Two Wheeled Tales

Chapter 1 – Click here    Editor’s note: The following story was reprinted from the book, “Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemyer. Revised version August 6, 2013.   “Less is more, with lots of things put into tight places; so nothing interrupts you from appreciating the true […]

Editor’s note: The following story was reprinted from the book, “Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music,” by Derrel Whitemyer. Revised version July 31, 2013.     “When I die I want to meet God and say, what the hell were you thinking, like what were you thinking?”   —Indian Larry  

Continued from Here                                                                ACT ONE/SCENE #3 WE MEET KATE                     IN ACT ONE/SCENE #2 Lorenzo Lamas and Branscombe Richmond have finally made it to Spanky’s Café. Nearly frozen by the sudden drop in temperature after the sun sets, they’re rescued by Kate when she throws them a lit highway flare

The back of the Shovelhead bucked and kicked as Travis cut across three lanes of traffic, gunning his damaged bike toward the exit ramp. An eighteen-wheeler loomed in the right lane, closing in on his escape route. No stopping on a dime for that load. Travis snapped the throttle on the S&S, cutting between the

Travis rolled off the throttle as he crested the hill. The open prairie opened up before him. It was one of the things he loved most about this country. How you could be cutting through rolling hills of a coteau one minute, cross a threshold and the entire countryside would change to open prairie. He

    “When I die I want to meet God and say, what the Hell were you thinking; like what were you thinking?” —Indian Larry     “Hold on to yourself Bartlett, you’re twenty feet short.” —Steve McQueen …from the movie THE GREAT ESCAPE     “If I had to describe him, I’d say he

Travis rounded the corner and gunned the throttle. The burst of sound from the drag pipes scattered the neighborhood kids playing street hockey running past their goals before they could lift them out of the way. His bungalow was the third one in from the top of the block. He backed the bike to the

                  I left Panama during the rainy season. From Panama City I had 3,000 miles to go before reaching Mexico’s northern border. My twin cam engine was overheating every day now and if I ran into trouble I knew of only two Harley dealers in Central America. Mexico had several dealerships

  Dawn was upon us, stars were winking out and the moon had given up trying to outshine the morning sun. Charon moved to the side, letting Larry and I pass; as we rode by he gave us a small salute, “Remember to stay on the Ridge Route, no alternate routes, Ma’s orders.” Beyond the

We’re riding on a narrow, twisting mountain road. Themorning sun is warm on our faces, and your body ispressed tightly against my back. I can feel your fullbreasts against me, your nipples hard from the coolmorning air. Your hair flows out from under yourhelmet in our slipstream like molten honey. The road narrows, forcing me

The ponds are shrouded in inky blackness as I make myway slowly down the levies between them. I know youhear me coming, the staccato rumble of the Harley’sengine echoes out across the calm surface of thewater, and my headlight carves an erratic path throughthe darkness as I search for you. I know you workedlate; your

“Dago” Red sat on the bottom bunk and watched a roachscurry across the toes of his county issued slippers.He had sat, elbows on knees, his chin resting in hispalms for the last two hours waiting for his attorneyto show up. The arrogant bastard. Red reached outsuddenly, squashing the roach with the sole of hisright foot,

The roar of the explosion rocked the Rat Hole Bar and Grill, shaking thewalls and a fine mist of accumulated dust loose from the ceiling,along with a pair of Lizard Lips Louise’s panties that had stuck to the roofseveral months ago. Tanker cursed, wiping off the remains of his pickled pig’s foot that had slipped

Scoots First Ride Scoot’s second chopperMy first ride was a “Bug” mini bike when I was around 12-yrs. Old. It was one of those “cool” ones with the peanut tank and baby apes. First thing I did was rip off the exhaust and put on a straight pipe. My life went down hill from then

Art still owns his first Shovelhead.ART'S FIRST BIKE AND BLUES1983, Pushing the front end of the big Shovelhead down the coastal highway of the outer banks of North Carolina, thinking about the year on Okinawa. I was Scrimping and saving to purchase the 1980 FXE. The time spent as a barracks rat was worth every

Author and custom painter, Joann Bortles, or Crazyhorse. CRAZYHORSE'S DREAM COME TRUE–ALMOST They say, that a human brain will take a traumatic experience and bury it, not allowing the conscious mind to dwell on it. By 1994 owning a Harley became so distant a dream, that I never even thought about it anymore. I was

Old shots from Bugs. Doesn't have a damn thing to do with this story.FIRST MEMORIESWith me, it started on a highway somewhere in LA, when I was probably in the 3rd grade. It was the early '60s. My mom and dad, who were and are fine upstanding citizens, had no interest in motorcycles. As a

Here's Johnny, the authorThe Origins of a Passion I have had many people ask me why I ride a motorcycle. I’m sure most who ride have known the scenario of pulling up to the gas station to refuel and getting hammered with the stories of cycle lore by every customer. You know the stories, “My

Bike Building Boot Camp or A Crash Course In Chopper Building The 50th Team.A rare e-mail address flashed across my in-box. Jesse James from Monster Garage wrote, “Wanna help build an Old School Chopper?” I wrote back, “I'm not a master builder, you have a number of talented builders at West Coast Choppers. I'm just

There's always a lot of squawkin' about what a true chopper is. Some guys swear it's a chopper if it's a motorcycle with long fork$$$$$. Others believe it's an anti-social statement in the form of a motorcycle. The descriptions and beliefs on the subject are endless, and (this being America) there ain't a damn thing

Editor's Note: Below is a story from Tim Conder, and old friend, bike builder, custom painter and all around artist. After the story I'm running his bio to give you the entire scoop on the man. Enjoy–Bandit.I just worked a 16 hour day crankin' on a paint job for some football player. I think I'll

I planned a weekend getaway with my son Logan for some time ago, and the weekend had finally arrived!Young Logan was due to get out of school at noon on Friday. I needed to rescue his young self and scramble through gravel for 1.5 hour into Port Alberni, from our home in Bamfield, on Vancouver

There's Ken Saxon Editor's Note: Mike didn't supply images so we ask Curt Lout if we could use some riding shots from his 2005 coverage. He kindly said yeah, so enjoy. The road has characteristics and glitches that sometimes confuse you, sometimes work in your favor, and sometimes slap ya in the back of the

My Robin in front of Flora-Bama on the Beach. Well kids, it is time for another blithering installment of “The Travels of Rigid Frame Richard”. This one doesn't involve a quest to “Clothe Poor Girls”. What a shame. I hit Pensacola, Florida for my niece's graduation. It was great to get to visit but tough