El Coyote” Munguia and I made a cold, full-leather, multi-layer, vigorous run on the hogs in from Sacramento, the Dudley folks fed us and the other participants free steaming coffee and fresh doughnuts on a clear brisk Sunday morning in San Francisco. Al and I arrived early (wanted to be sure to get a commemorative “limited supply” pin) and took off with the first group. By the time we started the run, the weather was just about perfect. We were very comfortable shucking the top layer of leathers and wearing our HOG (Harley Owners Group) vests with sweatshirts underneath.

A Fog Hogs Road Captain “Boston Eddie” led us. The route was fairly complex with “many a winding turn” as the old song goes. You wouldn’t want to be fumbling with a map while negotiating the streets. As we quickly found, it was a very good idea to do this run chasing a local Road Captain who knew the way. Eddie and his posse did a great job of getting us smoothly through a ton of intersections. The run distance was fairly short at around 35 miles total, with brief stops along the way. There were several notable parts:

Chasing Bullitt

First, the streets: We spent a couple hours negotiating them. As you may be aware, they wander all over the place with plenty of up-and-down hill runs. There were some good opportunities to practice clutch and brake maneuvers associated with starting from a stop while facing uphill on a steep incline.

The trick is to be able to operate the brake and throttle with your right hand at the same time. You can do it using your thumb and index finger to operate the throttle while your other fingers are working the brake. As we negotiated a few hills I was reminded of Steve McQueen’s famous chase scenes in Bullitt. I thought we might even round a corner and look up to see him double clutching in that ’69 Mustang!

During the run we actually did cruise Filbert Street and several others that were locations for what many regard as the greatest car chase scene in film history.

Next, the noise: Yup we made some. And among the close buildings in the city, the pipes can sound very loud. I am not suggesting this is a good thing but we set off many auto alarms that late Sunday morning. In fact I noticed one person in his window remotely turning off his car alarm as certain, unnamed riders sat at a red light and revved their engines attempting to get his alarm to go off… again.

Then the sights: One of the first areas we passed through was Twin Peaks. This is a very sparsely settled pair of, you guessed it, peaks that has a commanding, unobstructed view of the entire city, the bridges and the bay. Al and I were unfamiliar with that spot and both later agreed it was very awesome.

After leaving the peaks we passed through or by many notable San Francisco landmarks: Haight-Ashbury, the Presidio, Battery Park and Seal Rocks, the Cliff House and down the Great Highway to Lake Merced.

The trip through the Presidio was very nice with beautiful landscaping everywhere and some very stately, well maintained old government buildings. The architecture throughout the city also seems more massive and striking when viewed from a Hog rather than a car. For example, you notice a lot more of the intricate workmanship in the construction of many of the buildings. Also, if you focus long and hard enough at that very same workmanship, you get to run into something!

Finally, the barbeque: At the boathouse at Harding Park. Two lines, your choice– one with some fine looking sausages, pasta salad and cole slaw. The other had freshly prepared chicken and some very tasty white sauce over rice and a salad. This was truly above average run fare.

"Fog Hog" and the streets of San Francisco - a remarkable experience... a lesson in skilled riding while absorbing your immediate surroundings... an up close look at one of the most amazing cities in the world. Not too shabby eh? Let's take a break and have a stogie!

Chili Baaaybeeeee!

2008-11-13T13:14:00.000-08:00

This is a little known fact. All bikers, especially Harley riders have to eat.

In reality, the constant stress of lusting after chrome, leather, speed and the open road gives them quite prodigious appetites. That explains why most of them wear chain extensions on their leather vest snaps. It allows a little more breathing room for their...well, you know.

So it likely comes as no surprise to know I too experience this phenomenon.
Why just today, as she left for work my wife Julieann rustled up some chili in the crockpot and asked me to keep an eye on it. While it is true that I am extremely busy when I am at home instead of travelling in my consultant work I nevertheless agreed. I have to do my part of course. Plus, I asked for the chili as I love the stuff when the weather turns cool.

Well I checked it a few minutes ago and it seemed all right. In fact, it seemed great so I decided to do a no-notice Internal Quality Assurance audit. Following my rigid self-imposed guidelines I grabbed a large spoon and filled a big bowl with it. I then secretly added chili sauce to spike the product a little further. I called for volunteers to test it and, hearing no answers decided I would have to take the ultimate risk and use myself as test subject. I grabbed a bag of saltines for reinforcement and dove in. It was touch and go several times as I would alternately 'touch' a spoonful of chili or a cracker and test both, repeatedly. Unfortunately, I had some crackers left over so I had to grab a jar of blueberry jam to give them substance before I ate them. Verdict: delicious! Now this evening, I will probably be expected to eat some of it for dinner as well. I know, I know. "The horror!" you say. But I am up to it. I'm tough.

I'm tellin' you right now the life of a biker is not a pretty one... especially the chili watching part.

The Common Biker

2008-11-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

A he or a she

Plebian and patrician

They all ride side-by-side

Sharing a love of the open road

None are of a class at that moment

All are of a common cause

Basking in weather... good or bad

Masters of short hops

One to two hundred miles

To a brief rest or gas

Across the land

Leather and the smell

Chrome and the sparkle

Paint and the gleam

Pipes and the staccato

Land and the views

Each other

This is the common biker.

Hot Chrome

2008-10-23T09:58:00.001-07:00

I really learned how to ride motorcycles in the high desert of Idaho

where we would crank up dirt bikes year 'round.

I remember one January I couldn't resist the urge to take a quick ride.

My gloves were unlined cowhide.

It got so cold I stopped and wrapped my hands around the hot exhaust pipe to warm them.

It dried the cowhide up so much I had to discard the gloves afterward.

I bought my first Harley when daughter Samanth was just around 9 years old.

When I arrived home with it, Sam ran out to look.

She was so taken by the paint and chrome she walked right up to it and accidently touched her leg against the hot exhaust pipe.

It healed fine but it wasn't a good experience.

From that point, I always knew to warn little kids as they approached the bike to look.

With my second Harley, I got to the point where on hot days,

I would take rides wearing shorts.

I knew there were certain positions that could cause me to touch the inside of my calf against the hot pipes but I rode that way anyway.

Every once in a while I would forget and get burned.

That didn't stop me.

(Note: Brain Surgeons, Rocket Scientists and Joe the Professional... do not dwell on this site)

Traffic Cone?!

2008-10-18T17:27:00.000-07:00

Over the years my family has come to accept that I have my share of eccentricities or idiosyncrasies. Yes, the words mean pretty much the same and yes, my family likes the “idio…” version best.

This shirt made by RK Stratman
Its the best of Muscle T's
That's because of the fit on the shoulder
And the quality of the cotton.
They are not always easy to find.

Many have to do with the fact that I am a certifiable Harley-Davidson fanatic. For example, I collect Harley themed dealer t-shirts. “Well.” you say, “Everybody who rides Harleys does.”

Yes they do but I take it one step further. I collect Harley “muscle-t’s.” These are the kind that are manufactured without sleeves. I have them in black, white, grey and yes, Harley-Davidson orange. I wear them constantly when I am not travelling.

It is, in fact a habit I am proud to share with my neighbor, Joe Sixpack, who has been more recently referred to in some circles as Joe The Plumber.

It’s the orange ones that put my family members over the proverbial top. In short, they can’t stand them. When I wear orange muscle-t’s my loving affectionate son, Tyler has taken to referring to me as “Pylon” and when formality dictates; “Traffic Cone.” Since I am in charge around here, my response is typically, “Hey, let’s show a little respect. It’s ‘Traffic Cone Sir’ to you buddy.”

Anyway, it’s not so Joe. I have visual proof as you can readily see in the photos that accompany this affidavit. Me and my orange t-shirt? = A traffic cone/pylon?

I think not!

The Gump Group

2008-10-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago, the Coyote and I made a trip on Highway 50, often titled"The Lonliest Highway in America". It was a return trip from out East and we had decided to pick up Highway 50 just outside of Salt Lake City then stay on it all the way to Sacramento.

In that roughly 600-mile stretch of road we saw some remarkable scenery, a few small towns and what I call the four Forrests. Not trees mind you, but the Gump type– you know, like in “Gump. Forrest Gump.” The first one we saw was a biker, as in bicycle, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere. Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

Then we were heading through some foothills into a valley and along the side of the road was another solitary figure. He had two large garbage bags full of something lying next to him and he was sitting cross-legged staring out into the valley below. Finally we were a few miles out of a little town and there was a guy clad in shorts and shoes only, heading for what looked like nowhere.

Now as I recollect these guys all had some things in common. They all looked fairly old. They all had gray hair and beards and they all were thin. So what the hell does that mean? Maybe it is this: If you want to get old, turn gray and get thin, head for the loneliest highway in America, Highway 50.

That night we settled in at an old mining town named Austin, Nevada. Austin had a handful of stores and three tiny motels. The rooms were cheap at $35 and clean to boot. We moseyed (That is what you do in an old mining town, right? You mosey!) up the street to the town restaurant and bar and had a couple hamburger steaks with fries backed up by a couple damn fine longnecks and turned in early in preparation for the last leg home the next day.

Imagine

2008-10-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

You are a small pebble

Lodged in a groove

Of a rear tire

Of a Harley-Davidson

You are cozy there

But tightly embedded

Resting

On a concrete garage floor

Suddenly

You are disturbed

By the brief whine

Of a starter

Then a loud

"potato, potato" rumble

Of the exhaust

It's just inches from you

And it sounds like

An avalanche

Of your much bigger

Brothers and Sisters: Boulders

Soon, you begin moving in a slow circle

That moves you like chair in a ferris wheel

Up, then down and around

Punctuated by a regular darkness

That marks the spot where tire meets floor

Right where you are lodged in tread

You find yourself being backed into the street

Out of the quiet sanctuary of a garage.

Then you hear the exhaust rise and fall

As someone prepares to release the clutch

And launch the Harley into forward motion

Then, it happens!

The exhaust explodes in noise

You feel the force of several G's

As the motorcyle rapidly gains speed

And your Ferris Wheel spins faster

And faster

From your vantage point at the rear wheel

It seems like the world will end

At least for you

At any moment

The wheel is spinning so rapidly

The tire is warming and expanding

Which makes your perch in the tread

Loosen and seem all the more precarious

At any moment you may be thrown free

And land who knows where?

This is not a proper existence

For a small pebble!

But then you realize

It could be worse.

You could be a boulder

That is wearing to a rock

That is wearing to a stone

That is wearing to a pebble

That is wearing to a grain of sand

Or worse yet

You could be someone's 401K

Riders of the Purple Sage – with apologies to Zane Grey

2008-09-29T10:53:00.000-07:00

Preparation - Or Else!

The ride into Bruneau Canyon Idaho is an adventure no matter how you get there. You can walk (not recommended), raft (only at certain times of the year), drive (pickup or SUV only) or ride a dirt bike. The latter is the fastest and most fun way to do it of course. You can approach from all four cardinal points but I am only familiar with two, North and South. I can safely guess all are very much the same with the exception of the southern approach.

From the north, east and west you must travel 30-60 miles of high desert gravel and dirt road to reach it. The southern route is a few miles longer and you must travel through the tiny old mining town of Jarbridge, Nevada in the mountains. From all directions you will encounter miles of sagebrush. Yes, it’s sage of the purple kind. If you have been there before its sight and smell will alert your senses to impending adventures of the rugged, beautiful kind.

In the mid-70’s, Charlie Brown, Jack Ohl and I were stationed at Mountain Home, an Air Force fighter base about half way between Bruneau Canyon and Boise Idaho. We were all hospital administrators; “pencil-pushing” medics there doing what was right for God and country. Well, maybe just country.

Mountain Home was pretty isolated and flat (as in 50 miles from the nearest McDonalds restaurant in Boise). In our off time we could either die from boredom or find some activities to suit us and get on with it. There were, and still are, plenty of great outdoor activities there. Things like mountain hiking, snow and water skiing, fishing, white-water rafting and dirt bike riding. We tried many of them together and often included our families. Toward the end of our roughly three year tours there Charlie, Jack and I ended up riding dirt bikes whenever we had a chance.

“Leadbelly” introduced us to riding. His real name was Jerry Salsberry. Jerry was a civilian worker in our hospital supply department. He was very intelligent and had a deep love for the simple things in life. As a result, Jerry couldn’t be bothered by advanced education. At one time, he had been married to a PhD and he could spit out high-brow words with the best of them. He wasn’t concerned about climbing proverbial career ladders either. To him life meant smoking, drinking, singing and riding dirt bikes.

We all kind of took to Jerry in admiration of his love of the outdoors. He in turn decided to mentor Jack first, then Charlie and I in the art of riding dirt bikes. That meant he would ride like hell into the high desert, through the purple sage, then stop for a smoke and beer while waiting for us to catch up. Those days were a little before small, portable coolers were invented so we would carry drinks and food by improvising with whatever we could. Usually it was just warm beer that had been getting tossed around in our backpacks we wore while we road. During a hard ride it was delicious every time. Jerry would get a little carried away with the beer part once in a while and become accident prone. That accounted for a few (maybe all) of his barb wire fence scars.

Jerry also had a great singing voice, low-pitched and in tune all the time. That's why we called him "Leadbelly" as testimony to his ability. At campsites, he would hit us with ballads like "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" and "Long Black Veil". His rendition of the "'Veil" would send chills up and down your spine.

We all rode “Thumpers”; Honda dirt bikes with four-stroke engines. The alternative was “ring dings” or bikes with two stroke engines. We preferred four stroke engines for two reasons. First, they were pretty much bullet proof. You could ride them anywhere, all day long, day after day, week after week without performing maintenance other than oiling the chain and changing the oil. Most of the time we even forgot those two chores. We just rode them, fell over with them, lost them down mountainsides, ran them into things and generally appreciated that they bore the brunt of any riding mistakes we made.

The second reason we rode four stroke engines was the sound they made, especially on high torque, low speed climbs. If you had the right aftermarket exhaust pipe (never the quiet, factory type) you got a “thump, thump, thump” sound that was a perfect match for your testosterone level. This was in pretty stark contrast to the “ring-ding” of a two-stroke. We knew “ring-dings” were faster but that didn’t faze us. We wanted to ride the tough sounding thumpers that in comparison required little to no maintenance.

One of the first rules we learned was; “When you are about to crash get away from the bike as quickly as possible. The bike is made of metal. It has heavy, sharp, hot, metallic things on it and “it can hurt you.” One day Leadbelly and I were out for a short training ride of sorts and, while at fairly slow speed… I got a little tangled up. I was trying to coordinate wheels and handlebars on a slow turn and fell over. I didn’t react quickly enough so ended up with most of my left leg under the bike. I couldn’t get enough purchase or leverage on anything to get up so I was stuck. The bike was pretty hot but I didn’t smell anything (like my leg) burning. Leadbelly rode over,looked down and asked if I was all right. I said I thought so. Rather than help me by lifting the bike a little, he laughed and rode away leaving me to figure it out for myself. Such was the nature of his riding lessons.

For a couple of years, we rode all over southern Idaho; the Bruneau sand dunes, the old mining town of Silver City, Devil’s Hole on the south fork of the Boise River and of course, into Bruneau Canyon. All the adventures were great but Bruneau Canyon would end up being first in our thoughts whenever we were able to break away for a weekend.

The Campsite and Ride In

I peek out of the sleeping bag just as the sun meets the horizon… up too late last night drinking and singing and telling lies around the campfire. Have to get up though; can’t wait for the day to unfold. Start the camp stove and boil water for coffee. Step away from camp a little for nature’s call to water down some sage. Shuffle back to the fire and restoke it a little… not too much because we will be heading out right after breakfast. Squeeze out some paste, hang the toothbrush under the water jug and do a messy job of brushing teeth. Wake up Leadbelly. He’s the lead cook. He usually brings butterflied venison tenderloins in a cooler and a jug of sliced potatoes soaking in water. “They fry up better that way”. We supply the other essentials; eggs, utensils, plates and condiments.

The other two start stirring. Charlie wants to hang around camp and go through some elaborate preparations before departing. Jack wants to jump on the bike and head out before doing anything else including eating and checking to see if he has any gas in his tank. He fires up his “Thumper” and heads out to do a little reconnoitering before breakfast. Jack has one more synapse than the rest of us. It makes him constantly fired up about getting in the middle of the action as fast as possible, including the ride into Bruneau Canyon this morning.

We calm Jack down a little and he gets the pototoes and onions going. He can peel and cut up an onion into a frying pan almost as quick as a gunslinger can draw.

I am not far behind Jack in the “fired up” category. Charlie fusses over something. I hump stuff for the breakfast while Leadbelly and Jack cook. I want to be done, clean up the gear a little and be gone… real quick.

We finally finish breakfast, get packed up with beer, sandwiches and other essentials and begin starting the bikes. Either Jack or Jerry will have a problem getting their bike started. It’s something you can rely on. While both are damn fine mechanics, neither enjoys working on their own bikes. So, their bikes break a lot. No problem though as the four of us sort of build the delay for repairs into our mental agendas. Finally, all four are running and we head out; eighteen miles to the canyon rim. It’s an amazing way to start the day. The route is west into the canyon so the sun is at our back. The air is crisp and redolent with sage. The sky is crystal clear.

There are stretches of old road you can wind the bike up in but much of the trail is strewn with softball to bowling ball sized rocks. You have to pick your way through many spots. Well… except for Leadbelly who goes full bore no matter what condition the road is in. Typically, by the time all of us reach the canyon rim, he has stopped to have his morning beer and cigarette and he still beats us there. Sometimes he heads down the trail over a quarter of a mile into the canyon before we get there. We can hear his Thumper echo off the canyon walls as he gets on and off the throttle at various points during his descent. After a short rest stop at the rim, the rest of us ride in.

Bruneau Canyon

At the canyon floor, we are all captivated by four remarkable natural features; the river, the canyon, the hot springs and the jasper. The Jarbridge River is typically pretty shallow in the late spring and fall and we time our runs to fit. This way we can usually find spots that are shallow and narrow enough to ride and hike through. It has beautiful, clear water and you can see trout lounging around in its holes although they are usually not too interested in bait. The canyon has steep walls that rise as high as 800 feet. In most places we explore the floor is half or less as wide. It is actually 60 miles long but we cover maybe a couple of miles of it in our explorations… we are happy with that.

“Indian Hot Springs” emerges from the side of a canyon slope about 100 feet above the canyon floor. From there, steaming hot water flows into the cold river. If you investigate you can find a comfortable water temperature just a few feet downriver from where the two merge. In fact, after a hard day of riding and exploring we would often lay in the river at that very spot. With our backs upriver and without changing position, we could use our arms as rudders to guide the flow, moving our left out to draw in more hot water and right out to draw in more cold water.

After hanging around in the canyon and at the camp a few days we were sorely in need of a bath. As it happened, there was a bathtub in a small niche in the canyon wall about 15 feet from the hot springs. We figured some old miner had brought it in. Whoever had done it had also placed an aluminum rain gutter on the premises. We could put one end of the gutter in the hot springs and one end on the bathtub to fill it up. This provided a mini-aqueduct that worked pretty fast. After waiting a while for the water to cool off, we could then take a hot bath. We could also wash out some trail clothes.

Two hand polished specimens... approx 5" diameter.

The most intriguing part of Bruneau Canyon is its jasper veins. They produce a one-of-a-kind combination butterscotch and tan form of jasper known as (of course) Bruneau Jasper. The jasper was formed thousands of years ago by mud dripping into gas pockets in molten lava, becoming super-heated and then solidifying into a swirl-pattern. On a small plateau about half way up the canyon wall there was a mine that was occasionally worked although we rarely saw anyone there. The jasper was typically mined using dynamite to free the geodes. We soon figured out we could score in the blast tailings below the mines so we hit all nearby ravines. In the course of several trips, we each picked up some fine specimens.

Just before sunset, we would do a mad dash back to the camp site. We usually had backpacks filled with rocks and they would beat us up a little bouncing around on our backs but we had no complaints. Our main objective was the camp site and some ice cold beer, a camp cooked dinner, some singing around the campfire and swapping some tales that grew taller as the evening wore on. So that’s who we were, modern day “Riders of the Purple Sage”.

To me, this is the best way to make your bones in the motorcycle world. Sure you must take safety classes as well but you also need to cultivate some instincts for counter steering, rapid evasive maneuvers and getting away from the bike when a crash is a certainty. If you get to learn all this in southern Idaho, in the company of the Riders of the Purple Sage, you are truly a fortunate person.

Epilogue

A few years after Charlie, Jack and I and our families went our separate ways with Air Force career assignments, we learned Leadbelly had passed away. He was in his mid-fifties but I think we would all agree he packed two or three full lives into his time. This one is for you Jerry Salsberry. We miss you.

Not a grey hair in the bunch. Damn, them there were the days!

Lines Lines Everywhere Lines

2008-09-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

Line of questioning
Middle of the line
Demarcation line
Latest in the line
Back of the line
Telephone line
End of the line
Cross the line
Draw the line
Maginot Line
Line jumper
Toe the line
Chorus line
Border line
Clothesline
Line dance
Power line
Ticket line
Chalk line
Front line
Goal line
Fine line
Red line

And then theres:

Queue (the highbrow version)
I’m not li’ne (nah)
Beautiful lines

This is about the last one, Beautiful lines.

See the pictures? See what I mean?

Write... Right? Right.

2008-09-15T16:40:00.000-07:00

“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

The Beginning

2008-08-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

At last, I had my first Harley-Davidson® stashed safely in the garage. It was a violet pearl Heritage Classic and I had picked it up that afternoon.

A Classic has a beautiful retro look to it. By "retro" I mean it has wire spoke wheels, chrome studded leather saddlebags, a large fat gas tank, large diameter front forks and an over sized headlamp surrounded by passing lights and turn signals. It also has high pull back handlebars and a low seat position. The net effect is a modern bike with a look resembling a 1940’s or 1950’s FL Electra Glide model Harley-Davidson®, the sort Elvis liked to ride.

I walked over to the wall of the garage and pulled down a folding lawn chair. Then I went to the refrigerator we had out there, pulled out a beer, twisted the cap and sat down in the chair three or four feet from the Harley. I slowly sipped the beer and stared. I was there for easily over half an hour. I wasn’t embarrassed about the idea at all; in fact, I had the garage door open to let in a little more natural light.

I will bet this very same thing has happened thousands of times in thousands of garages। That is how it is with your first Harley and that is how it will probably be with your last Harley. They are all beautiful masses of chrome, paint and leather. It’s truly an object where form and function come together in a drop-dead gorgeous sort of way.

So what is the motivation to do something like this? I am referring to riding a Harley-Davidson® motorcycle and taking a 4,000-mile tour within a couple of weeks or just climbing on it and taking a short trip to the store, to the country, or anywhere।

Well for beginners it doesn’t hurt to have a fascination with things tacky, with motion, with speed, with sound and a compelling desire to live life large. All those things will get you down the road with a sense of wonder and excitement– truly the best qualities of kids and the enduring qualities of adults who refuse to give up being kids.

Snake River Harley-Davidson

2008-08-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

You see it’s hard to ride through a town that has a Harley dealership and not pay a visit. The dyed-in-the-wool fanatic has to stop in to take a careful look at the T-shirts and everything else on display, including a hunt for perfect chrome and leather. It’s a rite of some kind... like going to Mecca. I love the smell, sound and spectacle of it and I just ignore the rest of my senses (primarily the 'common one) when I am in a shop.

I like to say I am making the stop to get my proverbial “fanatic card punched.” In fact, one time I made the comment in a Harley shop with other customers around and an awestruck listener asked if there was such a card (are you paying attention here Harley marketing folks?) I said “No. But if there was I would have one."

As my most noble and wise brother-in-law and fellow Harley rider, Butch Thomas, says when it comes to things related to Harley-Davidson®, “You gotta do what you gotta do.” To add emphasis I say, "It's fanaticism. It is what it is". So the Snake River H-D dealership in Twin Falls, Idaho was on our list and we made the stop.

You also need to know that the collection of dealer logos on the backs of black T-shirts is a statement of art that is carefully practiced among Harley riders. My riding buddy, Al "Coyote" Munguia, bought a bunch of T-shirts. That’s the way it is out there on the road... struggling to make it to the next T-shirt stop.

I know, I know, we're not talking about the Louvre or the Met here but hey, if I am wearing it on my back this is how I want it to look...

www.badassbook.com

Water

2008-07-30T20:33:00.000-07:00

“Not too many years ago few people worried about being hydrated.

Touring motorcycle riders would ride all day long and not have a drop of water.

Then they would wonder why they had near death feelings later in the day.

Mistaking their feelings for a thirst for beer they would swill a few bottles.

Then they would wake up the next day so dehydrated,

their urine looked like the Red River...

and their skin had a distinct sun-dried raisin look."

Signed Hand Leather Bound copies available at:

www.BadassBook.com

The Few and the Shop Bound

2008-07-22T16:46:00.000-07:00

I took a ride to Gold and Mark Twain country for a late lunch.
Its in adjoining California counties of Amador and Calaveras.
Pretty beautiful in "them there" hills.
It was about 100 miles round about.
Lunch was in the old mining town of Jackson.

Got there looking "bad" on the Harley, climbed off,
spit out a couple of bugs,
then went into the rosebud restaurant for a
barbecue sandwich special.

It was a damn near perfect, lean and tender sandwich with a
side of home style potato salad.

After, I moseyed outside (you "mosey" in mining country you know).
Next, I lit a small Partagas cigar and squinted carefully
Then I continued to "mosey" up and down the wooden walkway.
Enjoyed the shop windows but not so the women who, in midweek,
were pretty much limited to shop workers.
I think they are referred to as "The Few, The Plain and The Shop Bound."
(Not to be confused with "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly")
I know, I know, Deborah Kerr worked in a shop as part of a
Western movie once upon a time.
But Deborah was not there that day.

Then, I climbed back on the HOG,
revved the aftermarket (loud) pipes a few times and
roared out of town...
Leaving "The Few and the Shop Bound" shading their eyes
with their hands to get a better view of my back
Wondering who that dude with the chiseled good looks
and distinguished gray hair was...or not.

Heh...Heh.

Cairo-Practica

2008-07-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

A practice derived from ancient Egyptian customs. As often observed when erecting pyramids, the pharaohs would direct slaves to prostrate themselves over large logs and serve as buffers for the stones that were rolled to the top. While the squashing effect was unsettling to a few observers, it continued to evolve and remains today. Hence the classic expression “Cairo--practica” or, as its more commonly known, “chiropractic”.

Yea right... actually they are about to get rolled... literally.

Being raised as a medic from the pitiful age of 17, I have always been somewhat skeptical of chiropractic medicine, even though I have worked for a couple of Doctors of Osteopathy. They were good practitioners, or so I thought, even though they embraced the school of back-cracking. However, in recent years I have developed the habit of screaming while riding my Harley-Davidson; not from joy but from sciatic pain. As my trips got shorter and shorter and my complaints got longer and longer, folks around me found themselves wanting to be somewhere else.

Then, I found out my main Harley riding buddy, Al “The Coyote” Munguia (who is much, much older than me) was having similar problems but getting chiropractic treatment and having some success with it. I also found out Al’s wife, Norma (who, unlike Al is young and beautiful) was receiving similar treatments. Norma is an ICU nurse and most of us understand their backs have a very short shelf life.

So I made my first visit… to The Coyote’s chiropractor. They worked me over quick after I recited my pitiful condition. They put me on this table with a face-hole so my rather large nose would have a place to rest. Then they put an ice pack on my mid-back and attached an electrocution device to my lower back. If they would have hooked it to my temples they would have fried me like a mass murderer but on my back it felt pretty good. After about 15 minutes of this they led me to the executioner’s, or as they called him "chiropractor’s" office and he put me on this upright rack. Then he hit a button which made the rack and I assume a face down, prone position.

After he decided to let me live, he and the table did this simultaneous ‘whack him from above and below’ maneuver a few times around my lower back and voila’(!) I was cured for a few minutes. I went out the next day and made a test ride on the Harley and it took a lot longer for the sciatic screaming to set in so I may be on the right rack… or is it right track?

That’s it. This old medic is going to keep going in for electrocutions and rack whacks for a while. As the old group, the Monkees would say, “I’m a Believer”.

Band of Brooders

2008-07-14T16:51:00.000-07:00

I just decided to write another book, "Band of Brooders".
It's about a bunch of chickens.
Dumb clucks with a lot of pluck but little luck.
There was not a road those "magnificent bastards" (George Patton) wouldn't cross...
no matter the heavy casualties.

Flappin' Cheeks

2008-06-28T06:33:00.000-07:00

Al had decided he was going to become one with the road
So he left his detachable windshield at the hotel
I glanced over at him while we had the baggers mellowed at 3,000 rpm
His cheeks were plastered back around his ears
He looked like he was pulling around 8 G’s
But it was just the wind making his face into silly putty
I wanted to slow down so he wouldn’t look like he was suffering too much
But I managed to overcome the thought and he kept flappin’."

Al the Coyote is on the right.
Willie G. Davidson is in the middle
Yours Truly on left

Three Titles

2008-06-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

Welcome to reality blog! We'll be choosing from story titles to begin this exercise. So lets get to it, we have a Harley story to tell!

1. A weekend... to KILL (I like this one. Reads sort of ominous. Like a new James Bond story)
2. Rubbernecking - Milwaukee and Anamosa (Res ipsa loquitur - it "speaks for itself") - the Latin is only here because I have a pal who likes to see it and it is certain to make Ms. McKillip turn over in her grave.
3. Get Thee to Anamosa! (Yea I'm still hung up on the "nunnery" thing in the other blog)

Those who vote for one of these titles, and those who do not, get a free abbreviated version of this story.

Heres the abbreviated version:

Had a weekend layover in Des Moines...

Now here is the full, unexpurgated, unedited, unredacted (Is that a word?) version:

Had a weekend layover in Des Moines...(But you already knew that didn't you?) ... while working on a project and decided to head for Harley Davidson mecca. Yes, I being a true believer, turn toward the birthplace of Harley Davidson, Milwaukee every day and bow in respect.

Drove a car (cage) there. Don't tell anyone but I didn't have access to a Harley... a decent Harley that is. You see, the rentals at the Des Moines dealer have stock factory pipes. Unacceptable from a fanatic standpoint. They have to have pipes that are loud and emphasize that famous V-twin sound. All in all the trip there was real fine. I had a full tank, a moonroof and the sun at my back.

I struggled a few times on the way though. I had been spoiled on a recent trip to Italy where drivers respect the hammer lane and don't loiter there unless... you got it... they have the hammer down. It's different in Eye Owe Eh(?) though as elder residents and cell phone operators like to plant themselves in the hammer lane and ignore all others.

Got past it and had a brief, enjoyable day in Milwaukee cruising downtown in the city (Great job locals!) and visiting three Milwaukee Harley Davidson dealerships; House of Harley, Hals and Milwaukee Harley Davidson. I hit'em all to get my figurative fanatic card punched. Actually, I was there to acquire dealer pins as I collect them puppies. It is sort of like counting coup only legal (a genetic thing driven by my Chippewa blood). The first two dealerships were fine but the third, Milwaukee Harley Davidson, had a serious problem. You see they had a fairly plain dealer pin that was distinguished by having their phone number on the front in fairly large print. What?! They expect people to pay for these things and display them on vests or in corkboard collections?! I don't think so.

Fact is, the dealership was also a little dingy and not well stocked with clothing or other products. Amazing to me. A name like theirs in the HD Mother city should be used to leverage the most successful dealership in the area not the smallest. I wonder if Willie G. Davidson his own self knows about this and if so, why he doesn't do anything about it?

Headed for Anamosa and the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa, Iowa on the return trip. It is the home port of one of the largest biker parts places anywhere, JP Cycles. They have a worldwide rep and a worldwide Internet/catalogue business.

Anamosa is a little bitty town but John Parham, founder and owner of JP Cycles is doing what he can to get it on the map. A few years ago, he bought the bike museum in Sturgis, South Dakota and moved it and all it's inventory to Anamosa, much to the consternation of local Sturgis folks who considered the attraction part of the community. The museum has a great collection of Harleys, Indians and many other artifacts from the biker world. You gotta' love the Captain America bike from Easy Rider, authenticated by Peter Fonda! Overall, the museum is well worth the $6 entry fee and can easily keep your attention for at least a couple of hours.

After that a quick blast over the Mississippi River and I was back in Des Moines. Once, while crossing a bridge just before the Mrs. Sip I glanced over my right shoulder and noticed the three r's, a river, a railroad and a regular road all closely following the same path. The river led the way with it's natural curves and the others were tucked in tight formation. The weekend was well 'kilt, with lots of serious rubbernecking and a good museum layover in almost famous Anamosa.

Titles? Pick one. They all work right?!

Tattoo

2008-05-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

People have often asked me
If I have a tattoo.
After all
It is something regularly
Associated with a Harley rider.

I tell them
I am waiting
For my son and daughter
To get old enough to realize
How stupid tattoos are...

Then I will get one.

No Beginning... No End

2008-05-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

That's how it is with a Harley.
Your work with chrome, leather and paint
is never finished.

So much to do...
So little time...

Cold Bugs

2008-05-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

“We hit a very cold Donner Pass on Interstate 80 at around 10:30 am. (There) we 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. There were big splotches of yellow on our pristine bikes. We were suddenly hauling some very cold, dead bugs."
www.BadassBook.com - (flagrant self promotion I know...)

Crisp - Sturgis 2007

2008-05-04T14:36:00.000-07:00

Sturgis 2007

Early morning. A little coffee and maybe a sweet roll in the belly and you are ready to roll.

Your choices for the day’s ride are many. The stark beauty of the Badlands is waiting. The close up, three dimensional views (and yes, if there is a fourth dimension it has to exist right there) of Mount Rushmore. Listen. It doesn’t matter how many photos. If you haven’t panned the presidents with your own eyes you have not seen it.

Or you can head for Spearfish canyon, Devils Tower, Custer national Park and the famous Needles rock formations. You can also visit Crazy Horse monument (literally the biggest Native American of all time). Don’t forget the Mother… Sturgis for a take on crowd gathering at its finest. Sturgis Motorcycle Rally

They are all day rides and they are all great rides filled with the beauty of the land and enough curves to keep you alert. Before the day is over you will air the iron pony toward every degree and every cardinal point. You will wonder at the feel of the grips in your hands, the torque that comes on the instant you twist the grip. It will happen hundreds of times on a day trip and, if you are lucky, millions of times during your life of riding.

You check for the neutral light and then thumb the switch. Crank!! It’s the gears of the starter as it immediately launches itself at the heart of the big bagger’s engine. Thump!! It’s the first explosion of air and fuel in protest to the starter’s sudden shot of energy. Crank…Thump…Rumble!! The bike fires up as faster than you can read these words and settles into the classic, “potato, potato” rhythm that gives the icon its reputation.

You pause to wait for the oil to begin circulating from the engine’s crankcase to the outer reaches of the engine casings and warm the bike in preparation for a day’s series of torque and horsepower responses. During the pause you work through the routine of gloves, sunglasses, zippers and maybe a do-rag. Then you mount. You throw a leg over the iron horse and simultaneously lean your weight left to right as you wrestle the pony up from an awkward incline against the kickstand. Then you have her upright and balanced but she is still clumsy… waiting for the centrifugal effect of wheels turning to make her the graceful blend of form and function that she is.

Your left hand squeezes the clutch while a practiced left foot finds and presses the linkage to check... yes she is in first gear. A slow, deliberate release of the clutch with just the right combination of right hand turning the throttle and she is in motion. The air in front of you reluctantly gives way as you slice through it, creating turbulence most noticeable in your hair, your shirtsleeves and your pant legs.

Crisp. Early morning in the Black Hills. The air is perfect and taking huge gulps of it is the best way to enjoy the route to wherever you are going. The air is also crystal clear and the views of everything are striking in panorama and genuine 3-D. Yes folks, no special glasses required.

You will never be as close to God as you are when you are riding a motorcycle on the edge. It is up to you to define the edge but it is really anywhere from zero to infinity in terms of miles an hour. You can be gone instantly if you are at a stoplight and the driver behind you doesn’t stop. You can be gone instantly if you tire on a long stretch of Interstate and forget to counter steer when on the exit ramp. In any event, you are right there at His doorstep, waving as you pass by. He, or She says, “Today is your day so enjoy. The time will come when I will call you home but for now, enjoy that earthly pleasure. By the way, what kind of pipes do you have on that Hog?”

I am grateful all right. Thanks to my amazing wife Julieann who is the earth angel always on my shoulder and thank God for another day.