Easy Rider and Chopperguy

Howdy Easy Rider fans! I've got a new feature for y'all. At the bottom of this page is a Gabbly chat window. Since I don't check in on the site very often, I figured I would set this up. That way you fans can chat until your fingers bleed about all things Easy Rider.

BTW, I am not responsible for anything that pops up in the chat. No filtering, no moderation, just pure fan fueled feed. Play nice.

On a number of occasions I have been pulled over or followed by police while riding my chopper. Typically it is for no immediately apparent reason.

Tonight, shortly after leaving work, I was pulled over while riding my chopper. The lights went flashing, I pulled across two lanes, stopped the bike, and killed the engine. Knowing the routine, I reached for my wallet and started to pull out my license, plastic proof that I am approved by the state of Oregon to ride dangerous vehicles. As the officer came into view I flashed him a hellaciously big grin and said, "Howdy!"

The man in the blue uniform stood there silent for a moment, staring at me in what looked like disbelief. When he asked for license and insurance I handed them over with a smile. Turns out he had paced me doing almost 20 mph over the speed limit. I had no idea how fast I was going since the stripped down bike has no speedometer. A once over with his flashlight proved that I was telling the truth.

The nice man returned after a couple of minutes, commended me on my clean record, and asked me to try and keep my speed down. No citation necessary today. I thanked him and wished him a good night.

There is an entire laundry list of things a cop in a foul mood could have been a dick about. As I have found time and time again, a pleasant disposition can be very contagious. It's my secret weapon. But as often as I have come across men who feel a shiny chunk of metal on their chest gives them the authority to act like pricks, I appreciated one who caught me dead to rights in the act of breaking the law choosing to give me a gentle suggestion instead of a ticket.

The chopper loves to show off around cops. One quick kick and I was back in action.

For years now I have planned on getting a set of upswept fishtails for the chopper. I keep putting it off because the 2 inch drags I've got work just fine and don't look bad. Recently the craving has been getting worse. I might have to do something about it.

Wow! You mean there's new material and all that crazy jazz?

No, I just cleaned things up a bit, got rid of dead links, corrected my contact info, and added some blatant pandering for my impending political campaign to rule the known universe... I mean become a democratically elected leader of a free country where constitutional rights have actual meaning.

Still looking for America.

As we rolled into Couer d'Alene there was one thing on my mind; Zips. So first thing we walked downtown where I got myself a greasy chunk of goodness in the form of a Zips Triple Cheese, a large bag of onion rings with that famous Zips fry sauce, and a chocolate malt. Right behind me as I munch away, the cars gathering for the weekend's events were already cruising the strip. Lost in my gastronomical bliss, I couldn't even hear them.

Watching the cruise after the meal was grand. Between Friday night's cruise and Saturday's car show, I have decided that the urge to build a 1930's Ford chop and drop rat rod was just a temporary amusement. My true love of the four wheeled world is the 1960's Firebirds and Camaros, classic American muscle. I wouldn't give up my chopper for that kind of car, but I will eventually have one in my collection.

Speaking of collections, we have added another project to the pack. We towed back a 1972 VW Super Beetle. Every 100 miles we had to pull over and fill up one of the tires, but other than that, she towed beautifully. For that I am grateful. After all, we spent a good portion of Saturday trying to get the tow bar mounted under the front end. With a trip to the hardware store for some longer bolts and a carbide dremel bit to widen a couple of holes, we eventually got the bar into place. There was one particular bolt that just didn't seem to want to catch threads. Late in the afternoon as the sun was going down, steaks were on the grill, and the beer in the fridge was calling, that last bolt finally caught and snugged down. At times like this there is only one thing to say. "MY DICK IS HUGE!"

Earlier on Saturday we had to take a break so I could get some chopper riding in and wander the streets looking at cars. The wife and I rode along the lake shore, wind in our hair, basqueing in the freedom of riding in a state that doesn't have a helmet law. Three years since I've been able to ride without the lid. It was fantastic. At one point my passenger leaned forward and said to me, "I like TAZ, but Sera is more fun." That is both good news and bad. On the one hand, I love hearing affirmations of my passion for choppers reflected back at me. On the other hand, she now has no intention of letting me convert the chopper to a sprung solo saddle instead of the old two up nostalgia seat I've got now.

As we later walked the streets of the car show, the two of us found ourselves drawn to the same cars. None of the vehicles in the show were ugly. One of the benefits of a show that only allows vehicles at least 30 years old to participate is that each entry is a chunk of history modified or restored to meet someone's notion of what vehicles of that time were really all about. There was only one car in the show I didn't get to see. A group of pentecostals hovered around it clapping and singing glory glory hallelujah. With nerves already barely tolerating street speakers blasting old time radio friendly rock and roll, I could not force myself nearer to see what kind of hot rod Jesus had built. Back on the secondary street were the muscle cars clearly assembled by Satanic mechanics. We managed to keep ourselves from salivating over old Camaros with gas guzzling blowers and classic Firebirds with aggressive front grills. There is nothing angelic about the deep throttled screams of 350 horse power, but it is bliss. I found myself remembering the previous night's cruise when the sun went down and people started shooting flames out their exhaust while letting their engine howl. It's a dance for demons and the crowds love it.

That is one of the best things about these types of events. Saturday night after preparing the Bug for transport and eating a healthy meal of steak, bacon, and beans, I took the chopper out for another ride. Young men were desperately tugging at their girlfriends' hands as they stared and smiled at the wild mohican on the chopper. I went screaming past police, because this was a 'freebie' weekend. When an entire small town is filled with screaming engines and wild street designs, even the man clad in leather and metal is allowed to open up his two inch drag pipes and give a little show for the ladies. It is not only expected of him, one would think it is mandatory.

A good number of the vehicles at the show will be rolled back into storage tonight, ready to come out when another occasion arises. The wild chopper guy is back in P-town, riding his interpretation of history to work every day and once again getting followed by cops.

Some scattered showers after work. Strapped on the government mandated helmet and let the water wash away any cares I may have had as I rode off into the rain. Actually, I love my job. Getting a machine operating well is music. In fact, an assembly machine has a 4/4 rhythm with a back beat. Get it running and you are rewarded with some rockin' tunes, if you like industrial.

Riding an old school stripped chopper in the rain has it's down sides. Without the front fender the water on the street rooster tails up and over the headlight. Getting stuck in the rain in Minnesota, where I always rode without a helmet, meant a face full of street rain. It's not just water. All that dirt and oil that normally coats the road lifts up and flies onto you with the rain. So the full face helmet has that small advantage on nights like these. I can still get a lap full of the wet stuff, though.

In typical Portland style, the rain was gone in less than a minute. Within a mile or two almost no road spray at all. Just another pleasant ride home.

There on the other side of the street is an ambulance, lights flashing, parked in front of the adult video store. I ponder what kind of emergency could have taken place in such an environment, who was involved, and if they maybe didn't need that little extra bit of excitement this evening.

As I take a fast right I remember what it was like to ride this old chopper years ago when I first built her. I was not only new to riding choppers but fairly fresh to motorcycles in general. Each ride was an adventure leaving me wondering if perhaps I hadn't gotten myself in beyond my abilities. It was a constant state of alertness and fear as I rode the over-powered and under-weight old girl through dense city traffic. Fight to stay alive. Let the engine scream so that guy in the SUV on his cell phone knows you are there. Over time as I learned the ins and outs of chopper riding, I got comfortable. The dangers have persisted, but my skills are honed. I ride with confidence. And that is what now scares the hell out of me. My reactions are all second nature. No thinking is necessary. Will this 'riding on automatic' lead to a tragic end?

No worries. The future reveals itself however it chooses. Even with all the guys at work hovering over the article about the football player who went through a windshield while riding his motorcycle this week, I know that I will continue to ride. I'll ride hard and dangerous. And this weekend, I'll ride without a helmet with no worries at all.

Roger Ebert has a list of 102 movies you need to see before you consider yourself movie literate. Easy Rider made the list! No surprise to me. What was a surprise was the number of films on the list I have seen. While I haven't seen all 102, I've got a good chunk of these films under my belt.

Here is a brief but good site on the building of the bikes and the men behind their creation. It gives the names of Cliff Vaughs (cited in multiple sources) and Brother Ben Hardy (new info for me) as the primary builders.

Go check it out!

I got profiled today! Not by FARK for my insane blogging. Not by Street Chopper for my insane working class chop and scary knowledge of Easy Rider. Not by any literary review journal for my insane book.

No, I was profiled by the Portland Police Department. Riding home from work on my chopper I watched as a squad car, upon sighting me, did an immediate Y-turn in the middle of the street to follow me. They tailed me for two blocks then turned around and headed back the other way.

It amuses me that cops not only do this all the time but that such strategies are actually part of police doctrine. They are encouraged to profile. I sometimes wonder what they are hoping to find. It used to make me giggle when I was a state employee returning from my night job of teaching college. If any of them had searched me they would have found me with a bag of text books, lesson plans, tests to grade, and an array of dry erase markers. Once my tail light had broken off and an officer pulled me over thinking it was a deliberate absence. He kept telling me that I had no tail light. Yes officer. I'll get that fixed right away. You have no tail light. Yes, you've said that. I've got spare bulbs at home and I'll fix it there. He pointed out the spot where my tail light should have been. Oh My Gawd! I need a whole tail light! YOU BET YOUR DAMN FLAMING PHOENIX YOU NEED A TAIL LIGHT! I could not keep a straight face at that moment. To hear him say that was well worth the repair ticket.

The times have changed and tonight they would have found on me a Swiss Army knife and a pocket full of cough drops. Maybe they were hoping I was one of those rough and tumble outlaw bikers who was driving with a suspended license and had three warrants out for my arrest. Perhaps they thought I had been drinking, since that's what ALL chopper riders do in their spare time. I can imagine their hearts sinking as my plate came back clear and I executed a near stop at a light that was about to change without wavering an inch and without putting my foot down for balance. This is a move more common amongst the Honda and BMW crowd, not some crazy chopper guy late at night.

I did resist the urge to give them the finger as they drove away. They don't need any more profiling ammo.

Filled the chopper up with gas today. I have no way of knowing with any certainty what my gas mileage is as I have no odometer. No gauges of any kind as I have stuck to the pure minimalism of the chopper form. Instead I have to make guesses at my chopper fuel economy based on what I have experienced on the less stripped down 73.

The Temporary Autonomous Zone (TAZ, 1973 Sportster) gets approximately 35 mpg city and 40 mpg highway. Some serious fuel economy for a high power ride. Seraphine (or Sera, 1965 Sportster chopper), based on a daily commute of 15 miles plus a little putting around town for errands, is getting somewhere between 40-50 mpg. Probably really close to 43 mpg city driving. That is some SUPER serious fuel economy for a rolling work of art.

Why the difference when both are powered by Ironhead Sportster engines? The devil is in the details. TAZ is a 1200cc engine with a Super E carb, battery powered ignition, generator, swing arm frame, saddle bags, inline oil cooler, and has a small diameter sprocket sticking out of the transmission. Sera is a 1000cc with Bendix carb, batteryless magneto ignition, alternator conversion, rigid frame, and larger sprocket. The street geared TAZ weighs over 200 pounds more than the highway geared Sera. Somehow all that comes together and manifests as a nearly 10 mpg difference in fuel economy. Cool. But some of that just seems backwards to me.

Above the economic sensibilities of the chopper in these times of rising gas prices, there is the art. It is not uncommon for someone walking down the street to stop and stare at my bike for a while. This can happen in front of my house or while parked at the coffee shop. Just last week as I sat at an outside table writing at the Red and Black, a man appeared on the corner and yelled, "Whose chopper is that?" Early this week a biker on a new Sportster pulled along side of me and yelled, "What year is that?" These people don't need to know this information, they just want to make the extra connection to the artist. You don't need to see your favorite band in concert to appreciate their music, but backstage passes to hang with them are awesome.

Then there are those who roll their eyes and say, "Boys and their toys." Next week I am hauling the chop up to Car d'Lane, a street gathering of classic and custom vehicles from around the Pacific Northwest. Some will see a playground full of boys and their toys. For me it is an open air gallery for artists who work in steel, rubber, and high octane. Much of the offerings will be paint-by-numbers restoration jobs. It is a craft to completely restore and old vehicle to its former glory. Those who are master craftsmen will stick out from the crowd. Then there will be those of us who transform the mundane into the exceptional. There will be fully functional works of art from the full on customs of the expert builders to the rat chopper assemblages of outsider extremists. From starving artist velvet Elvises to She Wolf like Pollocks, they will all be there. And I'm sure there will be some playing in the streets, too. Artists should never take themselves too seriously.