Photos by Bastard Ball

If you're like my freedom seeking self, once in a while you need to ride. I don't mean ride to the goddamn bar or even to a rally, bike show or event. I'm talking about getting out of town, out of the city, and out of site. That was the mental plan. What happened didn't exactly fit the criteria, but in some respects improved on the basis, in others it failed miserably.

At first I was going to ride alone. At one time I rode to Phoenix several times alone. I enjoyed it. Riding alone, in a sense, is what it's all about for me, but then I started mentioning the run to pals. Keep in mind that this was not an etched-in-stone puttin' proposal, like what you write down on your calendar for next weekend. It was a notion, like a kid dreaming of going to Disneyland. I just needed to get out of town, but I didn't know when the event would take place until I spoke to my riding partner of many years, Dr. Hamster. When I mentioned it to him, he said, "Yeah." Then he grabbed his calendar. A plan began to form. Initially I wanted to ride to Tombstone and visit the Kennedy's and hang out for the weekend. Then Frank Kaisler said that he had business in Phoenix, and I know a bunch of riders in the custom industry there. I contacted a buddy I'll just call Steve who had recently launched himself into a devastating divorce by screwing every other woman he met. The plan was altered then modified again. Kenny Price of Samson Exhaust also threw his helmet in the ring.

Dr. Hamster at Grand Canyon Caverns.

Ultimately Dr. Hamster called with an exact date, we'd roll out after Thanksgiving. Then the hammer was dropped and riders had to commit to a winter ride to Arizona. Frank dropped out, Kenny Price had to go to Bullhead, Arizona on business and couldn't make it.

I spoke to Micah McCloskey from Micah McCloskey's Custom Cycles and he was primed. Dr. Hamster called a buddy who needed to escape, he was also up for it. Steve decided that two days after a hemorrhoid operation was too soon to ride. He dropped out. I didn't care who came or went. I just wanted to ride. Once we had a date I called the Kennedys. We chose the wrong date. They were going to Vegas for Thanksgiving. Another plan alteration. Micah is a died-in-the-wool rider. For 20 years he rode a rigid Indian until he shifted to and FXR and felt 16-years-old again. We could depend on him, besides he's an Ugly and Uglies ride. Micah started calling me late at night, "What's the plan?" We sorted it out. Once Micah was involved he called me back and asked respectively, "ya see, I'm a recently married guy. I may need to bring my wife." I didn't have any problem with that. I just wanted to ride. His wife, Carmela, works for a charity called the Exceptional Children's Foundation. It's the charity that the Beach Ride Supports. Micah is now the president of the Beach Ride Committee. That's how they met. Carmela made a couple of calls. Suddenly there was an ECF donor who recently bought a resort on Route 66 in Northern Arizona who suggested that we create Beach Ride II in Arizona. He offered us rooms at his 800 acre facility on historic Route 66.

A small portion of the 800 acrea estate.

Micah and I hatched a plan to ride to Prescott and hopefully see Dawne Holmes, one of the finest custom painters in the country. Then the next morning we'd ride north threw Chino Valley to Ash Fork between Williams and Kingman on highway 40. From there we could hook up with Route 66 and find Grand Canyon Caverns and Inn. Next the kick off time must be documented and shared with the team of riders. We decided to meet for breakfast and the corner of the 15 and 10 freeways at the Travelers Truck Stop at 6:30 a.m. That meant that most of us had to rise at 4:30 a.m., to be on the road by 5:30, to make the one-hour haul out of Los Angeles by 6:30. Actually, as development expands you don't reach the outskirts of Los Angeles until you pass Palm Springs. The document was wax sealed, "be there, or be left behind".

One of our destinations.

Now for a report on the 2003 100th Anniversary King, my ride for the Arizona Run. The minute I knew the date I called Frank Kaisler, who was recently the editor of Hot Rod Bikes, and much more up on the technical aspects of new motorcycles. I'll admit it, goddamnit. We had discussed a tech on installing Custom Chrome 16-inch Apes on the King. I had ordered the parts and they were burning a hole in my pocket. We had a locked-in run date. I couldn't ride a stock motorcycle.

We set a date for Tuesday the 19th to install the bars. I will write the tech about that operation this week. He listed the materials I needed. He brought tools to augment mine. We spent the entire day rewiring the bars through the inside, then measuring the cables. He ordered the clutch cable and throttle cables from Barnett. He brought the hoses and fittings to extend the brake lines. When he left that afternoon the job was nearly complete, minus the extended cables. I had made an appointment with the Harley-Davidson fleet center to install a performance package on Friday. The cables needed to arrive by Thursday. That didn't happen, but my photographer for the American Rider magazine tech article couldn't make it Friday anyway, so the operation was rescheduled for Monday. Friday the cables didn't arrive. I panicked. Frank called and was promised the cables Monday morning. I changed our fleet center appointment until Monday afternoon.

The completed King, ready for the road.

At 9:00 a.m. on Monday morning UPS arrived with the cables. Frank and I went to work. Mechanical projects rarely ramble toward completion as quickly as estimated. We arrived at the fleet center at 1:30 Monday the 25 of November and Alan the lead mechanic informed us that he would be leaving at 4:00. We didn't complete the performance operation on Monday, but he assured us that by noon on Tuesday we would be on the road. That gave me two break-in and tuning days before kick-off. He put in a couple of hours Monday afternoon and the bike was stripped, the cams pressed out of the cam plate and readied for installation.

Tuesday morning arrived and so did we at 8:00 a.m. Alan was there, but the big man was slummed over a chair. He mumbled something about food poisoning and went back to the head. He made a gallant effort and worked until 9:00 when Gene Thomason Jr. arrived to relieve the watch. As he turned to install the cams, he coached me on each and every aspect of the operation and mentioned, "I can only stay until 10:30. I have a court deposition." We were burnin' daylight, or actually burnin' through days.

Wednesday unfolded the same at 8:00 a.m. and Alan was back on the job from the 24-hour flu. He moved around the King with cunning and expertise. He's a helluva mechanic. He completed the cam operation, removed and replaced the heads, installed the intake module and new Screamin' Eagle Air Cleaner kit, then Screamin' Eagle two-into-one exhaust, and finally a tach/speedometer replacement.

We rolled out of the fleet center at around 1:00 p.m., after a dyno run, on Wednesday one free day before we'd "Wind 'em up". The bike was running and feeling fine, but I still had more minor adjustments with the new clutch cable, I had to pack and prepare the bike for the run, road test it some more with a few break-in miles and see if the adjustable windshield would fit. It didn't and needed to be modified. I had my chores cut out for my feeble ass. Needless to say I struggled through Thanksgiving Day running to the garage, putting another 40 miles on the clock, checkin' the oil, rerouting the clutch cable and modifying the cool Harley adjustable windshield for the run.

The modified H-D adjustable windshield.

Then there was packing for the first time with the King. I used the crashbar bags for cable and rotor locks on one side and spare gloves, paper work and a digital camera on the other. For some reason the Epson digital was set to shoot black and white and in my numbness I had no notion of how to change it, no icons on the camera to indicate which button to push until it was too late. I ultimately found out but decided in the gloom to leave it alone.

I took spare glasses and a Bandit's Dayroll full of tools just in case. Packing for a ride is always a challenge. Unless you were the Poker God and knew exactly the weather and road conditions, you're forced to pack shit you may or may not need. I packed my usual colorful array of boxer shorts, but since it was downright nippy I wore long johns daily. Never touched my shorts. I packed the top half of my Harley-Davidson rain gear since it was already raining. I was still hoping that it was all a vicious threat, but I packed it anyway. I don't usually carry the pants, but I should have, although my new Pakistani leather chaps did a commendable job in the rain. The cheap bastards failed in other regards which I'll get to later.

As the Thanksgiving night wore on and my trips to the garage Diminished, the small droplets of rain continued. They were like a tease tempting the fate of the ride. It wasn't enough to stop the run, on the other hand it reminded me of five years earlier when I rolled out of town in a sprinkle that turned into a downpour for 400 miles. A gruesome putt. I continued to check the weather channel and the reports were grim. I called Dr. Hamster and announced my bleak intentions. "If it's raining," I said into his message machine, "I ain't going."

When the clock struck 4:30 a.m. and I sat up in bed, I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. The weather reporter began on the east coast with dire reports of freezing temps and snow. It wasn't a good sign as I wadded through reports of historic lows in South Dakota, but no rain in the region. After 20 minutes of pacing the bedroom in my boxer shorts, they reached the south west region of the country. The rain probability percentage had diminished from 60 percent to 40, but the storm was located directly over our planned path for the border. I looked outside as I dressed. It was dry, although I could see spotted indications that rain was nearby.

I kissed Layla goodbye and said, This may only be a breakfast run." At 5:30 a.m. I hit the road on the fresh King. I jumped on the 110 Downtown Los Angeles freeway to the 91 Riverside Freeway to the 605 Freeway to Joker Machine to the 10 Interstate to Palm Springs and beyond. At exactly 6:30 a.m. I pulled into the massive, sprawling, plastic, franchise Travelers Truck Stop. The dam thing is so big that when the other riders arrived they couldn't find us amongst the eateries, gift shops and 7-11 type stores under one roof. Hell, even Taco Bell had taken part of the store. When you're avoiding junk food it's a bitch to be forced to walk through a Mac Donalds to get to the truckers' kitchen.

Micah McCloskey and Greg and Trish O'Neill fooling around at a gas stop.

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