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[email protected] message: Misc Henderson parts left over from restoration, complete rear wheel with brake band and anchor plate early ball bearing style, clutch lever, misc hardware etc. Some restorable some only good for pattern, Super X rear wheel complete, 101 scout front end complete straight but rusty can be restored $500. 1947 Harley WL nice restoration, rebuilt motor, otherwise stock $9,800 or BRO. 1939 Indian Chief presentable older restoration runs/drives great $15,000 firm.

Southbound & Down

I was making my first road trip to Daytona for Biketoberfest 2003 on a 1947 WL that I picked up in the summer of 2001, with some help for my friend Sully, in NYC we exchange the cash at a bank next to the Trade Center; unfortunately for me I picked up this bike from a grifter in Portland Maine, 3000 miles of NYC driving, the whole bike fell apart, blew half the pistons off. They made them tuff in 47, but as I drove it to the shop I could not get it over 30 mph. Thanks to Joe and Andrew on Route 1 in Rahway this old bird got a fresh drive train for the trip south.

I had my father's ashes in the saddlebags and I had a lot of time to think; it was a little better than a 1000-mile ride, I wasn't breaking any land speed records on this run. "A phony, a fake, a fraud" 23 hours of riding to figure this out. "No tattoo's, no club" I left at 6am, bike pre packed, the night before was long and rainy, the bike and its contents baptized; the Staten Island Ferry slammed in to pier that morning killing many commuters. The wind that day kicked my ass all the way to Richmond, VA. I stopped for the night in Lumberton North Carolina and reflected. I wrenched on my primary chain after checking in at 7pm, "that was fucking scary", and noticed my father was sneaking out all the way down 95. I smoked some grass ordered my first meal, a few beers and thought about how I got to this point, and this time around if anything, had I really changed. I just spent 13 hours on the road; my usual trips are 6-8 hours, stop and go, on the streets of Manhattan, bouncing of cabs, and bar hopping 35 miles from home. 573 miles down 95 with my father on my trail, our time together is now; day 2 with a deteriorating primary chain situation it is not looking very promising.

My first Harley was an 81 shovelhead, my second Harley was 47 flathead, and I don't know what my third will be but I will build it for my son, I have some time to get it together and it's looking like a 93 inch pan - shovel, maybe a 50's straight leg, the boy picked out the tank online from Gasoline Alley - my 7 year old wants to find Brother Rat Fink, and already a fan of Big Daddy-0. His Grandfather was a truck driver and his uncle is a truck driver. I know of the road and have been on it my whole life on one set of wheels or another; sorry to say any form of transportation I could get my hands on. My brother and I started to mess around with bikes in '84'; he unlike I is more of a biker but I got the Harley thing started in our immediate family around '87' it would be my first loan; I could not afford it straight up cash. My brother was the first one to get to Daytona for bike week in '89' at that time he told me the only biker build-off was at the Rat's Hole, and it was for the best rat bike, and others mods in town. I would not make it there until much later in life, right around the second chopper explosion.

Born in Rahway, NJ 1965, raised in Iselin. In the 70's when we where kids all we would see around the neighborhood and at the annual catholic church fair were hardcore choppers an 1%'ers drinking Pabst on the keg under the biker tent, it was unreal what seemed like hundreds around the oak tree getting boozed up and stoned out on weird smelling cigarettes, then blowing out at midnight with hole shots and wheelies, after the last polka and the wrestling bear where put away for the night in the name of the Roman Catholic Charity, we donated beer money for the saint of the highway I suppose. The lifestyle, working class, where the wave broke back, east coast style, and hardcore outlaw biker, that was the undercurrent in our neighborhood (which my parents were not to happy about).

Things in town started to change the old timers moved out of Middlesex county in the 80's, I was in college playing football for the state university so I missed most of the local fun prior to the exodus, but not all of it. I picked up my first Shovel from Tom at Ski towing in New Brunswick, he had his fathers bike in the shed under a cover and old FL Panhead with a sidecar, he sold me the shovel an 81 Lowrider for $4500 and said in may need a counter shaft 2nd, it started going on his way back from Sturgis in 86, I believed him, I am pretty sure he was well versed in the ways and the codes, like old friends Johnny and John back from Avenel his ink and his demeanor reminded me of the Hilltop crew by Shop Rite back in Iselin, the biker Gods I use to see from the car window and at the fair, as a kid. Soon after that my brother picked up a shovel bagger stripped it down and we where on our way, where I am not sure, but we where going to get there. The Lowrider burned to the ground on Grand Avenue about 6 months later, August of '87' the insurance since it was financed set me free, the money forced me to take it apart down to splitting the cases. Hubs and Wayne from B&D in Rahway helped with the lower end and the heads, as well as the transmition, they sized the jugs with new pistons and gave me a sifton 440 and I was on my way to put that bike back together in my basement. I would help the biker crowd out in other ways, ways in which I was into at the time "a decedent and depraved" lifestyle of sorts. As the build got under way my mother told us she had cancer and died of it on Thanksgiving Day of that year. The shovelhead helped me through the pain, the loss and the suffering. I had it back together for the spring and needed to figure out how get it out of the bilco doors in the basement, it was a good thing I went with drag bars, and 4" risers, I took 5 of us, and my old man was right there. I think deep down he would have loved to ride, trucking was his thing, he turned me on to all the trucker movies of the 70's White Line Fever, Smokey and the Bandit, Duel, and Convoy where the most memorable, we would truck often together through the years, he could keep his eye on me in the summer, and night jobs running into NYC through college for extra money, he would try to stop the hustle that I pick up at the university.

I graduated the university on that bike, stomped people and got stomped on back in those days, learned a few things about the cops, dealers and dealing, when a son of a detective breaks your head open with a baseball bat don't expect him to get more than a 3rd class misdemeanor. If it was a biker on a Harley all greased out it would have been attempted murder. It's not that I don't like to police, but they take care of their own just like everyone else. Lost a few along the way, Johnny G die in the streets of NYC and Mark drove his Pan into a tree one early morning, they where from the Clinton area of NJ, and the accidents happened 6 months apart, after all that went down so did I. Burned the shovel again right in front of the Kings INN Route 1 in Rahway, NJ 10:00 pm just back from Brooklyn shut the whole south side down as flames shot out of the tank 30 feet in the air fuel hissing and spewing out; the sky lit up like the refineries on Exit 13. I tore that shovel down and started to rebuild, in the end it was sold to Leo and Gary on Rt. 1 in Rahway as a basket case for $2,000 one of the biggest regrets of my life. After that it all ended for a while, I lost my first fiancé, moved to NYC with my future wife, and for 10 years became a "biker"? without a bike, yeah everyone knows that is the lowest form of shit talker.

6 am day two packed and ready for the road, " I got to let all my shit dry" and de-ash in the Motel, it was a fucking mess; soggy, mildew smelling, cremation soiled. I put my father who I had zip locked in the old chrome stamp metal WLA tool box; his dog tags fixed to the vessel that would find it's way to the depths of the Atlantic and down to the Gulf Stream by way of the Sunglow pier Daytona, he died at Halifax Medical Center the year before; he is back in the saddle riding shot gun ready for the rest of the ride. I remember my father more vividly since my brother and I just took him off life support, he out lasted my mother 17 years to the ripe old age of 64, never drank never smoked, that German walked the line, and was one tuff motherfucker in his day. One of the best wheelmen you would ever meet, and could turn a wrench on most anything. He knew, and he knew I knew what to do when the time came.
 

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Discussion Starter · #8 ·
Re: my first official motorcycle event (part 2)

Billdozer1811 said:
[Stunned.]

OK, now ready for part two. Please.

Holy shit.

-Bill
The fog was rising in Dixie just as I crossed the border; the swamps of South Carolina are pure as the sun rises through the mist between the moss and the sycamore. I was freezing my balls off in mid October 1.5 hours in, for the second day hypothermia was setting in, and my primary was rattling around like 10 penny nails banging in a coffee can. I pulled over and cracked open the primary cover. I re-adjusted the stretched out primary chain of the 45 that bitch was dried up and stretched like an old whore. I only had 425 miles to go and I could see the pins in some places the clutch basket sprockets were worn like a saw blade, and the chain whipped through the front of the primary cover. Oil, oil lubrication I shouted as the cars and trucks passed buy, shit it looked like I was the only crazy bastard on a bike that morning.

I guess it was around 11 when this 18-wheeler hauling hogs blew buy me, I smiled and snorted at those hogs as they where probably going off to be breakfast for some retirees down in FLA. I was thawing out smoking grass forgetting all the bullshit back in NYC, exit 131 NJ; just as sure as I was wrenching that fucking primary chain with full transmission adjustments 5 or 6 times, I was a greasy sweaty fucking mess by 4 pm when I hit the FLA state line.

I slowly rolled into Daytona not sure where I was north of downtown in some poor ghetto, I could see the streetlights were coming on, and I got closer to some of the main streets I could see the sights and sounds of the pent up event. Bikertoberfest in it first Friday night, I rattled onto International Speedway Drive looking for the Ramada I stayed last year, right across from the Daytona International Speedway. I rode into town burnt out, greasy, looking for my second meal in 36 hours. All I could see from stop light to stop light, and east to west were the "trailer" crowd fresh out of the shower polished up in their billet, I must have looked like a "Coney Island Freak" to most of these well manicured folks, my face swollen and wind burned, eyes of Mr. Gasser, greasy, a ratty old bike, a ratty 3/4 leather jacket, a degenerated stoned out beer swollen 38 year old white dude, crew cut, blue eyes, thick in Jersey accent, large greasy handed cretin. The receptionist at the Inn remembered me from the year before and got me a room on the ground floor east side. I parked, off loaded the saddle bags and stripped myself down for a long hot shower, the pool of oil, and dirt in the bottom of the tub looked familiar, all the towels covered with motor oil and highway grime, the maid service needed a good tip.

I had cleaned up my act, burned some grass and turned on the news the miners where saved in Pennsylvania, wholly shit that was they year before I was having a flashing back to my Halifax Medical Center experience the year before, it was a miracle those miners getting saved I thought to myself, god takes some and spares others like those doomed commuters on the Staten Island Ferry, or as HST would have put it ""Fear and Loathing on the Staten Island Ferry - a savage journey to work"", everyone is spared once and a while, well except for those pigs I saw hauling down 95.

Assessing the damage after a pork ribs dinner and several taps off the keg I tore down the Achilles heal one more time, and found out our 1053 mile journey must have been made with the wind south of Dixie a saddlebag with the best wheel man God had to offer, we made it, we were halfway through the pins, but we made it, all the Saints had to cash in their beer money for this ride but by the grace of God we made it.

I was finally vindicated of my own conscious, my internal lack of intestinal fortitude, sitting back seeing the chrome triangle box with the army dog tags and knowing that I can get someone somewhere they wanted to go and get the job done in the honor of a highway man. It might have been for both of us, and maybe with the way it all unfolded the gift may have been truly for me. I was only 3 miles away from the Sunglow Pier.

The hotel was full, checked in next to me was a trucker and a biker from Canada Big Billet R., he check out my ride and and said what's your deal, his old lady was headed down via-727 in the am so we rolled in the bar for a few. He had a well appointed, polished, lowered, diamond cut, 103 ci, half orange half black, full customize full of glory 2000 bagger, a big new trailer to match, and a huge pickup to haul his shit from the land north of the greater 48. Big Billet offered to drive me around to the local vendors, a brother who looked familiar told me to try Red at Alley Cat who offered us a beer as we drove up to his one car garage storefront, I noticed he was a pan and shovel man, located close to a 1% 'er club house and knew I was close, he said "good luck finding a 100 plus pin 45 primary chain down here, try Black Gold he might, I doubt it but might have what your looking for. What the fuck did you do again? Good luck" You see Billet was a fresh rested truck driving man on a mission, so he wouldn't give up the search, I would have just went with Reds advice, I was just a fuckking beat up mess by this time, buzzed on lack of sleep, lack of food, strong grass from NYC, 1053 miles 25 hours of a rigid 47, I was out of my mind by this time and hardened as steel pins, and noticed I just started passing a kidney stone. As we headed to the truck Red said "Black Gold is not open until the morning" I said lets go to the Beach Beauty Club. I just rolled with it in a sense of defeat; my job here is not completed yet. I never got to the Beach Beauty Club, or Boot Hill that night but I talked to every billet pimping vendor on Main Street catching the local scene. One guy gave me Old Dude's number in GA. but I had no time for UPS or FedEx.

I woke up at 5 am blowing ribs and beer out of my pie hole, the stone passed, I was doubled down in pain, the blood vessels broke right out of my eye sockets…I went back to sleep, I woke up at 7 put the old man on the back of the bike with the bags, and I set off for the Sunglow Pier. Buy the time I got off the bike walked through Crabby Joe's and out to the end of the pier with my tool box, tags, and precious cargo I was an emotional mess…thanking everyone I ever met in my life to help me get this far, then that last a long talk with the tool box…all the usual shit, I was really broken down and emotional, re living the talks you have with a soon to be corpse and a heartbeat monitor and respirator giving you hope that he will just sit up and say hey how's it going good you could make it down to Florida to see me, but that never happened. Before I hauled that toolbox and tags and Dad as far as I could, I put a knife thought the zip lock, locked him down in the box. As I sent my father in to the great Atlantic like a discus he moved out toward the sea, splash down, bubbled down ash sprayed out to the sea with the off shore breeze and with the sun on the rise it was all I could hope for that desperate Saturday morning on the Sunglow Pier.

As I made that long walk toward shore, I called my wife and my son and told them I loved them and would be home soon.

My mother loved Elvis and my father Cash, I went to the Lighthouse diner right off A-1-A, as I looked at the pictures of all the lighthouses around the US I felt as if I had been here before, I flashed back to my father, mother, and brother sitting here in the 70's on our way back from Hialeah after our annual trip to see my Grandfather and the half of my half family in Florida.

The load has been lifted promises kept, I felt free a great burden lifted, that night as I slept I would feel the ocean and the undertow pulling me into a good nights sleep, but right now I was headed over to the Boot Hill for some beer and some Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down, and a few Buds for breakfast after breakfast. 3 or 4 beers before 10 am it was a few puffs, and a kick start and I was off over the main street bridge a right on the other side and to Black Gold my savior; $55 dollars, a new primary chain, and I was ready to ride home. I went back to my room and crashed for 4 hours woke up and tried to get that new primary on. It was not fitting for some reason, not enough pins? Fuck it. I called U-Haul $250 for a box truck back to Jersey, done.
 

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Discussion Starter · #9 ·
Re: my first official motorcycle event (part 3)

Big Billet had is old lady with him now, his truck, his trailer, his hot bike, and said, "Do you want to grab some lunch, hooters?" He told me she wasn't really his girl just a friend with privileges. I said cool, "try marriage". A lot of people his age seem afraid of commitment, I guess it is not outlaw enough, the toughest men I know are married and walking the line for their family, but too look, talk, and laugh at a titty bar is just good old fashion fun I told him. I don't know why we never made it to the Beach Beauty Club like the year before with my brother, but at hooters the chicken wasn't bad. I drove shotgun to Main Street with Big Billet and his old lady, looked for booze instead of a longer primary chain, the too of them didn't drink, so bar hopping was out of the question. I smoked some reefer and limped around holding my kidney, with a feeling of remorse that I would not be able to ride the bike home as I intended. I was sad to go home in the U-haul figuring my plan failed, the mission was half lived.

In the end I went down my way on that old bird and home my father's way via diesel, I am still not sure if I am a biker. In the end I know my father was with me because if I tried to head north on that 45 it may have killed me and I would definitely not be a biker then? For some reason I felt like my father knew my son and wife need me still and probably said getting there with him on that bike was just fine. I trucked back Sunday morning 16 hours straight through, heard a little Cash on the radio, it was coming down like a couple Sunday's at the Boot Hill Saloon with my brother the year before, when we got the call from the Halifax, just as we cracked our first can of beer. All in all it was 2100 miles in 4 days Biketoberfest 2003 was a success for me. The Marlboro Man, and Coffee got me home. I picked up some fire works for the kid at Lucky's other than that it was the diesel doctor all the way up 95 a comfortable ride compared to the battle south. Had I really changed in the past 20 years, no not really, am I a real biker, well "no tattoo's, no club", no, no I can't say that I am a real biker either, just a fan of the proud highway…an independent, like my father…all I could think about on that diesel blazed trail, petal to the metal tear back North was Laconia early summer 04 and meeting up with my brother, and a 101 other places I wanted to go on the road.
 

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fuckin awesome. I know this is old, but i'm from west new york, Hudson county. I know off all them places u refer to. I am too building a shovel as you were. ever think of writing books?
 
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