Motorcycles Bartenders F-Bombs

  rear sprocket pac man damage miles and miles of gravel Drank too many of those 32 ounce beers last night.  Got back on the Loneliest Road and went east through Ely, where we found Utah route 21, which seemed even lonelier.  It's narrower, hotter, and has a lot less traffic. Lonelier.  Almost scary.  Gravelly. A good place to pick up a stone and break a drive belt. When we crossed into Utah, we set the clock forward to Mountain Time, and got on I 15 southbound to Hurricane, UT, where the temp. was a searing 98 degrees.  This was quite a change from the 48 degrees when we left Eureka, NV.  We couldn't find a restaurant near the hotel that served beer (Mormons!), so we opted for Subway sandwiches and a six pack in the room.  Took the Road Glide through a nearby car wash and removed just some of the over 4500 miles of bugs and grime. Pack Man Cracks: that’s the official designation in the Harley Davidson Service Manual, and I discovered it after ret...

 

Early American graffiti: "After breakfast, myself, with some other young men, had the pleasure of waiting on five or six young ladies to pay a visit to Independence Rock," one young man wrote in July 1843. He painted Mary Zachary's and Jane Mills's names high on a southeast point but saved the best spot for himself. "Facing the road, in all splendor of gun powder, tar and buffalo greese, may be seen the name of J. W Nesmith, from Maine, with an anchor." Martha Hecox camped in the landmark's shadow on July 3, and "concluded to lay by and celebrate the day. The children had no fireworks, but we all joined in singing patriotic songs and shared in a picnic lunch." Polly Coon found a multitude gathered around Rock Independence on July 6, 1852. "Some one had put up a banner the 4th & it still fluttered in the breeze a happy heart cheering symbol of 'American Freedom' to the many weary toiling emigrants." William Bagley

    East of El Paso on Interstate 10 , the daytime legal speed limit is 80 mph.  There's not a whole lot of traffic, it's flat, desert, no one seemed to go over 85 mph. I watch what other drivers are doing; I try not to stand out. So I went with traffic, kept my sped down to around 83, and cruised past few sneaky patrol cars, speed traps, just waiting to accelerate out onto the super-slab, and nab some law breaking speeder. Forty miles west of Van Horn, all traffic was funneled into a Border Patrol checkpoint.  The officers looked very serious, and had serious looking military style equipment. There was one man in the booth, one man standing near the side of the lane with a short barreled assault rifle, and one man holding a vicious looking dog on a short lead, all at the ready, and very serious. No smiles, here. The dude in the booth, he asked me a question, but my hearing was all shot to hell from all the wind noise of high speed riding, and the roar of the engine....

  It was once an Apache campsite and silver ore was discovered at nearby Chloride Flat.   Silver City, New Mexico was founded in the summer of 1870. It was a town with a violent crime rate: Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch frequented the saloons in the late 1800's, and Billy the Kid was arrested there twice by Sheriff Whitehill. In 1878, the town hired its first town marshal, "Dangerous Dan" Tucker, who had been working as a deputy for Whitehill since 1875. We took the room at The Drifter because they advertised a bar, pool table, and pool.  After we checked in, we found out the bar was closed on Mondays, and the pool was closed, too.  The place was run down, pretty much deserted, except for us.  But there was a restaurant/bar across the street, so it would do.  We'd reached the furthest point of our ride and would be heading mostly east from now on. We drank a few left-over beers in the room, with ice, because they were hot from being in the saddlebag...

  I like butts and I like riding, so I went to Buttzville for lunch. There’s nothing like having no place to go, and all the time in the world to get there, so I shot out onto the interstate, blasted into the left lane and stifled a scream of joy while the heavy 88 inch motor pulsed along, rolling past lesser traffic. Relaxing into the backroads of New Jersey, I wandered route 94, and took a quick pass through the pet cemetery amid monumental statues of giant animals. Route 519 had swooping curves and little roller coaster hills; flocks of turkeys scooted towards the woods. Buttzville lay on route 46, and I rode through twice looking for an interesting place to eat. The most crowded place in town, no doubt, was an old time hot dog joint, outdoors fast food with lunch lines at three windows. I stood in the slow line, discreetly checking butts. I saw a lot of average butts and several good ones. There were a couple I would consider “fine,” but there was one, only one that I would ...

A motorcycle race was the only way to settle it, and young Bob knew that his clapped out, oil burning, Ironhead Sportster, was not up to the task. But it was a warm September day in the Poconos when the fast-talking stranger rolled up and parked his flat black touring bike next to Nellie's Burrito wagon. The stranger looked like he had some miles on him, tough wrinkled, greybeard miles.  And unlike the Sportster, the flat black touring bike, looked to be well maintained and fast. Oh, it was grimy, but you could just tell, it was fast. So, sitting in the white plastic lawn chairs alongside the two lane highway, next to the burrito wagon, Bob struck up a conversation about motorcycles, which eventually led to talk about his upcoming race, and he subtly inquired: "Well, how can I make my bike go faster?" So Bob and the stranger went over for a closer look at the hopeless looking iron head.  Bob started the bike, and revved her a few times, and they both watched as thi...