The end of February found me in the winter humdrums. My bike had been down since I got hassled in December at the local DMV for having my VIN numbers obscured by the lock tab on my 1978 Narrow Glide frontend. The DMV gave me the option of taking the bike to Auto Squad so they could verify the numbers. That wans’t going to happen, and I ordered a 2-inch under Springer without anything on it that would obscure the numbers. Such are the trials and tribulations of a biker tramp with his home-built special construction. As of this writing, I’m still waiting on parts that will allow me to run the 1978 dual- disk setup on the Springer. I’m getting close and am considering a fresh backyard paint job this year.

Friday night, March 1st, found me hanging out in front of the local A.A. club talking cams with Joe, an old friend. The conversation revolved around lift and duration for a twin cam motor Joe was hoping up. Another friend of mine, Bruce, showed up and entered into the conversation. I met Bruce in rehab when I was on spin-dry and his story struck close to home with me. Turns out Bruce ran with a club down south in the '70s and still rode. I backed him into a corner and wanted to know how he made it out of the cycle of substance abuse.

Bruce patted me on the shoulder and told me it was simple: “Just don’t use.”

I was brutally spaced out at that point in my life and resembled a cartoon caricature more than a human being. I wandered back to my room in the hospital with the hope that one day, I would be back in the breeze again.

As time rolled by and I racked up a few 24 hours, our paths crossed on a weekly basis. We became friends and put some miles under our wheels. The conversations drifted to Daytona and who was riding down this year. I was out, due to my current two-wheeled dilemma. Bruce said that he was going, but the guy that was to ride down with him was out because of problems with his old lady. And Joe just started a new job and couldn’t go. Plans looked bleak, as is the norm for this time of the year in the semi-northeast.

Our conversations trailed off and we were all left with our own lingering depressed thoughts, when Bruce came up with a solution. He asked me if I would like to ride his 2003 Low Rider to Bike Week? Turns out his missus didn’t want him riding down alone. Shit, this was a big deal for me; ride someone else’s bike from Washington, D.C. to Daytona, some 976 miles? I thought about the responsibility for about one second and gave him a vigorous thumbs-up.

During the preceding week, I was like a kid waiting' on Santa to arrive. I spent anxious time at work and at home preparing road gear, while looking at the extended forecast for the east coast. Sunday, March 9th, arrived clear and cold. The temp when we rolled out was 27 degrees. I traveled extensively on my 1980 Super Glide up and down the east coast some 28 years ago, so I knew how to dress for the road and the weather. The Low Rider I was on had a clip-on windshield and bags, so I traveled in relative comfort out on interstate 95. Bruce was on a 2005 Road Glide with a cup holder, GPS, CD player, XM radio, and cruise control. The latter was a real blessing and I would recommend this to anyone. The cruise control was set to the GPS, and we motored fill up to reserve non-stop.

We left DC around 9:00 a.m. and rode through Virginia, North Carolina, and into South Carolina before a layover in Florence. While covering the miles at every stop, we peeled off a layer of clothes and our big shit-eating grins expanded. It was damn cool to ride with someone who liked to cover miles. Bruce rode out front and I rode right off of his right shoulder. At first, I laid back and watched his riding style. I soon realized that Bruce wasn’t telling any bullshit stories about his younger days.

During lane changes, he set me up so I could cover his back. All of his moves were well-telegraphed, so I knew what was going on well before it happened. As we logged miles, our styles integrated and started to flow, and we rode as one blasting down the interstate. This is one of the simple pleasures of riding with another experienced rider. Most of the other riders we ran across were on baggers and seemed to be in no hurry to get anywhere. I couldn’t understand the number of folks we passed who were trailering full-dressed Harleys to Daytona. What’s the point?

Day two (Monday) was more of the same. We made Jacksonville around rush hour wearing tee shirts. The crowds of bikers out on the road grew with each exit ramp. We both have a friend, Slim, who runs a sober house in Daytona; that was our destination for the day and our free crash pad for the week (Thanks, Slim). I ended up buying Slim and Bruce dinner every night while we were there as a sorta “thank you.”

While in town, our days were a no hurry, no worry life style. Up at 7 a.m. and about a gallon of coffee for me, along with a strong dose of rock-n-roll from a local FM station. We checked the bikes over while discussing destinations for the day. There is so much shit you can do in Daytona that you would really have to haul ass from one destination to another to cover it all. And don't spend too much time lingering at any one spot.

Tuesday, we peeled down to Main Street to check out the convention center and tried to locate Bandit, but he was out and about like the rest of us. I picked up a shit-kicking leather at a vendor stand, because folks were talking rain. We grabbed lunch, took pictures for ya’ll, and just plain fucked off.

Damn, we missed the coleslaw wrestling on Wednesday because we spent too much time at destination Harley-Davidson. While there, I ran into Rollin Sands just wandering around unnoticed. We talked for about five minutes and Rollin seems like a down-to-earth person. The crowds were down this year by a third, the vendors said. They attributed most of it to the gas prices, which I didn’t understand at first, because bikes get good gas mileage. Then a vendor informed me: The cost of pulling a trailer loaded with an 800 pound motorcycle is exorbitant. So the trailer trash was down this year. I guess that would explain why I didn’t hear all the folks revving their motors at stoplights.

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