You all know I rode a 1940 Harley rigid flathead to Sturgis, put about 1,500 miles on that ol' boy but he brought me back. Not without some challenges but that's what it's all about. Riding that old iron, alone, on the back roads, all the stuff you need to survive bungied on, with enough tools to do a whole top end along the side of the road if you need to. Zennin' out on the wide open prairie and the open sky with the road stretching out as far as the eye can see. Grateful for every thump of that engine pullin' you every foot, put together 5,280 of 'em and you got a mile, and lettin' the miles melt away. Every gas stop fill up with fuel and oil, seein' what fell off and bailing wiring on what's fixin' to fall off! Other so called "Bikers" asking what the hell what kind of bike is that I'm wrenching on. Where's the challenge in just putting in gas and hittin' a button? I even had one ask what my kick pedal was for, I said it was fer startin' it! YEEZE!!!
$30,000 and 30 miles don't make you a biker.
If you think that puttin' on a do-rag and all being a biker is Boobs an' Booz, you got it wrong! And all these clowns ridin' with shorts and tennis shoes, you can tell they have never dumped one of those hot monsters. A split second contact with them pipes or the road and they won't be wearing that get-up no more! You never plan on going down, that's why they call it an accident! 85% of all scooter crashes involve the legs. Someone said I should understand that they are trying to emulate us and that everyone had to get started in this lifestyle sometime so I should lighten up on them and I guess they are right.
I entered a "Biker Build Off" at the Thunderdome with Billy Lane, Rick Fearless, Paul Mitchell, etc. as the judges against 200 of these trailored in $150,000 chromed up creations that wouldn't make it 50 miles across the desert without a backup truck followin' them. Everyone else is polishing while I'm wrenching, figured it was better to adjust my chain, file my points with a matchbook, etc. rather than out on the road somewhere. Noticed my carb was floppin' around limp as the upper bracket broke somewhere in the desert, so I asked Rick Fearless from Strokers/Dallas if he had a piece of metal I could make another one, of course he didn't. So I'm sitting out in the outhouse takin' care of business and notice the stall divider bracket on the floor and think "it just might work"! Out comes the leatherman and made what the carb needed. Bottom line is that old flathead won SECOND PLACE! Even with a outhouse door bracket! Thanks to Wade for haulin' the trophy back, as that scooter had a hard enough time pullin' my fat ass without the additional weight of a useless hunk of metal. Thank you to 89 year old Irene Zaslow for selling me a gallon of chainsaw gas when I ran out somewhere in the prairie on the way back and pulled into her farm. "I don't drive no more but maybe my boy has something out in the shed." That old flathead ran fine on that oil and gas mixture and got me to the next town 21 miles away.