My first wife, Debbie called me at the office about a week before my birthday in 1971. She wanted me to give her $500.
“What?”
“I need $500.”
“Why do you need $500?”
“I can’t tell you. Just trust me.”
That was a bunch of money in 1971, nearly a months pay. I ended up giving her the money and she promised I would have it back in a week from her tips. She busted her buns that week, and sure enough – I had the money back in a week so I could pay the bills – I also had my birthday present. A 1957 XL Harley Davidson - it needed work, but I finally had a Harley! That Harley was a god-sent.
Without war for excitement (it can be addictive) I naturally gravitated to motorcycles. My first one was the Sportster (XL) that Debbie bought me as a birthday present.
That was stolen in 1973 and I was turned off on bikes for a couple years. Losing that bike hurt as much as my divorce from Debbie.
One fine day in 1975 my best friend – Greg White – asked me to make a beer run. My car was down for maintenance, but as it was my turn he forced me to take his bike. The rush returned. I picked up a 12 pack and came home the long way around. I thought he would be pissed, but he was waiting with a big grin. The next day I stopped at various motorcycle shops looking for a deal I could afford. Harley wouldn’t deal, but Honda was desperate for business. It was the end of the month and the salesman had not yet made his quota. I looked at and tried a 1975 Honda CB 750 F, it was quick but (unlike a Harley) had no personality or soul. The salesman gave me money from his pocket for the down payment and the lowest price the manager would approve.
I once again was on two wheels.
For some reason the Japanese motorcycle manufacturers think Americans have very long arms and very short legs. It was very uncomfortable for anything over an hour’s ride. I couldn’t wait to dump it. I succeeded. The insurance money allowed me to buy the parts I needed to make it a custom bike. I now had a Honda that was actually comfortable to ride.
Bad - but a whole lot of fun
Yours Truly back in the Bad Old Days
My next door neighbors – Dave and Sandy Spradlin and Greg and Mona White – were good friends. We were in the same unit at Fort Eustis and their wives were both dancers at a local bar. Sandy was the house dancer, so she danced in full top and bottom bathing suits while most of the other dancers dressed in G-string or T-strap and pasties. She was very attractive and popular, and even though she didn’t show a lot of skin she made good tips. Her position was similar to the old go-go dancers of ten years before.
We often had keg parties in the back yard, with several stereo systems banked together. The music was loud enough to be heard half a mile away. One night a distant neighbor called the cops on us. A young rookie deputy arrived around 10:00 PM to check out the situation. He shut off the engine of his patrol car but left the flashing lights on. It took a while to make out what he was trying to say, but eventually we turned the volume down a little. A woman – not wearing much - offered him a beer. She snuggled up close to him. The rest of us took notice and decided the crisis was taken care of.
I awoke the next morning and crawled out from under the empty beer keg. I stood up and looked around for another beer. I saw the deputy’s car was still there. The flashing lights were still on, but barely. They were very dim and turning oh so slowly. The deputy was sprawled across the hood, his pants around his ankles.
Being a nice guy, I woke him.
He squinted at the bright sunlight. He jumped off the hood and tripped on his pants. He uttered a curse. The young deputy tried to start the car and everything went dead. He didn’t look too happy.
A battery charger was produced and his battery was charged. His radio came to life – and the dispatcher was still trying to reach him. No one had come out to check, but he had not been forgotten.
He was seen a few weeks later working at a 7-11 convenience store.
While we were somewhat isolated, and enjoyed that – there was a minor problem. We were at the far end of the local police patrol zone. The Sheriff’s deputies usually took about half an hour to respond. Because of this, the storeowner asked if we could keep an eye on his store when it was closed. This presented no problem; we just moved the keg parties from out back to out front. The store was about a hundred feet from our kegs.
One night during a keg party – loud music, plenty of people and light, about a dozen Harleys – and a van with two very dumb would-be robbers pulled up behind the store. They pulled out a crowbar and popped the padlock from the store’s storeroom.
We could not allow them to steal the Budweiser!
While they were entering the storeroom we were pulling guns. The Sheriff was called. When the deputy finally arrived we had the two bad guys up against the van, arms high and legs spread. The first thing the deputy asked us (after arresting the bad guys) was “Why do you people have so many guns?”
I asked the deputy if he knew how long it took him to get here. He told us not to detain anyone ever again, it was dangerous! Like most Bikers we were all either Army or ex-Army, and well trained in weapons. We all knew not to panic when excited.
The women often seemed full of surprises. Once Greg and I were riding up to Richmond, he had his wife Mona with him and I was packing an exotic dancer. This dancer was something - a flaming redhead with a taste for Cold Duck Sparkling Wine. I stopped at nearly every store on the way to buy another bottle. She would kick back against the sissy bar and chug half a bottle, pass it up to me, then finish it off.
Now, we were used to getting strange looks from people on the road, but as we entered Richmond we were getting some really strange looks. Women were covering their kids – and their husbands – eyes. There were several near collisions. As we sat at a red light I looked around and saw that Mona was topless. She just smiled. Both of the women had taken off their tops while we were on the road so they could get a better sun tan! Riding into the city on motorcycles, completely topless!
Our favorite watering hole was the Grotto West Café, now the Junction Café. It was a typical biker bar. A line of Harleys in front, hard driving rock and roll music, attractive waitresses and cheap beer gave it all the necessities. Being a biker bar made it somewhat different than other bars. First and foremost, Harley riders were welcome. We could do things there that were not allowed at other bars; if it rained, we could ride the motorcycles through the bar to the back room where they could stay dry. Late at night, if someone passed out, they would be stacked under a pool table so they wouldn’t be stepped on. There was seldom a bouncer – if someone started trouble we would escort them outside. The local bikers never caused trouble because we liked having a place where we were welcome.
Sunday morning at the Grotto usually started at about 7:00 or 8:00 AM, or when people started crawling out from under the pool tables and off the stage. There was a beer special on Sunday morning, with pitchers being very cheap – but there were a limited number of pitchers. We had an easy solution. The bar next door opened at 10:00 AM and several of us would go there and order a pitcher – at twice the price. Once we had a pitcher of beer we would take it – pitcher and all - back to the Grotto, and have more pitchers.
Some of the women had a sense of humor that we appreciated, but at times didn’t go well with the authorities. Exotic dancers were required only to wear g-strings and pasties - just enough to cover the essentials. Some of the Alcohol Beverage Control Agents took their jobs extremely serious, getting as close as possible to discover if any nipple was showing around the pastie. The ABC agents would be rotated around they State when they became known, but Mona found a way to make one of them blow his cover. She found a set of pasties that were designed to look like nipples and wore them under her usual pasties.
She stepped out on the stage.
The music started. She was dancing and … stopped in mid song, saying something like, “The heck with these!” and tossed the outer pasties to the audience. It now looked like she had no pasties. The new undercover agent jumped to the stage yelling, “You’re under arrest!”
Mona looked shocked and asked why. The agent told her she had to wear pasties and she well knew it. She suddenly looked as sweet and innocent as a nun. She pulled off the nipple looking pasties, held them up and said, “Like these?”
When the owner of The Junction became incapable of running the bar himself, he hired a manager. That woman was all business and did not like bikers. The first thing she did was take out peace bonds on us. When asked why, she just replied that we were trouble. We did not agree, as we kept the peace and spent a lot of money in there; but – why spend money where we weren't wanted? We moved to the next bar on the block – Buck's Brand.
We learned just how serious the peace bonds were the next night. Both bars are located in a strip mall, between them was a dirty bookstore. Two of us pulled in to spend our money at Buck's – but we parked (from force of habit) in front of the Grotto. Police cars arrived almost instantly. There must have been a dozen cops, all with their hands on their guns telling us we were not allowed in the Grotto. We told them – politely – that we were going to Buck's, and proceeded to do so. We came out an hour later and the police were still there, guarding the Grotto. This presented us with a marvelous opportunity for fun and games. Every night one or two of us would ride down and park in front of the Grotto and count the number of police officers responding.
This only lasted a few months, as business at the Grotto went down hill fast. A bouncer was hired but he could not maintain order. People stopped patronizing the place because of fights. The only customers it had were good ole boy rednecks and some riders from another motorcycle club, not enough to sustain a profit. The manager was fired, the peace bond was withdrawn. We were asked to come back – which we did. Young soldiers from Fort Eustis could come in without the fear of being involved in a fight, which was damaging to the career. Peaceful citizen types could come in without having to guard their backs.
I rode down to Fort Myers, Florida When I came down on orders for Hawaii. The weather was cold, wet and very nasty – snow and sleet. When I hit the Florida line the weather improved – bright, warm and sunny. The Florida Tourism Board must have an in with the Big Guy Upstairs.
Outside of Jacksonville I met up with a trucker and asked if I could tuck in behind him.
“Sure – if you think you can keep up.”
He wasn’t joking. We took two lane blacktops straight down the middle of the state; our average speed was near a hundred miles an hour. That boy was in a hurry. I made good time and was soon settled in my parent’s home.
They were living in a retirement type mobile home park. All of their neighbors were elderly and retired, but there was a nice pool, shuffleboard and other organized activities. I met most of their friends and enjoyed the area. It was only about a mile from a nice Gulf beach where a beach party could be readily found just about any time.
There was one problem. Some of the kids in the neighboring areas were starting to prey on the old folks. If anyone went for a walk at night it had to be with a group. Some of the kids were beginning to get rough when demanding money.
I went into Badassed Outlaw Biker mode.
Several of these kids approached me one evening after watching a grade B biker movie.
“Are you a Hells Angel?”
“No. I’m retired.”
The word must have gotten around that a retired Hells Angel was living there. I never claimed to be a Hells Angel – in fact I denied it. That didn’t matter. The assaults on the old folks ceased.
I left the bike at Dads for storage when I left for Hawaii. It stayed in plain sight.
In April 1982 I left Hawaii and shipped my new Harley FLH to Los Angeles, picking it up at Long Beach. I rode up the I-110 during rush hour and made it to the San Bernardino Freeway before the weather got to me. It was a combination of snow, sleet and rain, not exactly like what is seen in the movies. I stopped in Hollywood for a day just to dry out and warm up.
I nursed a minor hangover as I rode back up on the San Bernardino Freeway. As I passed out of the city I crested a rise and saw the desert spread out before me. I had a tape in the stereo and as I came down the other side of the rise with miles of straightaway in front. Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf started to play. I cranked up the volume and felt a thrilling exhilaration as I shot down I-10.
Not only did I feel the normal exhilaration of riding a Harley – a feeling akin to flying, a freedom and motion rush unknown to ordinary non-Harley riding mortals – but also a complete and total freedom rush. I had the open road in front of me, money in my pocket and plenty of time off to enjoy myself.
This was early spring of 1982, and my road trip from Los Angeles to Virginia required me to pass through a checkpoint at the California-Arizona border. It was like crossing an international border, but it was only a State line. I had to show that I had no agriculture products or insects. As I pulled away from the checkpoint I was pulled over by the United States Border Patrol. The officers demanded I show them my “Green Card”. I had no idea what a green card was. They started getting irate, hands on their pistol butts. The only card I had that was green was my Active Duty Military ID Card, so I showed them that. They apologized and I was on my way. It seems that the suntan I had from three years in Hawaii, along with the droopy mustache made him think I was a Mexican.
The next stop was Bisbee, Arizona. It was a copper mining boomtown a century ago, but with the mine played out it is really laid back. I stayed at the Copper Queen Hotel. As I walked through the batwing doors into the saloon I stepped back in time. I registered at the ornate desk and ascended the stairs. At every landing there were overstuffed leather chairs, coffee tables and magazines. The walls were covered with cloth or embossed paper. The woodwork was carved. No painted sheet rock here.
I returned to the saloon and talked with the locals, who were quick to recommend other places of interest - one an old adobe bar around the corner (St. Elmo’s, 36 Brewery Ave.). We moved to the front porch and watched the evening “rush hour”. Three cars in sight at the same time!
Saint Elmo’s bar was worth the trip by itself. The walls are covered with weapons. Old flintlock, cap and ball rifles and pistols even Indian lances. Early model automatics - at least one early Mauser pistol - and Colts and Remingtons and ... all collectors items. The bar has had a policy of confiscating weapons from rowdy patrons. The weapons were all hung on the wall as a warning of what would happen to yours if you misbehaved.
I learned quite a bit about American history on that trip and what I learned was far different than what I thought I knew. Much of what we "know" about our history is based on Hollywood. Indians all lived in teepees. Well, yes if they lived on the plains – the eastern peoples lived in houses. Army forts out west had log stockades. No, timber was rare in the Southwest. I visited several old sites and learned that the typical fort was simply a collection of adobe buildings in the middle of nowhere, and the duty was incredibly boring – escorting wagon trains was normally routine and uneventful; hostile encounters were few and very far between.
