Daytona Bike Week has passed but we all have motorcycle memories

Daytona Bike Week goes for ten days each March. It’s an extravaganza for motorcycle buffs from all over North America and even all over the world. It’s a loud week, Harleys in full roar beginning in late morning t about noon and lasting well past midnight. 

You get the full treatment along Main Street in Daytona and out by the speedway where the races, concerts, and big-time vendors are. Chris and I ended up surrounded by bikers on Thursday when we went to lunch after a medical appointment and wandered by a famous tattoo business on U.S. 1 that hosts beer and autograph sessions with Playboy models, strippers, and assorted women in skimpy outfits despite the un-Florida chill. If you go further north on U.S. 1, you pass biker bars aplenty.

For us Ormond-by-the-Sea dwellers, we hear bikes all day and night. We’re located between Hwy. A1A which promoters now call the Jimmy Buffett Memorial Highway and John Anderson Drive which locals call the street where the rich people live. The bikers ride A1A along the coast to Ormond, Flagler, and St. Augustine. They can find nice beaches if they want to dismount but more likely will end up at one of the many saloons and tourist attractions that line the way. Bikers also use that route to go to the Highbridge Exit which will take them to the Tomoka Loop, a favorite winding tree-lined route. John Anderson also takes you to Tomoka along a winding tree-lined route by riverside houses you can't afford.

BTW, you do have to have some cash and credit worthiness to buy a new motorcycle. They start at about $25,000 and goes up to $40,000. You also need a good pickup and a trailer to haul the bikes that once zoomed freely on I-95 in the 1970s and now old bones and joints need a little assistance to get to the hoopla. There’s still lodging and food and such to buy. And don’t forget your two- or three- wheeled vehicle's maintenance costs. 

Guys like my old Wyoming neighbor worked on his own Harley. He had the technical skill, tools. and big garage to do the work. One night he blasted down the street before he rolled to his driveway. Then came a knock on our door. My neighbor needed my help. I walked with him to behold the downed bike. He seemed embarrassed that his Harley was this helpless thing lying powerless on his driveway. Drunk and high, he needed my aging muscles to get the machine upright. I helped of course, the neighborly thing to do.

I have plenty of friends with motorcycles and many that used to have motorcycles. When attending Daytona Beach Community College in 1973, I shared a house in Holly Hill with a roommate who fled the north country to Florida. He helped me rebuild the engine in my 1950 Ford truck. He was a biker without a motorcycle which he had to leave behind for a reason he wouldn't talk about. He did talk motorcycle. He dressed biker too. Probably dreamed it. He moved to Orlando and the last I heard, he was riding again. 

My brother Dan rode a Harley until leukemia took him away. An air traffic controller, he ran an Internet biker-oriented side business, Daytona Gear. He loved his motorcycle. When he and our friend Blake trailered their bikes to Sturgis, Dan invited me up to ride bitch on his bike and I did. Our daughter Annie has a treasured Biketoberfest photo with her and her Uncle Dan on his Harley. She even bought me a Biketoberfest T-shirt which I wore proudly around Wyoming and I often was asked how I liked Biketoberfest and said, “Just fine, I liked it just fine.” I had Sturgis T-shirts too.

In the 1960s and '70s, I rode dirt bikes through the Florida woods and on the beaches. They belonged to friends, little Hondas and Yamahas and Husqvarnas. I covered motocross races as a correspondent for the Denver Post. A girlfriend once dumped me for her old boyfriend, a motocross racer. I responded by mailing her a verse about love and longing that I pulled from Kahlil Gibran. Didn’t make me feel any better but I hoped she read it and thought about me for a little while.

I guess we’re all motorcycle people in America. Daytona has a special claim on big motorcycles so I guess I can claim a little slice of that. Still, I like the quiet.

Some blog posts just don't grow into fully-formed stories -- and that's OK

Time to take stock of the year that was.

I wrote 67 posts this year. Published posts, that is. I wrote 10 or more that I didn't post. They just never jelled or I lost interest. The drafts linger on my site but will be banished with the new year.

When family members were quarantined and not working in the spring, we started hauling boxes filled with books up from the basement. I was tasked with separating the keepers from the ones to go to the library store or, when that closed due to Covid, downtown's Phoenix Books. Probably sent six or seven boxes out the door, just a fraction on those remaining. In one box, I saw a tattered copy of "Hells Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga" by Hunter Thompson. This was before "strange and terrible" morphed into "fear and loathing." I really liked it when I read it in the early '70s during my Gonzo period. I didn't want to emulate Thompson's life but I did want to write like him.

I began to read "Hell's Angels" and got hooked. Read it all the way through in a couple of days. I tried to frame an essay about it but could not. Thompson's style I still liked. But I didn't like the sexism and racism. The Angels were noted for gang rapes and Thompson was cavalier about it. We liked the Angels for their outlaw image, at least we did in our youth. Their attraction has waned over the decades. I don't really find anything constructive about them. In my blog, written before the election, I wanted  to paint members as diehard Trump fans but failed. It's a gross generalization to label motorcycle thugs as Trumpists. It's also a mistake to think that all bikers are gang members. Your local attorney is as likely to ride a Harley as your local mechanic. My neighbor is an IT guy and he rides and works on his very expensive Harley. My late brother Dan rode a Harley and he was an air traffic controller. 

The Angels still exist but haven't been the same since Altamont and neither have the Stones. I gave up and put "Hell's Angels" in the discard box.

My conclusion: Thompson documented a lot of what happened in 1960s and '70s America. But, really, how much fear & loathing can a nation bear?

My next subject that didn't jell was about the Boy Scouts of America and its magazine, "Boy's Life." I was a proud Scouter in Colorado, Washington, Kansas and Florida. The Scouts seemed to be something I could count on to be pretty much the same whether we were snow-camping in the Rockies or avoiding water moccasins in the Florida swamps. I read Boy's Life from cover to cover. It was all boys back then, stories about knots and campfires and lifesaving. There was always a feature profiling heroic Scouts. I liked the cartoon about Pedro the Donkey. 

Girls are now part of Scouts and it's about time. As you probably know, the BSA has been roiled by the same sex abuse scandal that rocked the Catholic Church. Girls can now be Scouts and for some reason the mag is still called "Boy's Life." I guess an ancient organization such as the Scouts can move only so fast. They have that in common with the church. My youth involved Scouting, the church and basketball. I abandoned one of those when, in the ninth grade, I discovered girls. I do believe I would have welcomed girls into my Scout troop but it was the 1960s which was a lot like the 1950s in Central Florida. 

I just lost interest as I wrote about Scouts, much as I lost interest in becoming an Eagle Scout when I got my first kiss. Reading a current issue of the magazine did not revive my interest although I was oddly pleased that Pedro the Donkey had made it into the 21st century. 

This is what happens with writers. Not everything we begin has an ending. I have a two-drawer filing cabinet filled with rough drafts and beginnings. Stored on this PC and OneDrive are many finished pieces and many fragments. What seems like a good idea at the time never grows into a finished product that can be published. And not everything is published in any form, whether as a book or a story in a journal or a post on Blogger. That's not easy to understand when you start out but it becomes clear if you stick with it. I have, for some reason. Writing is important to me and no matter how many setbacks come my way, I stick with it.

Happy Cheyenne Bike Week

Me and my Peugeot, back in the day. Bob Page photo.

Happy Cheyenne Bike Week.

That's "bike" as in bicycle. Bike Week as in Harley Vroom Vroom is a totally different animal (see Sturgis or Daytona).

Bicycle Week celebrates two-wheeled people-powered transportation. Sometimes it can involve three wheels, as you see in recumbent bikes for us oldsters with bad and/or replaced knees. Kids sometimes navigate the greenway on their trikes or on training-wheel-assisted bikes. That actually makes four wheels. But you get my point.

I once was a knowledgeable cyclist, riding all the time and aware of all of the makes and models and gadgets.

No more. Arthritic knees did me in. Waited too long to get them replaced and the orthopedic doc had one heck of a time making me new again. My first new knee is not so new now, replaced in April of 2015. The second knee was replaced in February of this year. For that knee, I just finished rehab. I was supposed to be finished a monthly ago but my doc decided I needed more time with the good and caring people at rehab. Their motto: "It's supposed to hurt."

Enjoyed listening to NPR's "Here and Now" report on Monday on knee replacements. One thing brought up several times was the crucial nature of rehab. You are moving that knee before the anesthesia wears off. Actually, a continuous passive motion (CPM) machine is doing the bending for you. Up, down, up, down, up, down. Mesmerizing to watch. Teaming up with the machine are strolls around the hospital and then around your house, usually with the help of a walker or cane. A week after surgery, you are off to rehab. Someone else drives, as you can't use your right leg and your brain is scrambled with Percocet. Once there, the dedicated therapists get you to bend your knee in uncomfortable ways. You occasionally hear blood-curdling screams. Some of them are yours.

Back to bikes. Thee only bike you rise during your recovery is the recumbent bike in rehab. You may want to get back on the ten-speed or mountain bike and ride to Chugwater. But that would hurt too much. And you are still on drugs, which they don't cotton to in Chug.

I may never ride a bike to work again. First of all, I'm retired. Second, my bike needs some serious work, or I need to replace it with a 21st century super-bike that costs more than my monthly mortgage payment. One bike I looked at online today has the following attributes:

New frame with updated commuter friendly geometry

Carbon fork makes the bike lighter & reduces some of the vibrations for a smoother ride

Shimano Alfine i8 internal gear hub

Shimano hydraulic disc brakes

Gates belt drive

It is beginning to sound a bit like a $20,000 Harley, although the list of goodies would be much longer. Suffice to say, this $1,100 "Raleigh i8 Flat Bar Road Bike is the apex of the Cadent line of bikes." The apex of the Cadent? It must be good. And pretty typical of the type of bike I want.

But there's a third thing that may prevent my return to cycling. Fear. Ever had a bike wreck? I've had several. No broken bones but plenty of lacerations. In my later years, I wore a helmet now and ride mainly on the greenway. My new bike undoubtedly will be street legal and I will obey all laws, which is what retirees pledge to do when presented with their Medicare card. But a spill may wreck my knees and I am not ready to face that pain again. NPR's report said it straight -- the pain is substantial and takes time to heal. Interviewees said they knew people who took their new knees back to the jogging trail and tennis court. The producer they interviewed said it took him a year to get to the almost-pain-free stage. I am not there yet. When I reach that apex, I expect it to be all downhill from there. That used to be my favorite part, flying down hills and mountain passses. But dangers awaited around every bend. Gravel. Slick spots. Animals. Human motorists. 

My bike adventures from now on will take place on stationary conveyances. I can still manage a great workout and, unless I get the vapors, probably will stay aboard until the timer goes off and I can move on to the weight machines. And then to the showers. And then to the brewpub. Ever tried an Apex IPA? Me neither, but I keep searching. 

Planet JH News: "Don't get sick...if you're poor in Jackson"

Artist and writer Aaron Wallis writes about his experiences seeking affordable care in Jackson in Don't get sick...if you're poor in Jackson. Funny, and not so funny.

Paint it black at Sturgis 2008

Three pals and their skeletal friend out on the town in Sturgis

I dressed inappropriately for Sturgis.

I wore non-black, which definitely puts you in the minority among all comers, both men and women. Black leathers, black bandannas, black T-shirts, black motorcycles. Actually the motorcycles were much more colorful -- and more artful -- than their riders. Flashy colors and wild designs. The guy camped next to us in the Hog Heaven Campground traded in his Yamaha 650 (he brought a Yamaha to Sturgis?) for a Big Dog Mutt pro-street model. It was blazing orange with lots of polished aluminum (Big Dog's motto: "Only your jacket should be black"). Cost: $25,000. But it was a beauty. The real challenge came when he had to get the bike on his RV's rear-end bike mount built for a smaller Yamaha. The day before, he had taken his RV to a welder who had reinforced the carrier. Blake and Dan helped him and his diminutive wife roll the bike up the ramp and tie it down.

But back to the clothes. I wore my green Cheyenne Frontier Days Hawaiian shirt with palm trees interspersed with trucks and horse trailers (that's me at left above). It's an all-purpose shirt, one you can wear to luaus, rodeos and motorcycle rallies. One woman stopped and commented on the shirt, saying she had never seen anything quite like it. She wasn't wearing black but a white blouse and blue jeans. She and a friend from Rapid City were in town for a day of shopping and ogling.

The real problem with black is that it absorbs the blazing S.D. sun. The sun seemed hotter there than it does in Cheyenne, but maybe that was my imagination. Black doesn't make sense when you spend the day walking around downtown Sturgis staring at motorcycles and women wearing leather chaps over string bikinis. There was also one guy walking around in shorts and a bikini top with this written on his back: "I lost the bet." He was cooler than most of us.

Because black clothes absorb the sun and heat up your body, many bike week denizens slip into the many bars which line the streets. We had to do that several times in desperate acts of self-preservation. When it did rain later in the afternoon, I stood outside while people ran for shelter in the bars. As most Westerners know, these summer showers are quick and gusty and pack little rain. And, if you do get wet, the sun will reappear shortly to dry you out. I maybe got a dozen drops on me, just enough to lower the body heat a degree or two.

So I had no choice but to join the multitudes streaming into One-Eyed Jack's bar.

Have no bike, but will travel (to Sturgis)

Blogger adrift in a sea of motorcycles

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is a big fat target for Liberals like me. Main reason? John McCain addressed the biking multitudes last week. He urged them to vote for him lest the Democrats get in and take away their motorcycles and guns, raise gas taxes, and make them all wear helmets, even when they're not riding.

McCain didn't say that. But you can be sure he inferred it.

But I steered clear of politics when I was in Sturgis, S.D., over the weekend. My brother Dan from Daytona and our mutual friend Blake were in town for the rally after spending two weeks exploring the Rocky Mountain West. They "trailered" their Harleys behind an RV, opening them up to criticism from the purists who ride their bikes from Daytona and Detroit and Seattle. I saw variations of this theme on a T-shirt: NICE TRAILER, PUSSY." But I saw a lot of RVs and a lot of trailers. One biker friend of mine from Florida sent his Harley out with friends and he flew to Rapid City. I didn't see any T-shirts that read NICE AIRPLANE, PUSSY."

Dan and Blake had parked the RV and ridden their bikes through Glacier National Park -- and other Montana scenery -- Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks in Wyoming, the Big Horns and, finally, the Black Hills of South Dakota. For the Black Hills leg, they hooked up with a friend of a friend who lives in Custer and he became their guide for rides in the Hills. When driving a car in the Hills this time of year, you're outnumbered substantially by bikers. It's kind of like being a Democrat in Wyoming -- always outnumbered.

I had a fine time over the weekend. It was great to see Dan and Blake. My brother's less than two years younger. My mother used to joke that she didn't know Dan could speak until I shipped off to kindergarten. I was his mouthpiece in those early years. But he's spoken for himself since then. Now a retired air traffic controller, he has a business, Daytona Gear, selling leather tank bags to bikers. Kind of a natural fit for a biker from Daytona, considering there are now two big rallies there each year, one in February/March with the annual bikes races and the other called "Biketoberfest."

Dan knew Blake first, but we also became friends when I rented a house next to his in the little burg of Holly Hill north of Daytona. He runs a successful construction company and decided to take a few weeks off because business is not exactly booming in these harsh times.

What does a civilian like me do during Sturgis? The same things that bikers do. Wander the Sturgis streets, looking at all the fancy bikes. Shop, too, at one of the hundreds of stores and vendors. These are some serious shoppers, snatching up T-shirts, bandannas, helmets, and various bike accessories, such as kickstands in the shape of a skeletal arm flipping a bird. Skulls are a favorite design, as are skeletons, wolves, buffalo and eagles. As I looked around for souvenir T-shirts, I was disappointed to find that most of them were cheaply made overseas. The only "Made in the U.S.A." labels I found were on Harley T-shirts. Those weren't selling as fast as the "5 for $25" shirts out on the street. But I wondered how bikers, a subculture that prides itself in its blue-collar and military-veteran roots, could be happy with buying "Made in Vietnam" T-shirts. Also, these bikes aren't cheap. Why would you ride a $25,000 official Harley motorcycle (at least $10,000 more than any car I've bought) and not want to buy a $25 Harley U.S.A. T-shirt?

We all need a bargain, what with rising gas prices and inflation and unemployment and housing foreclosures. A lot of the jobs of working men and women have been shipped overseas by our corporate overlords. Many of those were union jobs at places that make motorcycles and cars and steel beams and beer and even T-shirts. Many of those jobs were shipped overseas by buddies of Bush and Cheney and McCain. Still, McCain has the effrontery to drop into Sturgis and tell the gathered bikers to be very very afraid of the Democrats (especially the "swarthy elitist" Sen. Obama) because they will refuse to extend tax cuts for the fat cats who moved your jobs to our stalwart ally Pakistan which shelters the Muslim extremists who have killed and maimed your sons and daughters serving in Afghanistan.

(More about my weekend in Sturgis in upcoming posts)