Biker

Biker

Bob Bitchin

Smashwords Edition in cooperation with FTW Publishing, Inc.

Biker

© Copyright 2015 by Bob Bitchin, FTW Publishing, Inc.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to one of the below listed Web sites and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters, clubs and organizations mentioned in these stories actually exist. These stories are true and happened from 1966 through 1981.

Copyright © 1982 - 2015 Robert Bob Bitchin Lipkin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting brief quotes by book reviewers.

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FTW Publishing

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Published in the United States by FTW Publishing, Inc.

http://www.bobbitchin.com http://www.seafaring.com www.TheBitchinGroup.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Song of the Dumb Biker

Bad Craziness in Europe

Kind of a Trip

Great American Expedition

American Odyssey

Trippin’ Americana

Puttin’ Across America

Touring America Harley-Davidson Style

California Here We Come

Introduction

By Degenerate Jim Pisaretz

You’re riding with a partner. He swears he knows the surrounding area and roads for miles and miles. He insists you take a turn-off that will be not only faster, but a more scenic ride. So you follow his route and become hopelessly lost. Try and retrace your steps on the map and you find where you are does not exist. All you can do is ride and search for a landmark that will help identify your location. As you ride your fuel supply gets lower and lower until you’re finally on reserve. Just when you think you’re going to be stuck pushing a thirsty bike in the middle of nowhere, your partner suggests you make the next turn and low- and-behold you’re right where you were supposed to be two hours ago. The only reaction your partner gives you is an ironic smile as you pull into a gas station with the exhaust sputtering and cylinders gasping for the last drop of gas left in the tanks. Were you really lost, or was your partner just having some fun leading you around Robin hood’s Barn?

It doesn’t really matter whether you were lost or not. All that really matters is that you’ve managed to get off the beaten path of things you know and are sure of, and have taken a little side- trip exploring the unknown. And more often than not, this is where you’re going to meet someone who you might have never met or you’re going to get the chance to do something you might never have had the opportunity to do.

Where you’re going and how you get there is not as important as who you meet and what you do on the side trips you make along the way.

This is the feeling 1 always have when I’m riding or on a trip with Bitchin. There might be a definite destination in mind and even a definite route to get there, but somehow along the way the plans become less important and the little side trips and people you meet on them become the focus of the trip.

If you check out the stories in this collection you’ll see that this is how Bitchin has met a lot of the people he knows. Most of them have become good friends. You’ll also notice that most of what happens of interest in these stories has nothing to do with the reason Bitchin made the trip in the first place. He might run into a Midwestern club who are having a demolition derby or end up riding across the Smokies in a blinding snow storm that has even driven the semi’s to the side of the road, but that wasn’t part of the original plan.

On any trip I’ve made with Bitchin, the short ones and the long ones, this has been the method we’ve employed. I still don’t know if he was really lost some of the times we were supposed to be lost or was just showing me some of the sights he had discovered in his travels. It didn’t even matter if we got lost or not as long as we were ready for the people and experiences we’d encounter along the way.

Think of all the places and bars you’ve ridden by when you were puttin’. Now, think of the difference it could have made in your day, your ride or even your life if you’d have stopped at one of those out of the way bars. Who knows, you might not be sitting there reading this like you are now, or then again it might be the very reason you are reading this.

Very few people have the time or opportunity to ride and crisscross the country like Bitchin has. Those who have can relive some of the experiences they’ve had through Bitchin’s stories and those who haven’t might be enthused enough to go out and do

the same. Whichever, these stories paint a picture of biking across America that can only be seen while on the road. When you’re done reading it if you get the feeling to go out and fire up your scoot and take a little put all I can say is:

RIDE ON!!

Song of the Dumb Biker

I used to wonder why the words dumb and biker were almost always used in the same sentence. I mean, I know that some words are independently exclusive, and are never used in the same sentence, like smart and woman but why is it always dumb biker? Just like that. Together.

As I say, I used to wonder. Now I know. It’s because all bikers is dumb, I know, because I are one.

The first time I realized just how dumb I really am was when a friend, another dumb biker named Billy Jack, and I decided to take a trip. We were sitting in a semi-stupor, after devouring a few small six packs of Colorado Kool-Aid, when spontaneously, the idea to take a trip came up. Afterward, I remembered what brought the whole idea up in the first place was both of our bikes had managed to make it to the liquor store and back without breaking down. This was a major feat since I live almost three blocks from the store.

A scoot that trusty is good for lots of miles, I told Billy Jack. We decided it was a great idea, and we should load up our trusty steeds and hook it across the country. There was only one small thing standing in our way. It was December.

But what the hell, we’re bikers, and we can stand up to any weather. Besides, all we have to do is take along a few extra things to keep us warm, and we would have no trouble at all.

During the planning, I remember, we decided the bikes we were riding might be the wrong type to take. After all, a rigid frame for 10,000 miles might be kinda hard on the old tail. (Maybe that’s why they are called hard tails?)

After checking out a few costs to convert to a soft tail, we decided to take a chance the way we were.

Yes folks, bikers are dumb, there is no doubt about it.

Before the Coors wore off, we made a list of all the things we would need for this big trip. We covered everything we could think of—clothing, food, stoves, tents, sleeping bags, even an extra set of gloves. It was a very complete list.

The second thing we did was take the list and cross out things we couldn’t afford.

That left the following!

2 sleeping bags 4 helmets

2 changes of clothes each 1 three-man tent

1 small propane stove

2 pairs of long johns 2 pairs of sweat pants 2 flat face shields

2 sweat shirts

2 pairs of snow gloves

2 pairs snowmobile boots

4 pairs artic socks

2 pairs regular boots

1 instamatic camera & film

2 dumb bikers

Keep in mind that we started with a list three times longer, but when we looked at the packing area on our bikes we knew it couldn’t all fit. The fact that I am 6 '4 and weigh 300 pounds, and Billy Jack is 5 '5 and weights 150, made things a little difficult, also, because we both had to have complete sets of clothing. There wouldn’t be too much swapping.

Since this was all before the trip, when we were still under the delusion that bikers were relatively smart, we thought the real smart thing would be to go someplace nice and cold as an official test run. You see, living in Southern California tends to spoil you for estimating the rigors of the outside world.

We decided Yosemite Park was a nice cold place to go in December, so we packed up our bikes and headed northward.

We were right. It was cold.

By the time we got close to the summit at the eastern approach to Yosemite the snow was coming down so hard we couldn’t believe it was still California.

We pulled into a place with a camping sign in front and asked what the rates were. All the dude did was stare at us. I wondered why?

He finally managed to stutter, If you really wanted to sleep out in this weather, you can set up for nothing. So we picked out a campsite, which was kind of easy since they were all vacant, and set up camp.

Then we made a big discovery. In winter the sun goes down really early after which it gets boring.

Around 7 o’clock we tired of playing Hiroshima with the gasoline which we had been squirting on the fire, and we crashed for the night.

The next morning found two dumb bikers frozen in a couple of sleeping bags. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and then decided it wasn’t getting any warmer, so we got up.

After we limbered up with some more Hiroshima, we scraped the snow off the tent and rolled it up. We packed our bikes and it was time to try and make it into the Yosemite basin.

As we headed up the pass toward the summit we noticed there were fewer cars. Soon we hit an area where a sprinkling of diehards were pulled over, putting on chains. We kept going.

We got to an elevation with so much snow we had to put our feet down to keep from falling over. We were actually using our feet like skis. And it was working.

We did it. We made the summit at 9941 feet and down into the park. If we could get through that we figured we could get through just about anything.

We headed back to our home base and made a few corrections. First of all, we added a sleeping bag each to the list. This would eliminate any more of those foolish frozen nights. We also added a couple of cans of Sterno to heat the morning tent.

We were set. We were in command of long range wintertime bombing and the North American Continent was our cup of hot soup.

Then the idea hit us. Since we were going across the country in the dead of winter, why not try for a new transcontinental record. It sounded like a great idea. We looked up the record and found out we had to beat 36 hours.

Ya know, bikers are really dumb sometimes.

The big day finally came. The night before Billy Jack and I had made our way down to San Diego as official kickoff point, and got a room where we would be close to Interstate 8, which was the short cut across the country. We had gotten into town early, and decided to get to sleep early so we would get up around 6 a.m. for the start. After dousing a couple of bottles of Tequila, we made it to sleep. We woke up at 3 a.m., all hungover but ready to go.

The sun came up as we headed into Yuma, Arizona, land of nothing. We stopped to dump some 90 weight down our throats, and started the coast-to-coast boogie one more time.

That day we made our way along Interstate 8 to Case Grande, then picked up I-10 through Tucson, Lordsburg and Las Cruces. As the sun was setting behind us we were headed into El Paso. In one day we had managed to make it through California, Arizona, New Mexico, and into Texas. We knew we would make it now.

Boy, bikers are dumb.

By the time we hit Fort Worth it was early the second morning, and still very dark. I’m not going to say we were tired, but we missed our turnoff and it took almost 45 minutes for us to find our way back onto the track.

Billy Jack fell asleep a couple of times. I had a hell of a time trying to get him to wake up.

About 50 miles out of Dallas, heading toward the Louisiana border on Interstate 20, we decided to stop and have breakfast. It had been a long day and night, and we had covered almost 1,700 miles.

We wolfed down our food and hopped back into the saddle.

Surprisingly enough, our butts weren’t even too sore, but I think a lot of that was due to the numbness setting in.

We had been very lucky also, the weather was just like summer. It was about 60 degrees at noon. At night it dropped down to about 25. Wonderful, just plain wonderful.

As we hooked it east through Louisiana we started to wake up again. We crossed the mighty Mississippi actually feeling good. We really thought we were going to make it into Savannah under the 36-hour limit.

Bikers are the