Hell, even the modifications were more of a blessing than a venture. The bike was already bare bones enough, although we removed the rear fender under the body and all the plastic side panels. Much of what we did to the bike was in accordance to performance recommendations we ran across. We changed the cams to the hot race Screamin' Eagle cams and modified the carb to match. These modifications reduced the heat, which is good since Buells tend to run on the hot side. We also added an oil cooler and a longer Dyna Glide oil filter to enhance the oil capacity.

The header system was switched to a stainless Buell race system that forces each pipe to be the same length and matched with a custom stainless muffler. Unfortunately the system has been recalled because the weld breaks at the entry of the muffler. We pulled the system apart to consider Jet Hot coating and discovered one of the problems behind the breakdown. The muffler was well installed to the header system and to the engine. Since the engine was rubbermounted and the exhaust system basically hugged the driveline, there were no excuses for vibration, but the muffler was large, stainless and had a baffle that floated in the center. I drilled out the rivets that held the end in place until I could remove the complete stern of the muffler. With the rivets removed, we discovered the sizable baffle that jostled around inside the muffler. We removed it and the heavy fiberglass baffle. By doing so we reduced the weight of the muffler by 20 percent and removed the chance of vibration. In addition, on just the 400-mile ride to Laughlin, we discovered that the front muffler mount, which contained a tasty rubber grommet system, destroyed a segment of the rubber housing. The destruction of the rubber washer gave the system another opportunity to vibrate. We sliced away the rubber washer and replaced that area with strong Teflon washers.

With the assistance of the Famighetti metal shop, the muffler was reassembled with new stainless steel rivets found at a West Marine store. I was sure the Bikernet shop had a rivet tool, but the Famighettis had an air operated tool with considerably more push. Larry Famighetti re-installed the muffler. His brother James, a master machinist and fabricator, shaved the license plate tab off the stern of the bike. We had decided to run a sidemount vertical license plate and replace the stock turn signals with billet aluminum, small, pie-shaped ones from Joker. As it turned out, the only parts I ordered for the bike that were not factory components were Joker Machine, except for a super clean billet Dewey custom air cleaner cover.

After the run to Laughlin and a couple of hauls to the San Jacinto Mountains, we knew the decision to ride the Buell to Sturgis was an easy one. Friends and brothers still looked cross-eyed at me when I told them, like I had decided to ride the rigid Knucklehead in the living room. I explained that this was the best, most reliable decision I had made in years. I knew that the modifications I wanted to make, the chrome and the Jet Hot paint would gobble no more than a couple of weeks. In addition, the Buell report gave Buell bikers all over the country the opportunity to contact Bikernet with their thoughts and suggestions. Paul Davis from the service department of Charlotte Harley-Davidson and Anson, a New Orleans Bikernet reader and Buell rider, kept me up to date on modifications and suggestions that would keep my ass in one piece. These experienced riders knew the benefits of Buells and how to make them go even faster. They knew that if I chose to ride a Buell to Sturgis, I would be comfortable and have a reliable ride.

"This will be a dull trip for you Bandit," Paul said, eyeing the shots of the completed Buell. "No breakdowns like in the past."

With the Joker Machine pegs, point cover and turn signals in place, I rolled out of the headquarters for one final road trip to Idyllwild to help the Bikernet morale officer rebuild a deck at his cabin. It was the final test. The soft Buell bags from the River Run were solid except for one strap, which I had positioned against a sharp edge and almost cut in half. With her father's fishing net line, the lovely Layla sewed the strap back into tight form and I was good to go. The bike survived the trip, I rechecked the fasteners and determined that I was ready and willing.

The Hamster tour to the Badlands is always a good one except for the increasing emphasis on golf. Over the last several years some of the brothers have taken up playing a round or two on the way to the Badlands. That doesn't appeal to me. I am still into drinking and chasing women. As the run crew grew from 25 to over 100, the nature of the run changed to a more family event. Wives, girlfriends, kids and trucks rumbled along with the crew of custom riding bikes. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all bad. In fact, it was becoming a well-planned party nightly with some extremely special occasions, such as the annual party Thomas throws for his wife. He's done a bang up job in various little towns across the country.

The run was missing the adventuresome edge, though. We weren't riding into an unknown town to learn about the people, the whore houses and the bars, then slipping out the back door. We were losing the outlaw spirit and I missed it. I had even been informed that the Discovery Channel was considering filming the Hamsters' roll from the coast. From a business standpoint, it would have been good advertising for Bikernet. On the other hand, the ride to Sturgis is supposed to be an escape from business, so I looked at the map and discussed it with my long-time riding partner, Myron Larabbee of the Billet Bar in Scottsdale, Arizona. Our tendency was to ride north out of the heat, avoid the golf tournament in Salt Lake, then hook up with the crew in Jackson Hole after their 18 holes in the valley.

We also got a call from Dr. Hamster, the chiropractor, who was just completing a book on improving your golf game through exercise and stretching, yet he was with me and my plan to ride north of Los Angeles. Myron had just signed a contract to alter his building on Scottsdale Road and decided that he needed to hang during the initial construction. So that left me and the good doctor, who decided to bring his girl, Veronica.

We'd set up a meeting to discuss our tour. I knew it would be a test to see how the others would respond to my schedule for the run. You know, if you've ever tried to share your plan with a crew, there's always someone who doesn't like mornings, has a one-gallon tank or needs three trucks to follow along.

It was late one night that I met the doctor and Veronica at an exclusive restaurant near Warner Brothers Studios in Culver City. They were riding the Doc's '89 Standard dresser called Betsy. It was black with some lavender ghost flames and he was talking about replacing the Thunderheader with a set of Samson duals. I've known Dr. Hamster, Chris, for 15 years, and he is one of the most mellow, concerned, even-tempered brothers I know. He's a rarity on the earth, a brother who will be at your side whenever you need him, from painting your house, to working on your bike, to fixing your sore back, to discussing a failed relationship. Except on this night, he wasn't his usual mellow self. His arms were wrapped securely across his chest as I described rolling out Friday at 5 a.m. and watching the sun rise as we escaped the L.A. traffic and headed up Highway 395 toward the Sierras.

Veronica munched on the remnants of chips and salsa and listened intently, spreading a highway map of California across the table. As I looked at Chris's tight lips, I felt that I may not have given us enough room to roll daily. Yet I explained that we had an extra day if we chose to accept it. Veronica listened intently, but Chris kept his arms crossed. I felt like a kid who blithered about his new girlfriend in front of his folks while they were at each other's throats about my last one. My timing sucked, but I wasn't sure why.

I stopped midstream, looked at Chris's frown, Veronica's sheepish grin and Chris's empty beer bottle. Veronica was once a serious drug addict and alcoholic and was about to turn 19 years sober, so she could have cared less about getting a drink. But I knew I needed an icebreaker, a subject change to determine what was amiss with Mr. Mellow. "Where's the fuckin' chips and salsa, and I need a drink," I shouted, hoping that some employee would get the hint. Chris stormed inside the restaurant and slammed his fist on the bar. A skinny, blond, wanna-be actor skipped to our table and we leveled the bastard with drink requests. He stumbled, mumbled and begged for forgiveness. As he left the table I turned to my brother, "So what do you think of the plan?"

"Veronica's real estate schedule prevents her from leaving that early. How about noon on Saturday?"

"Yeah, I suppose that would work, if you want to leave town in the heat and traffic," I said.

"I want her to understand that we can't pull over at each view point," Chris said finally.

Ah, I was getting the point. Chris is a long-distance rider with a dresser. He can ramble a thousand miles a day and was looking forward to it, whereas Veronica, on her first road trip, had that "every stop" look in her eyes. I was spelling out this 250-mile-a-day routine with days to spare. I looked at the two, scratched the back of my head and pondered all that had been said. Fortunately, she made Chris's concerns work with the plan.

"Well," I said, "if we're not leaving until after noon on Saturday, we'll have to keep moving if we're going to hook up with the yellow shirts in Wyoming." Immediately Chris smiled, I downed my drink, a handful of chips and kept my mouth shut.

On to Chapter 2 ...

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