Roadside Attractions

The Story So Far

2012-01-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a small town about 20 miles west of Atlanta,Georgia. Played hide and seek at Peek-A-Book Kindergarten. Read Tom Sawyer atBeulah Elementary. Discovered girls at Stewart Middle and learned to drive atLithia Springs High. I was a middle child with two crazy sisters. Dad is a straight-shooting truck-driver with forearms that still intimidate me. Mama isa quiet Southern Belle that makes a great peach cobbler. The first album I bought with my own money was Frampton Comes Alive! "Do you feel like we do?"

In 1985, I ignored a partial scholarship to Savannah Collegeof Art & Design and instead apprenticed at a small newspaper called TheSweetwater News Enterprise. My responsibilties were basic typesetting andpaste-up but I knew my future would be in publishing. The simple Farmer’s Almanaccontent left me uninspired, so I answered a classified ad in The AtlantaJournal and left the Enterprise for a large-circulation tabloid called CycleNews. A well-oiled machine, Cycle News was more magazine than newspaper andemployed real editors, talented photographers and high standards of production.I was still doing simple paste-up, but was happy to be there. When CN closed it’s Atlanta office, I washired by a four-color magazine called AutoBuff that featured custom cars andtopless babes. Strippers the owners of the magazine scooped out of local bars.AutoBuff is where I finally cut my teeth on editorial page design. Those earlylayouts were primitive but so were the magazine’s standards. It might have beenthe subject-matter, but I spent more and more time on the light-table editing400 Kodachromes down to ten. Or, five. When we began publishing Sports CarsIllustrated, I had even more opportunities to work with photos and designpages. Collaborating with Editors, learning the off-set printing process. Ieven began writing headlines as placeholders until the editor provided finalcopy. Nothing more than puns. A story about the Lamborghini factory? I typed inBull Run. Often, those placeholders became permanent. When I became moreefficient at the entire magazine process, I began setting the pace. When SportsCars Illustrated was sold and moved 2,000 miles away to Newport Beach,California, I was named Art Director and went along for the ride. Just me andthe Editor. That was 1988. I was only 21.

It was the dawn of desktop publishing and the magazine’sbenefactor provided us with new Macintosh computers. We had a parking lot fullof cutting-edge sportscars and someone had to drive them. Someone had tophotograph them. My eye became more sophisticated and so did my layouts. Aftera few years, I was beginning to feel at home in Southern California. Bought anold Toyota 4x4 and explored the Southwest.

When Sports Cars Illustrated (Now Sports Cars International)was sold and relocated to San Francisco, I stayed behind in Costa Mesa and becamea designer at Pfanner Communications. Soon, I was Art Directing multipletitles, including RACER and Jet Sports magazine. Full page ads, gatefold andinserts for Honda, No Fear and Skip Barber Racing. PR materials for variousIndyCar race teams. Race programs for NASCAR events across the country. Settingthe standard higher with each project but lying awake every night, trying tostop my mind from racing with endless concepts and tedious production details.I was paid well and named Senior Designer but eventually, I ran out of steam.When Pfanner couldn’t provide an assistant and instead piled on moreassignments, I snapped and set out on my own to see what this freelance conceptwas about. It was the only way I could find to come up for air.

Between design jobs, I took photos for the local alternativeweekly and worked just hard enough to maintain the modest lifestyle of abohemian artist. Referred to myself as semi-retired at only 30. Morningskayaking around Newport Bay. Afternoons at the gym or on the bicycle. Nights atthe bar. I spouted big thoughts from little books and reveled with illusions of enlightenment.

“Hi, Keith. This is Paul Dean from Cycle World magazine.” Avoice said from the ether. “I’ve been following your work and want you to ArtDirect our Harley mag Big Twin.” Paul was an old pro and I was stoked to be on-board such a legendary title. Paul and I became masters atproducing low-distribution, fledgling imprints with only a few ads getting inthe way of our sprawling layouts. Paul soon signed me on to design CW’s annualBuyer’s Guide. And, later, we began another series called Travel & Adventure. These mags lost money, but our work looked great in the lobby. Thestring of regular assignments kept me busy enough to buy a streetbike and enjoysolo adventures along the coast. Northern California, the Central Valley.Arizona. Met people. Took pictures. Wrote stories. By now I was 35.

“I have an idea for a feature-story,” I offered in aproduction meeting for Travel & Adventure. “We put a guy on a Harleyand send him cross-country with a camera and see what happens. Instead of hiring (and paying for) a writer and photographer, we find a talented rider that can do both”

“Just who do you have in mind?” Paul asked rhetorically.“You ride. You take pictures.”

"You're right," I said. And that’s when things really got interesting.

The Christmas Scratcher

2011-12-11T20:09:00.001-08:00

I'll never forget the image of my friend Chris leaping from the couch, waving his arms and running euphorically around his Oakwood apartment yelling, "I'm rich! I'm rich!." His wife, Maryanne looking at me with curious apprehension.

Aware that I had nowhere to go, they had graciously invited me to join them for breakfast Christmas morning. Since relocating to California many years before, I had grown accustomed to being an orphan on holidays and friends like Chris and Maryanne made it bearable.

While Maryanne and I drank Mimosas and played Mortal Kombat, Chris made eggs benedict and skillet potatoes. Smoke drifted from a tired plastic bong and Luscious Jackson shook the walls. Greetings from Costa Mesa. Circa 1998.

Chris was a part-time construction worker with a bad back and a fist full of painkillers. Tall, laconic and muscular, he had natural grace and rugged good looks. A smart guy, he talked about becoming a draftsman but lacked the motivation for school. Maryanne was a pretty receptionist for an Irvine chiropractor who wanted to be an actress. As a teen, she appeared in an Afterschool Special but since moving to Orange County had fallen off the radar. They were a cute couple but the marriage wasn't always pretty. It was an accidental detour they were making the best of. I, too was in an unhealthy relationship and found myself at their apartment often. Misery loves company.

And so, on Christmas morning, I had bought the most sentimental Hallmark I could find, wrote inside a heartfelt note and, as an afterthought, dropped inside a holiday-themed Lotto Scratcher. While enjoying the afterglow of a hearty breakfast and obligatory bong-rips, I handed the card to Chris. A sensitive guy, he was moved by the note and with glassy eyes found a quarter and began scratching the ticket. The first scratch revealed $25,000. The second scratch? $25,000. Scratch number three? Drumroll, please… $25,000! That's when Chris began running around the apartment.

I tried to look surprised.

It was the happiest I'd ever seen him. The happiest I'd ever seen anyone. It was infectious and my heart was filled with joy. But, joy became terror when I considered the inevitable outcome. When I began edging towards the door, Maryanne looked at me suspiciously and took the Scratcher from Chris. "Please redeem at the North Pole," she read.

"You're an asshole," Chris said as he sank back into the couch, deflated. "That would have solved alot of problems." "Think how happy you felt. If only for a minute," I offered.

Chris went outside to brood over a cigarette and I apologized to Maryanne. I had forgotten that they played the Lotto every week praying for a miracle. But, when Chris came back inside, he was chuckling and asked if the card was at least sincere. Chris was far too mellow to stay angry. Instead, he sat down and brutally destroyed me in Mortal Kombat.

After Chris and Maryanne split up, we grew apart. I miss hanging out in that Oakwood apartment and smile when I remember that Christmas morning. I hope they do too.

I like to doodle

2011-11-26T09:32:00.001-08:00

Polaroid Transfers

2011-11-14T10:36:00.001-08:00

These 5x7 Polaroid Transfers artistically embellished with colored pencil are reproduced on heavy, archival paper and look great in craftsman-style frames.

Click images to enlarge

(The originals are also available)

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithmay@earthlink.net for pricing and options.

More of Keith May's Americana

New Prints!

2011-11-13T17:32:00.001-08:00

Gallery-quality prints made-to-order for your home or business.

Any size, any medium. (I prefer mounted canvas)

Click images to enlarge

These are only a few examples of Keith May's photographs.

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithmay@earthlink.net for pricing and options.

More of Keith May's Americana

Ventura Outlaw Racing

2011-11-12T21:49:00.001-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May

(Originally appeared inMotorcyclist magazine)

At high-noon, event organizer John Parker tried to make clear the need to play nice and stay on schedule to the gathered riders. Twice a year, Parker—along with promoter Daniel Schoenewald and VenturaRaceway’s Jim Naylor—has his hands full with 200 riders, 1500 spectators and a10:00 p.m. curfew. It’s like a rattlesnake roundup, only less predictable.

There hasn’t been much dirt-track racingin Southern California since the demise of Ascot Park in 1990, but recently therehas been a resurgence. Gene Romero’s traveling West Coast Flat Track Seriesgives the Pros a place to race, while Southern California Flat TrackAssociation events at Perris Raceway and a four-race Saturday-afternoon seriesat Costa Mesa Speedway cater to amateurs. However, the Ventura races—billed asan “Ascot Reunion”—aren’t affiliated with any of those, run as an old-fashioned“outlaw” event.

Madera, California’s BrandonRothell doesn’t care about any of that. He’s a third-generation racer on hisfirst bike: a 2006 Suzuki RM85 prepped by his pop, Rocky. The 12-year-old has onlybeen riding for two years, but advanced to Expert in just a year and a half.Chowchilla is the pair’s home track, but they travel all over hunting rabbits.“You don’t learn anything beingthe rabbit,” explains Rocky, which is why his boy spends his time followingmore experienced racers on larger bikes. You can find him full-throttle,playing the fox, on the inside. “They don’t mind him out there at all. He’s incomplete control of that bike and is a safe rider. That Suzuki is so cleanbecause he never crashes.” And because Rocky is all eyes and ears to any advicegiven, sponsors line up down those spotless fenders. With so much bike controlon display, it’s surprising to hear that Brandon has never even ridden trails.Go-karting was his childhood passion and his only seat time has been on the racetrack.Until he wins factory support, he practices sliding his bicycle around a smallbullring in his backyard, carpet taped to the bottom of his left sneaker.Despite old tires (“Saving them for next weekend”), #4 wins the Junior classand places second in 250cc Amateur Modern.

Having a second bike is a dreamfor some but a pain in the ass for others. The Hooligan Class rides theirmachines to the track, removes their kickstands and leans them against giantpalm trees—natural shade from which to watch the other racers scrambling aroundwith tools, measuring pre-mix, changing tires and wrestling themselves intotight leathers. Yeah, it’s a great show, but sure looks like a lot of work. Hell, who needsbar-risers when you have ape-hangers? First or last doesn’t matter when all you really care about is parading your vintage iron around a dirt oval ata brisk but modest pace.

Hooligans of a different varietyinclude Speedway stars, thrill-seeking motocrossers and hybrid supermotards.Masters of bull rings, big air and brake slides, these dirt-track novicesbounce around the Ventura oval like Henry Rollins in a mosh pit. The variedsurface proves hard to diagnose: “Too muddy…too dry…too muchgrip…not enough grip. Did you see me brush the wall?” Bystander and roadracing legendJohn Kocinski suggests tighter suspension to Cycle World magazine's Mark Cernicky and it appears to help.Blindly through the muddy roost of leaders, they ride with reckless abandon andcolorful body language, Visor and goggle tear-offs a welcome blessing.

And then there are those withseemingly unlimited resources to take their passion to the limit. It's really hard to callthese men “Outlaws.” Enjoying all theluxuries real sponsorship provides, they rumble through the dusty pits haulinglarge trailers full of generators, EZ-Ups, multi-drawered tool-chests andsecond, third and fourth bikes. Elite? Perhaps. But this is their calling andthey live to express it.

“We are living up to what afairgrounds should be,” Ventura Raceway’s Jim Naylor told the L.A. Timesin 2002. “This is not about dollars andcents. This is Americana.” The City Council was looking at other, quieter,options for the property despite the raceway’s historical importance. Six yearslater, the tax board would still prefer something that looks better in travel brochures. Okay, but someone tell me what’s prettier than roaring motorcycles gliding around a slippery dirt oval.

The Mesa Cinema

2011-11-10T11:53:00.001-08:00

Home to $1 Movies, Animation Festivals and the occasionalhomeless, the Mesa Cinema may be gone but is surely not forgotten. The current site of Mother's Market at 19th/Newport Blvd.

My favorite memory of the Mesa Cinema was the iconic signagethat brightly welcomed me home each day from inland commutes on OC Freeways.Traffic behind, I saw that bold signage peaking above Newport Boulevard and Iimmediately relaxed, knowing my little bungalow was just around the corner.

A lover of Americana and other fading relics, I took a photoof that colorful signage a few days before demolition and eventually convertedthat image into a silkscreen for shirts and stickers. I still have a box ofthese in my closet and recently had a huge canvas giclee printed which proudly hangs at Jimmy's Burgers in Costa Mesa.

Mesa Cinema 40 x 30 Mounted Canvas Giclee

$600 (Yeah, I know, but they cost $500 to produce.)
Other sizes available
Here is how it looks above the fireplace. (Not my fireplace)

Or, might I interest in you in one of these wearable
conversation-pieces and passport into circles otherwise forbidden?...

Mesa Cinema Tee-Shirts

$20 + $5 shipping (Includes free vinyl sticker)

Black Only.

Men's Hanes Beefy Tees (M-L-XL)

Women's Cotton Tee or Knit Tank-Top (S-M)

Toddler (18-24 mo)

Maybe you've seen one of these stickers around town...

Mesa Cinema 4x5 Vinyl Stickers

Free with Teeshirt, or $5 each.

And, of course, the original photograph taken just days before demolition of the theater...

Mesa Cinema 8x10 Glossies with tasteful white border

Only $10 and suitable for framing.

Arrange delivery in Newport/Mesa area by calling (714) 403-3581 or email Keith at keithmay@earthlink.net

Or, send order with check to Keith May, 1270 Rutland Road, #5, Newport Beach, CA 92660

Skeeter Jackson

2010-01-23T17:44:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May

“So there I was, dancin’ on Johnson’s grave… Same Robert Johnson, died early age… Sold his soul to a lyin’ cheat… Played guitar like a bitch in heat,” folksinger Skeeter Jackson mumbles in his song, Ants In My Pants. “On that grave was a single rose… There I lyed, in repose… There I was, starin’ at the moon… Did not know ants found me, too.”

“Another true story,” Skeeter admits over cold beers at a dive-bar called The Little Knight in Costa Mesa, California. Thirty miles south of Los Angeles, Costa Mesa is a dirty little beach town with just enough sprawl to piss off the old-timers. In Costa Mesa Song, Skeeter name-checks many of his favorite haunts, including The Little Knight.

“Grants for Guns, El Matador, Chicken Coop, sawdust floors… Goat Hill Tavern, Little Knight… Hey, Tony, another pint.” Tony hasn’t been seen behind the bar at The Knight for years, but remains part of its legend. “Mother’s Market, Hi-Time Cellars, In-N-Out Burger, O.C. Fair…Pierce Street Annex divorcees, Ladies Night on Seventeenth.”

“So, yeah, I was explorin’ the South on a photo-assignment and stumbled across the grave of Robert Johnson behind a small First Baptist in Mississippi. Next thing I knew, was rolling around on the ground, covered in welts, dizzy for an hour.”

There’s a colorful story behind all of Mr. Jackson’s songs but the line between fact and fiction gets blurrier all the time. “Most of these stories are true, but there's no law against embellishing for the sake of a good punchline.”

Dark themes are often delivered from a whimsical point of view. Love and loss delivered with detached irony. Bob Dylan, Merle Hagard, The Monkees. His influences are clear.

“Told me ‘bout his childhood, got stuff off his chest… All I did was listen, enjoyin’ every breath,” Skeeter sings of a visit from the Grim Reaper.”

“Daddy said, Boy, don’t be like your old man… Try to make him proud, if and when I can,” is the chorus of a song for his truck driving father and the similarities that can’t be escaped.

Thousand Dollar Bike is the story-song of a love/hate relationship with a motorcycle. Written while driving down Highway One with a dead bike in the bed of his old Ford Ranger. Skeeter steered with knee while strumming on a ukulele and the words to his first song began to flow. “One kick, two kicks, three kicks go…If she starts, we’ll hit the road…Four kick, five kick, six kicks more… Stop too long, here’s how it goes… Seven kicks, eight kicks, nine kicks more…Step right up, it’s your turn, Bro.”

“Lucia, I wanna free ya, from the loneliness I see in your eyes… Lucia, I wanna meet ya, at a church, where I’ll make you my wife…Lucia, I really need ya, and I hope I can see you tonight," he swoons for an office temp. “She was gone before I even finished the song. She was cute, but the name is what stuck in my head. Lucia. The song wrote itself."

Boo Hoo Hoo is about a son he’s never met. “As far as I know, that one is pure fiction.”

“No cream in my coffee, no gas in my tank… No cash in my pocket, no money in the bank,” he laments in Protest Song.

One Trick Pony, Family Tree, Peach Cobbler, Girl of My Dreams, Jackhammer Blues, Nine Lives, Easy Street, Derby Eyes, Americana, Two-Beer Buzz, Table For One, Sprinkle It With Jesus. All written in the last few years. Before he got the songwriting bug, Skeeter was telling his stories with pictures as a photo-journalist but after a visit to Sun Studios in Memphis, he picked up a uke and began learning traditional folk songs. Soon, he was writing his own. When friends dismissed the ukulele as a toy, he picked up a guitar.

“Livin’, lovin’ on The Mother Road… All you need is a name like Joad… Beer, coffee, cherry pie… Every day, the Fourth of July,” Skeeter sings in Savin’ Myself For You. “Hopin, prayin’ gotta believe… you’re savin’ yourself for me.”

But in Night Rider, a lurid side of Skeeter is revealed. “Can’t catch me, drive so fast… No one rides free, it’s gas, grass, or ass.”

Ukulele, Spanish Guitar and hollow-bodied electric are Skeeter’s traveling companions. Preferring to travel light, a small Roland Street Cube provides the modest amplification for truckstop performances. “It’s really just a crazy excuse to travel while looking for photo-ops."

And, if you're Skeeter Jackson, that all makes sense.

You can listen to Skeeter here... http://soundcloud.com/skeeter-jackson

Or, hear a few samples here...

Coast To Coast by Skeeter Jackson

The Story of Paul Bigsby

2010-01-17T21:23:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Motorcyclist magazine)

“Give me a T-square and a French curve and I can make anything.” –Paul Bigsby

Here’s an obscure trivia question for you. Who created the first modern solid-body electric guitar? If, like most people, you answered Leo Fender or Les Paul, you’d be wrong. The first modern solid-body electric guitar was actually built by tinkerer Paul Bigsby in Los Angeles, California and was delivered to legendary performer Merle Travis in May of 1948. Merle wanted the “sustain” of one of Bigbsy’s much-sought-after lap-steel guitars that could not be achieved with a traditional acoustic guitar. So, Travis provided a sketch and Bigsby made it reality. Bigsby was soon providing similar one-of-a-kind electric guitars for the best pickers of the time.

In the roaring Twenties, Bigsby was a renowned motorcycle racer, partnered in an Indian dealership in Reno, was founding member of the “45 Club,” of Los Angeles which required only that members ride American Iron with at least 45 cubes under the tank. In 1934, Bigsby began organizing his own races in Southern California. Hell, he even wrote articles for The Motorcylist under the alias of Professor Popper. And, if that wasn’t enough for a story of its own, Bigsby was also Chief Engineer at Crocker Motorcycles until 1942. After the war, he had his first, and only child, Mary. He was in his Forties, before turning his creative energies towards music.

In addition to the first solid-body electric, Bigsby re-necked acoustics, manufactured strings, magnetic pickups and eventually created the stout Bigsby Vibrato that has been seen on guitars of every make and played by everyone from The Beatles to U2.

A heavy volume, The Story of Paul Bigsby by Andy Babiuk is stuffed with rich, four-color photos, multiple gate-folds and a CD featuring the gregarious Bigsby discussing his many creations and a life well-lived.

Purchase this book at Amazon.com

Riding the Night Owl

2010-01-16T08:07:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in OC Weekly)

It’s a colorful rogue’s gallery on the Orange County Transit Authority’s (OCTA) “Night Owl” line that runs from midnight to Five, seven-days-a-week. With every thing he owns in a small black dufflebag, Christopher says he needs a Greyhound to Austin, but later admits he has nowhere to go. A stripper coyly reveals she works at a bar, until admitting it’s topless. In a lime-green sweatsuit, Marcus is a DJ at TJ’s and is headed home to Costa Mesa. Charles is a dishwasher at Steamers, dabbles in songwriting and needs the bus 4 nights-a-week to keep his job. “It’s not usually such a sociable environment,” he observes with a smile. “Where is your story running?”

For honest workers, jailbirds, homeless and alcoholics too drunk to drive, the Night Owl is Heaven, Hell or Purgatory depending on the situation. But come Spring of 2010, due to California’s budget woes, the OCTA will park these buses until further notice. “Cars are expensive!” “Bikes are dangerous!” “I can’t walk that far.” I hear in response. And some rely on the bus for more than just transportation. A four-dollar Day Pass provides the homeless shelter, warmth and security. Sounds cheap, but you try finding $120 a month on the sidewalk.

In the back of the bus, a group of boys share lewd tales of a recent gang-bang, while Mexicans speak quietly of employment prospects in their native language. Carlos, our driver, stoicly drives onward through the glare of oncoming traffic, monitoring the action in the mirror. I pull the camera up and inconspicuously take abstract exposures through the window. Disneyland resorts, strip-clubs, pool-halls, tattoo-parlors, motels, IHOP, Jack In The Box.

A hooker boards in the red-light district and, unable to resist, I approach her (him?) under the savagely bright flourescents to explain my assignment and need of portraits. She demurely shakes her head no and a junkie in the back breaks into raucous, mocking laughter. The driver continues to enjoy the show and I can’t help but laugh myself. Hey, what would legendary photojournalist Walker Evans do?

I’ve been doing this routine all week. Taking photos of the few who allow and avoiding confrontation with those who don’t and am reminded more than once there is no shortage of paranoid schizophrenics in Orange County. Out of my element and unaccustomed to being awake at these hours, my brain occasionally short-circuits, too. Sleepwalking through a bizarre, abstract reality that’s not for the faint of heart or germaphobic. In the window the reflection of a white man approaching middle-age crouched morosely in the corner catches my eye. Deep-set eyes under a hooded sweatshirt staring in my direction. Noticing the camera in his hand, I see it’s only me. And I’m starting to fit right in. I look from the window to the floor. At my dirty boots and the soiled sneakers of my companions. I can buy new ones (barely), but the bag-lady rummaging through her belongings will have to find hers in a dumpster. She pulls out an old Sony Walkman and inserts the earphones. No battery. No CD. Just privacy.

At Katella, I get off the 43 to catch the 50 and thank the driver as everyone else does. While explaining my assignment to a friendly woman traveling with her son and Mother, a passing homeless man yells, “Don’t believe him! He’s undercover!” I try to ignore his accusations but the atmosphere has changed. Regardless of motive, I’ve been exposed as an outsider. Unwelcome. Damn this camera.

Camped under the awning of the bus stop are a couple of coal-faced vagrants with a shopping cart playing with a brown poodle in need of a bath and shave. I politely ask if I can take a picture of the stray but am greeted with only a snarl. Following my instincts, I get back on the 43 and take a seat in the back. My nemesis reappears directly outside the window and stares at me menacingly until we finally drive away. A warning not to return.

Almost without exception, the riders know the various drivers’ schedules and vice-versa. “I’ll sometimes go back and wake them up at their stop,” Richard tells me. “But, I’m from North Carolina and don’t abide loud cursing. They’s women and children on the bus, too,” He’s concerned what his riders will do when the Night Owls ends. Life is hard enough for these folks already.

It’s a loud, bumpy ride but sleep is possible when you’re dead tired. Snores are common. Phlegmatic wheezing, tuberculor coughs, one-sided conversations all permeate the cabin. Hypnotic updates of stops and transfers over the loudspeaker.”Orangethorpe,” “Chapman,” “MacArthur,” “Edinger.” Lean back. Lean forward. Lean back. Lean forward. Not-so-hidden security cameras capturing everyone’s movements.

The Fullerton station sits at the end of a row of bars frequented by local co-eds. At 2am a sea of them stumble past, headed to cars parked nearby. Young and oblivious to the plight of discarded human beings curled on benches under a blanket of newspapers.

Left behind and confused by her circumstance, 18-year-old Mernie approaches and asks if the bus goes to LaPalma. “Just a few miles south,” I say. “Damn, it’s cold!,” she shivers. I suggest she zip her jacket, but that might hide some skin. “My boyfriend totally left me!” she moans. “Wanna take my picture?,” she offers. Young, adventurous, with multiple piercings on tongue and lips, she’s cute in a slutty, naive kind of way. I take a few pictures, the bus arrives and we get on. “You’re gonna take care of me, right?,” she asks. “LaPalma is just a few miles away,” I repeat. When I mention the assignment, she’s thrilled to be part of the story and ignores her stop to ride along and see what happens. Despite the boyfriend, she displays her availability at every opportunity. “More trouble than it’s worth,” I keep reminding myself. Regardless, there’s a tinge of disappointment when she leaves the bus with a chubby white kid who just left a Cottonmouth Kings concert. He has weed. She likes weed. Que, sera, sera.

“I like how you work, Man,” a guy behind me says. “I been watching you. You’re fearless. You just go for it. You like poetry? I got a poem for you,” “Well, break it out!” I say. “That would make a great song,” I admit when he finishes. “It’s just a poem, Man,” he says. “I’m from Chicago. You heard of “The Wrecking Crew?” If I told you who I was, you’d freak out, Man. I could have any woman I want, Man, but now I just want peace, love and happiness. I’m just trying to get to Austin. Is there a Greyhound Station around here?”

An hour later, I’m back at the Fullerton station and leave one bus to board another. Despite my waving arms and whistles it leaves without me, so I’m stuck for what seems an eternity with a woman named Linda who shares my fate. “Can’t believe he left without us!,” she moans in a southern drawl before babbling incoherently about an assault she witnessed the night before. “He took a picture of me,” she says. “FBI interviewed me and said I’m on his list, now,” she says. I ask if the victim lived. “I don’t know. His eyes were all rolled back in his head. He was in the Service. Held him in my arms. Hit with a lead pipe.” I shake my head, sympathetically. Cold. Tired. Hungry. Nauseous. My patience wearing thin. I shuffle away, pretending to take photos of a nearby awning then curl up on a steel bench with my backpack as pillow. One eye on the camera lying at my side. Wishing I’d worn more layers. Thankful for the ones I have.

Two stranded girls scream into a cel-phone at their Mother. “Fuckin’ bitch! Don’t you love me you fuckin’ bitch?!” Swaying arm-in-arm in high heels through the parking lot. “If you loved me, you’d come pick me up, you fuckin’ bitch! Don’t you fuckin’ love me?!”

Cold. Tired. Hungry. Nauseous. Praying for the bus and the salvation it will bring. And it does. Tonight. But not for long.

Costa Mesa Bigfoot

2009-11-08T14:49:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in OC Weekly)

“Does it take everyone this long to get into a Bigfoot costume before robbing a bank?,” my friend Jeff Beals joked as he prepared to surprise Big Gulpers at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Placentia and Nineteenth. But we weren’t there to rob the joint, Jeff was simply going to pose at the pay-phone and with day laborers tossing quarters. And ride a nearby kiddie-ride for flamboyant effect before heading to a few other locations before calling it a night. “I’ve been psyching myself up all day,” Jeff admitted. But when we walked into an indoor volleyball game, all eyes turned to the man in fur and we sheepishly walked back out. The limits of our bravery had been reached.

“What’s my motivation,?” Jeff often asked while trying to get into character. “You’re a Costa Mesa Bigfoot,” I’d respond.

And what’s my motivation for staging these Bigfoot sightings, you ask? Honestly, I have yet to find a reasonable answer. As a photojournalist, I do prefer working on things in the larger context of a series. Like riding a motorcycle across the country in search of Americana. Like traveling through California in search of working dogs. Like exploring the Mississippi Delta in search of Robert Johnson. Like exploring coastal beachtowns on a vintage dirtbike. And apparently, like staging Bigfoot sightings in Orange County.

I wouldn’t consider myself a Bigfoot-fanatic, but I was influenced by the broadcast of Leonard Nimoy’s “In Search of…” television series, which featured the big ape in 1977. For a puny kid who’s favorite book was Where The Wild Things Are and who related most to outcasts like Casper and Ziggy, the idea of this ultimate outsider hiding from his slightly evolved cousin stirred deep sympathy. I wanted to believe Native Americans still existed, too.

“Some anthropologists believe that the creature could have come to the Northwestern United States along with the Indians, across a land bridge that once connected Siberia to Alaska,” Nimoy offered. “Many people feel they must kill it to prove it exists,” he warned. “Bigfoot may well be waiting for some sign that we are ready,” he concluded.

Thirty years later, I was riding a Yamaha FJR1300 through Redwood National Forest headed for California’s Lost Coast. My only companion, a ukulele bungeed onto the duffle-bag which served as a backrest. Leaning in to the endless, sweeping curves on a beautiful October afternoon, I entertained myself with notions of Bigfoot hiding among the forest surrounding me and whimsical rhymes began to flow. By the time I checked in to a cozy motel in Ferndale, “Ballad of Bigfoot” was complete. The ukulele came off the bike and a melody soon followed. In a Minor Key, of course.

On the ride back home, ideas for a Blair Witch-style video for the ballad came to mind. Possibly finding someone to dance around in the Bigfoot costume while I performed the song at open-mics as “Skeeter Jackson.” But when I finally got around to ordering a Bigfoot costume, I posted the following request on my Facebook instead…

"Who wants to help stage Bigfoot sightings by wearing a Bigfoot costume and when are you available to do so? Kamikazi-style. Quick and painless. There and gone. Thanks in advance for your cooperation."

Many are thrilled to wear the costume but some flatly decline. “When was the last time you washed that thing?” One friend commented. Mention the idea to friends (or strangers) and an avalanche of ideas follow. “Surfing!” “Getting a haircut!” “Getting (or giving) a massage!” “Having sex!” “ Walking a dog!” “Playing drums!” “Shopping at Wal-Mart!” “Driving a school bus!”

What have I begun?

Cover Me Badd, Thursdays at La Cave

2009-01-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

By Keith May

Being politically incorrect is all part of the act at La Cave’s karaoke night, but insults and come-ons are why they flock each Thursday to witness the carnage. Playing host to the wildest karaoke in Orange County, the three-piece known as Cover Me Badd back anyone willing to rock the mic. These guys aren’t shy and clothing just gets in their way. Check your ego (and morals) at the door.

“Hold the mic like it’s your boyfriend’s cock,” the drummer known as “Me” directs a tentative female. “Don’t be shy.” Never at a loss for words, “Me” programs the music from behind his kit. “Show us some boob,” he pleads all night. “Someone get me a beer,” he reminds between each song. “You and I are soulmates,” he suggests to one performer. “You like music? Me too!” He’s truly a Master of ceremonies.

La Cave’s drinks are legendary and by the time they hit the stage, performers are comfortably numb and letting it all hang out. Going down in flames or bringing the house down. Def Leppard, AC/DC, Billy Idol, Cyndi Lauper, Aretha Frankin. Uptempo classics treated with respect or butchered beyond recognition. It’s quite a show, regardless.

At last call, the crowd files out, spent but inspired and on the way to promised after-parties at Norm’s, EZ Takeout or KFC.

Cover Me Badd
Thursdays at La Cave
1695 Irvine Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92627
www.lacaverestaurant.com
www.myspace.com/covermebadd

Time Machine

2009-01-02T16:10:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

My Dad’s a truck driver and so was his Dad. And a few uncles, too. I'm not a truck driver, but I do enjoy haulin’ ass across the country.

As a child, I naively pictured the adventures Pop might be having on the road. Like B.J. and The Bear or Smokey and The Bandit. Infinite convoys of grizzled drivers, dropping freight and moving on. A brotherhood of mesh-capped warriors, communicating over the C.B., warning of traffic and county-mounties. Bucketing along the interstate, occasionally stealing a nap in the sleeper-cab, a big diesel purring steadily underneath.

Occasionally, Pop would take me along on local runs and I was in heaven, reading comic books, watching the world go by below us. Pop talking on the C.B. as though he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-Four, Good Buddies.”

This was the rural South. The highway carving infinite swaths through Georgia’s blue-green mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for pecan logs and moon-pies. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and the Atlanta Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The bible-belt. The old South before it was new.

Twenty years later, it was again my destination. But this time, on a faithful silver Harley.

Photos can be viewed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/americanabykeithmay/sets/72157626686619733/show/

Nano-Polish

2009-01-02T14:00:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Nano-second, nano-byte, nano-this, nano-that. For those of you without an engineering degree, “nano” is short for one-billionth. One-billionth of a meter or 1/750,000 width of a human hair. But don’t call it “small-stuff,” nano technology has provided breakthroughs in water-purification, electronics, gene therapy, space exploration and everything else under the sun. For those of us polishing wheels and engine cases, Eagle One’s nano-polish provides deeper penetration and coverage than anything you may be used to. Carnauba Wax? That’s so last century.

Removing grime and tarnish isn’t rocket-science and all metal polishes perform as claimed with enough elbow-grease. Yet all of us have a favorite brand we turn to sub-consciously. Whatever Dad used. Or a favorite Uncle. Perhaps you’re a connisseur of fine cleaners and polishes. Hording for the apocalypse (or winter), an entire shelf dedicated to their display. Either way, you may consider making room on that shelf for a 5 oz. can of Nano. If you find something that works better, write us a letter.

Creamy blue Eagle One Nano Polish glides smoothly over metal surfaces penetrating deep into abrasions revealing a brilliant shine requiring no additional protectants. Sound like ad-copy? It’s not, but it’s all true. Showroom shiny not shiny enough? Final touch on a restoration? Each application of Nano improves on perfection. Previously tarnished hardware becomes hypnotically reflective. It’s hard not to stare in amazement.

The evolution of metal polish continues, but it’s hard to imagine where it goes from here.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 3)

2009-01-02T13:45:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

A gleaming white tank dangling in the shadows of a photo taken at Brown’s Cycles in Paso Robles (Eureka or Bust) inspires a weekend on Highway 101. The tank will hopefully improve the resale value of a certain ’89 XT600 while providing a sense of completion never gotten around to. “You can have Friday off if I get a Blog out of it,” the Boss warned. “And I’m not paying for a room this time.” Fine. Somewhere along the coast was a fire-pit with my name on it.

But first the tedious escape from the ominous catacombs of L.A. County. “Gas prices soar… Iran wants nukes… War goes on… Ozone depleted.” NPR blares through traffic. Two hours later, when Santa Maria’s 99.1 greets me with Rush’s Tom Sawyer, my smile broadens for the drive through central California.

“Twenty dollars a night,” the pretty Ranger answers at Pismo State Park. “Two nights please.” I respond with no hesitation. Off the Ford comes the Honda and off we go in search of chowder. Hustlers, One-percenters, unemployed and newly retired crowd the claustrophobic sidewalks down Pismo’s Main Street. Another dirty beach town littered with tattoo parlors, taco stands and surf shops. Ah, feels just like home.

Back at camp, I meet the neighbors. A real humanitarian, Shaggy’s big dream is scoring a license to sell medicinal pot. Until then, his girlfriend Gabby (the quiet one) and their friend Andy, a malnourished Goth are looking for jobs and a cheap apartment. Around their fire, topics range from Yellowstone’s inevitable eruption to neo-Nazism to other dim world views. With nothing to add, I return to my nylon blue domicile glowing like a candle in the blackness of night. Eucalyptus filters the gusty ocean breeze, the ground is soft under my bag and I fall peacefully to sleep while dreaming up big plans for tomorrow.

The sun rises at my feet as nature greets the day in a symphonic crescendo. A swift kick wakes the Honda and we storm Grover Beach trying to stay upright in the silty drifts. After setting up a few photos in the sweet morning light, the Honda’s back in the Ranger on the 101 to Paso Robles. Closing soon for racing, I have to get to Brown’s early.

David sets me up with the tank and off comes the XL for local exploration but only yards from the shop “Snap” goes the throttle. Back at the counter, David is sympathetic but realistic. No cable in stock and no XLs on the lot. Same response at Miller’s Honda down the highway. Only slightly disappointed I return to the beach and explore the dunes like an avatar in Second Life. Piecing together some kind of web-story to satisfy the boss.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 2)

2009-01-02T13:41:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Trust: assured reliance, a person or thing in which confidence is placed.

Trust established and camera in backpack, the XL 250 and I head north Sunday morning on Highway One in search of coastal backdrops. Newport Beach. Huntington Beach. Sunset Beach. Seal Beach. Speedo reads seven-zero through wetlands of Bolsa Chica, but vibrations rattling my vision convince me to slow down. Dodging blind intersections and distracted commuters, the confident bite of a disc brake is sorely missed. Boy-racers curiously shadow us before disappearing into the distance. The Honda’s silhouette an icon for childhoods revisited, she continuously receives nods from sporties and cruisers alike.

When an errant fuel-hose forces a stop on the shoulder, an old landscaper approaches curiously. “Nice bike. Ever get it dirty? Used to ride one myself but not an Enduro. I would of broke the lights off,” he reflected, pushing his wheelbarrow away. He was probably my age when this bike was new. Things were a lot different in 1972.

“Maybe you should start a club,” Editor Edwards mused when the letters began rolling in: “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who likes simple, fun, practical, good old bikes from yesterday…” “Everything you discovered is true, it’s a simple, reliable, inexpensive bike to own and a ton of fun...” “The Honda 250 Motosport will always be a special bike in my book. The styling still looks good today. I call it a classic.”

I began convincing myself the Honda was a collector’s item, so dreaming of possibilities, we visited Boris at California Cycle and Watercraft Design for a paint-estimate. “If you’re looking to get your money back, you won’t,” he said plainly. A well-regarded craftsman, Boris comes highly recommended. “It’s a good-looking bike though. Nice commuter?” “Solid. No complaints. Starts every time.” “I can do it for nine hundred, but personally, I’d leave it alone.” His opinion follows local consensus: “Fine as is…” “I like the patina…” “Looks like a survivor…” “You’d be painting over its history…” “Would only shine a light on other flaws...” “That bike makes me smile.”

So, paint-job or leave it alone? Have an old XL yourself? Send me photos. Maybe I’ll start a club after all.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 1)

2009-01-02T10:53:00.001-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

How many old bikes have been left to rot for nothing more offensive than rust, leaks or stripped splines on a kick-shaft or lever? Sure we live in a wasteful, consumer-driven society that demands we replace scratched toys with shiny new ones, but this is also an information-age where OEM, salvaged or aftermarket parts are only a phone call or mouse-click away. And it appears the abundance has created a buyers’ market, so keeping less-than-perfect bikes on the road and out of a land-fill has never been easier. Especially for popular models like the XL pictured above. Breathing life into a discarded bike is hard work, but a fun adventure. Just ask me.

Not everyone can spend ten thousand dollars on a new bike. Or even ten hundred. Not everyone needs to go 200 mph. Or even 100. Some of us enjoy simpler things. Like old dirtbikes that happen to be street-legal, too.

“Someone's coming to look at the bike but it would be easier to sell if it were actually running,” a friend of mine said over the phone. “Can you come over and try to push-start it?”

“Sounds like fun. I'll be right over.”

Said friend was relocating to Monterey with her new husband and the non-running 1973 Honda XL250 Motosport had become a liability. Its only problem was a stripped kickstart shaft and lever but the repair had become a lesser priority since she became an “honest woman.”

The XL failed to start, but the bike began to grow on me. The size of this little charmer was perfect for a plan I'd had in mind for years—a “Plan B,” if you will. There's much to be said for having an exit-strategy and mine is riding off into the sunset like a 21st-century Dharma Bum. No strings, no bills, no schedules. Working odd jobs, jamming at open mikes, sleeping under the stars. Cash? Check. Gear? Check. Ukulele? Check. Crazy? You bet. The only item missing was that street-legal dirtbike.

Until now.

Cycle World magazine’s review of the XL 250 in April of 1972 provided inspiration for the work ahead. “The best off-road bike Honda has ever produced for sale to the public.” “Astonishing.” “Quiet.” “Sophisticated.” “Outstanding.” “Minimal vibration.” “Easy to start.” “Excellent gear spacing.” “Long wheelbase.” “Low center of gravity.” “Damping right on.” “Fine handling.” “80mph.” “An instant best-seller.” The XL also surprised everyone by dominating its class that same year in Baja. There’s a reason why Honda established such a strong hold in the U.S. bike market. Their machines have consistently proven to be practically bulletproof. Just gas and go. Follow the leader, he’s on a Honda.

Shaft and lever were delivered from APF Motorcycle Salvage (.com) for $120. Complete Hap Jones gasket set via ebay for only $20. Removal of a circlip on clutch allowed enough play to free the faulty kick-shaft and repair also provided the opportunity to polish engine cases, sanitize the Stator and shower all moving parts with WD-40. A swift kick easily brought the Honda to life. Noodling with carb corrected minor hiccups and all appeared sound on local shake-down runs. Starting first-kick hot or cold.

To celebrate, I meticulously repainted the blacked-out Motosport badge on the exhaust heat-shield to match the original colors. All that finger-painting finally paid off. Possibilities began dancing in my head. Baja? Four Corners? The video store? Unlike my Yamaha XT600, regardless of engine temperature or alignment of planets, the XL is ready to go when I am. No leaks, no smoke, no excuses.

You never know when you might need an exit strategy.

Guitarslingers

2008-12-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May

Alice Wallace, Danny Maika, Nick Bearden, Becky Holt, Tim Eric. Never heard of them? How about Matt Keye? Parker Macy? Nam Ninja? Poor Friends? Paul Hines? No? Well, these are only a few of the ready-for-radio guitar-slingers performing weeknights at various Open-Mikes and Songwriter Showcases in Orange County. Mondays at Westside Grill in Costa Mesa, Tuesdays at Alta Coffee in Newport Beach or House of Blues in Anaheim, Wednesdays at The Vault in Santa Ana, Sol Grill in Newport Beach or eVocal in Costa Mesa and Thursdays at The Gypsy Den in Santa Ana. Cozy spots featuring an eclectic collection of novice and virtuosos sharing songs you’ve never heard on small stages and large ones.

Warming the room with songs of their own, hosts include salty old veteran of the music scene Dusty Leer, unassuming Allen Morris and local musicologist John Carillo. Almost everyone you meet are musicians with online music, but for now, swim just below the surface. Struggling with no budget and no representation, but trying to compensate with raw talent and ambition. Shaking hands and polishing their act until making the big-time. It’s a well-traveled path all songwriters follow. Imagine seeing Bruce Springsteen, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young or Bob Dylan in a small club before they were signed. For the cost of a cup of coffee.

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Click here to find an Open-Mic near you!

Long Way Round

2008-12-28T16:05:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

After months of training, instruction and marketing hype, what began for friends and thespians Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman as a boyhood dream, soon becomes a larger than life reality-series. Documented every mile of the way, warts and all. Support crews wait at borders to grease authorities but otherwise these lads are on their own. So long as they meet PR commitments along the way. An unfortunate necessity when leveraging star-power.

It’s hard to travel light on a 20,000 mile adventure. Especially your first time. The two BMW R1150 GS (three if we count cinematographer) are stout, but overloaded with every item and luxury imaginable. The bikes groaning under a mountain of free gear, catastrophe appears imminent. We’ve all been there; paring luxuries down to bare necessities only to find a thousand miles later you over-packed. When you’re an admitted fancy-boy like McGregor, it’s hard to leave the hair-gel at home. Can he prove to us (and himself) that he’s more than a pretty face?

A more experienced rider, best-mate Charley assumes leadership early on. Setting a fine example for young Obi Wan. Picking him up, cheering him on, pushing him forward. Hitting rock bottom in a bog on Mongolia’s Road of Bones, the lads finally begin ejecting cargo. Wearing thousand-mile stares and numb with exhaustion, Ewan's vanity is painfully stripped away. It’s a transition any traveler can relate to. The pivotal moment in any adventure when the rider lets go of preconceptions to share responsibilities with fate. Blissfully throwing himself into the unknown. With a second-wind and drunk with liberation the lads finally settle into the journey they originally had in mind. Relishing hardship and immersing themselves in local culture they prove their mettle and find freedom at last. Compelling stuff.

Both lads are professional actors and exhibitionist by nature, but often seem too aware of the camera. It’s like asking a dog not to lick itself, but ease with a spotlight is necessary for a good storyteller and humor becomes them. Even at the worst of times their chins remain jauntily forward, determined to complete their stated mission.

A tastefully integrated soundtrack courtesy of Coldplay, Blur, Stereophonic and others compliments deft camerawork by Third Man Claudio. Radio communications between Ewan and Charley are tasteful addition to helmet-cam footage.

Charley went on to attempt the Dakar Rally in 2006 producing a book and video in the process and he and Ewan would later release “The Long Way Down,” which chronicles their ride from Scotland to South Africa.

Don’t hate these lads for having the resources to live out their dreams. Applaud them for having the imagination to do so in such high style.

Purchase Long Way Round

Shoei J-Wing Helmet

2008-12-28T16:01:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Hey Darth! Little stuffy in that full-face lid? We know you gotta face only a mother could love, but come on outta that shell. Don’tcha know it’s good to have the wind in your face?

The featherweight (2.5 lb.) Shoei J-Wing is a breath of fresh air. Top-Gun styling is versatile in its simplicity, complimenting a wide range of middleweights and cruisers, older vintage and new. Scooters, too. A tall face-shield keeps wind off your chin and stealthy vents fore and aft are easily found at speed. Cozy interior is removable and wraps your melon like a glove. Over-sized cheek-pads keep noise to a minimum while thoughtful channels accommodate eyewear.

We chose the “Dark Smoke” shield to filter sun, protect anonymity and hide unsightly mechanical details. Scratch-resistant, distortion-free, easily removed and also available in Clear and “Mellow Smoke,” Shoei claims 100% UV protection. Securely closed, aerodynamics minimize buffeting, even during backward and sideway glances. Thirsty? Shield flips up quietly with a flick of the wrist and stays firmly where selected. No straw required.

Multi-fiber shell is available in Wine Red, White, Pearl White, “Anthracite,” Silver and assorted Blacks. And although we can’t vouch first-hand for its safety, Snell and the D.O.T. do. Yes, price is top-shelf for an open-face lid, but this is a Shoei. And you get what you pay for.

Thousand Dollar Bike

2008-12-28T15:59:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

A few years ago I was flattered to participate in Cycle World magazine’s Grand Tour. A mission to wring out everything possible from a motley collection of ultra-cheap, very used bikes. We each had the modest sum of one thousand dollars to work with (if you could afford it) including purchase price, parts, paint, and everything else necessary to repair and resurrect. The monetary cap was intended to serve as equalizer but some exceeded this amount. Some doubled it. Some had unfair advantages and some (due only to resources) even played fair. Like everything else among men it soon became a contest. Not one of speed, but of endurance. Mr. Edwards had thrown the gauntlet and over months of preparation each of our projects became matters of pride. The proving ground was one thousand miles of coastline and forest of Northern California and Oregon. A course of undescribable beauty and we all wanted to complete it.

Unfortunately, the 23,000 mile, kick-start only 1989 Yamaha XT600 I paid $300 for and invested $900 to repair was one of many to DNF, but the experience was worth every penny. Serving as a lesson in motorcycle mechanics, patience and humility.

Hell, I even wrote a song about it…

One kick, two kick, three kicks go, If she starts, we’ll hit the road
Four kick, five kick, six kicks more, stop too long, here’s how it goes
Seven kick, eight kick, nine kicks more, step right up it’s your turn, Bro
Got those big bore, four-stroke single, thousand-dollar blues
Thousand dollar bike, thousand dollar blues

One to the one-oh-one to the one, heaven on display
Pacific Coast, Redwood country, repairs throughout the day
I wish I may, I wish I might, keep on truckin’ through the night
Got those big bore, four-stroke single, thousand-dollar blues
Thousand dollar bike, thousand dollar blues

Full choke, no choke, no one knows, ’cept Joe Brown in Paso Robles
Fouled the plug, broke the clutch, kicked and screamed and cussed and cussed
All those roads left unturned, haunt me still and make me yearn
Got those big bore, four-stroke single, thousand-dollar blues
Thousand dollar bike, thousand dollar blues

Stranded now in Big Foot Country, guess I’m here to stay
“Don’t forget me boys,” I cried, as they road away
At a bar the story ends, busted bike but makin’ friends
Got those big bore, four-stroke single, thousand-dollar blues
Thousand dollar bike, thousand dollar blues

One kick, two kick, three kicks go, If she starts, we’ll hit the road
Four kick, five kick, six kicks more, stop too long, here’s how it goes
Seven kick, eight kick, nine kicks more, step right up it’s your turn, Bro
Got those big bore, four-stroke single, thousand-dollar blues
Thousand dollar bike, thousand dollar blues

Eureka or Bust

2008-12-28T15:08:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

“Recently there have been numerous sightings of a hairy, human-like creature known as Bigfoot or Sasquatch. Bigfoot country includes the California Redwoods and the forests near Willow Creek, California. There have been numerous sightings near Mount St. Helens, Washington and other areas of the Pacific Northwest. A male Bigfoot has a muscular build and averages about nine feet in height. Although some sightings have been proven to be hoaxes, many have been reported by credible persons such as a deputy sheriff, military officer and forest ranger. Some people believe Bigfoot to be a space alien who travels to Earth in a flying saucer to spy on us Earthlings. However, until a Bigfoot is captured there will be doubts about his actual existence. Meanwhile the legend of Bigfoot leaves a fascinating trail of folklore to us all.” –The Legend of Bigfoot

Monday, October 23
It Doesn’t Shift Itself

The state of California from one thousand miles above. Black lines, blue lines, green lines and grey lines. Straight lines, curvy lines, dotted lines and white lines. Big cities, small cities, ghost towns and cow towns. Rich folks, poor folks, straight folks and queer folks. Where to go, where to go? Ten days and a gas-card, a motel budget and cash in my pocket. Tahoe? Yosemite? Death Valley? Eureka? Eureka! Straight up the Pacific Coast to revisit those roads left unturned on CW’s “Grand Tour” when my thousand-dollar bike died a slow death on the 299.

This time however, my companion is a Yamaha FJR1300 courtesy of Cycle World’s elite Long-Term Fleet. A fully loaded road-warrior with enough bells and whistles to make a circus-carnie jealous. Adjustable suspension, shaft-drive, center stand, electronically-adjustable windscreen, adjustable headlights, heated handgrips, cruise control, 12-Volt power for phone or laptop and spacious hard bags and trunk. The only thing missing? A clutch.

Eccentricities of a clutch-less transmission seem odd at first but benefits soon outweigh previous suspicions. Except for occasional throttle-lag while engine spools up, waiting for gears to mesh. All shifts up with neutral at bottom. What a concept. Surprisingly, clutchless braking is not a problem as gears automatically disengage at idle and re-engage with throttle. A serious problem, for me at least, in low-speed switchbacks. Missing clutch also requires disciplined throttle-blipping. No showing off at stop-lights unless you’re in Neutral. Once under way the FJR pulls strongly from any speed with an enormous powerband and endless torque.

Cycle World Assistant Hooligan Mark Cernicky needs to put miles on a Suzuki GSXR1000 and aware of my search for Bigfoot, suggests leap-frogging to ‘Frisco. “I sponsor if we leave today,” he bargains, suggesting we stay with his old pal Aaron in Olema before he blasts down Interstate Five to San Diego for a press-intro in 48 hours. After lunch we depart at 2:00 and scramble up Highway One to Pismo. Darkness and fog stops us at Shell Beach and after Mark checks us into a room at The Palomino we walk to Alex’s Bar for ribs and burgers. He suggests trail braking to keep revs up in those tight corners, but I’m not Mark Cernicky and the FJR is no KTM. Did I mention condition of rear tire?

Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Dragon’s Lair

Steadily up California’s rugged coastline, ignoring spectacular photo-ops and planned diversions. Cernicky is rabbit to my greyhound and he’s on a tight schedule. Skirting Monterey rush hour but not San Francisco’s over the Golden Gate to San Rafael, wrestling the FJR through the freakishly tight hairpins of Drakes Bay. Mark develops a leak in his rear (ba-dump-a-dump) but fills it with Fix-a-Flat and after a few wrong turns and a thousand rough corners we eventually make it to Aaron’s at dusk. “You made it,” says Mark, to both our surprise.

Aaron and Mark are truly birds of a feather. Living on the edge and dancing on the redline. After a wild ride in Aaron’s Mitsubishi Evo 9, Mark regales us at dinner downtown with the horrowing tale of a kidney-stone the size of a golf ball. Another wild ride through Olema backstreets, one hand against the roof while the other feels desperately for a seatbelt. With Aaron behind the wheel a twenty-minute drive takes maybe three. A cocktail takes the edge off and John Frankenheimer’s three-hour epic “Grand Prix” puts me to sleep.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Alone on Highway One

Mark quickly plugs his leak and leaves for San Diego. He’s graciously sponsored me as promised, but when he turns South, I head North. No longer on Cernicky-Time and alone at last on the uninhabited Point Reyes National Seashore. The tide rhythmically slaps the road’s shoulder at sea level while sinking piers shelter forgotten boats. The only signs of enterprise an occasional Oyster Bar. I have this protected shoreline all to myself, but the quarter-tank of gas I left Aaron’s with is now a blinking-eighth. Twenty miles later a Chevron materializes in Bodega Bay and I’ve never been happier to pay three dollars a gallon.

With a full tank and a light heart I enter the 116 North. Nice road, but peppered with seeds of urban progress. Daydreaming through one small town after another at 35mph. Thinking of nicknames for the FJR. (When traveling alone, you may yourself doing this, too) Cruise ship? Cruise Missile? Road Warrior? Battleship? Battleship Galactica? Battlestar Galactica? Galactica? Galactica.

Slingshotting up the 101 to 128 West treading lonely asphalt fifty miles back to Highway One to Fort Bragg where I settle in with free cable. A guilty pleasure enjoyed only when away from home.

Thursday, October 26, 2006
Welcome to Bigfoot Country

Galactica cleans up easily as I wipe a towel over her angular, but pleasing Japanese bodywork. From The One I take the 101 into Humboldt’s Bigfoot country. Hypnotically tracing reflective double-yellows, avoiding oncoming logging trucks barreling through at break-neck speeds. Dense canopy of fern providing shade to these giant redwoods older than Jesus and large enough to drive through. And I do. Eventually stopping in Eureka to celebrate with a bottle of Port and dinner from QuickieMart. A spooky town, Eureka is the Humboldt equivalent of Orange County. An alternate universe where mentally-ill share coffee with relative-sane. Local dress-code? Matted hair, dirty face and muddy boots. Luckily I fit right in.

Friday, October 27, 2006
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz

The 101, carries me to Highway 299 East, but when an odd rumbling in my belly becomes a four-alarm fire, I pull over in a panic at first available turnout. Must have been the non-dairy creamer. Or maybe the Port. Leaping over the gravel shoulder, dropping trousers in mid-air and landing in full-squat at the bottom of a steep hillside, catastrophe narrowly averted and thankful for the privacy. When I look up, there he is. Bigfoot. Just kidding.

Somewhere in the blur of ejection, my key has gone missing but the anal-retentive adventurer always brings a spare. (Maybe two.) With tummy still churning, I ride warily along Trinity River to the one-block Mainstreet of Weaverville where I take a quiet room at The Red Hill Motel to recuperate. The body has a clever way of getting your attention and sometimes you better listen. Especially in Bigfoot country. But Weaverville has its charm as the motel’s brochure explains.

“Weaverville, while known for its scenic beauty and recreational treasures, is equally appealing for its rich historical beginnings. Picturesquely nestled in a basin surrounded by snow-capped mountains, Weaverville represents one of the few remaining frontiers in California and maintains a small-town quality of life that is rapidly slipping away from many parts of the Golden State.”

Amen.

The brochure goes on to describe Weaverville’s humble origins. Three enterprising men built a cabin. John Weaver, James Howe and Daniel Bennet. Upon completion, they drew straws to choose the town name and the rest is history.

With a calmer tummy, I walk down to a rustic bookstore where the unofficial welcoming committee invite me to a reading of Shakespeare later tonight. After checking email on a borrowed laptop I walk over to the Saloon and meet Craig, the bartender.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” he offers. “An atheist is walking in the woods and sees Bigfoot and yells “God save me!” A voice from above answers, “I thought Thou did not believe in Me.” “I didn’t believe in Bigfoot two seconds ago, either!”

“I bet that plays pretty good around here,” I reply. “What did the Skeleton say to the bartender? ‘Gimme a beer and a mop!’ ”

After enjoying a cold beer and a nice breeze I take some lunch back to the Red Hill and take advantage of more free cable.

At Seven I walk back to Main Street and a couple of young Does give me a brief start in the dark. “What big eyes you have.” I whisper as they calmly watch me pass. Across the street at the Trinity Arts Council/Quilting Gallery a sinewy, seventy-something actor (“Perhaps you saw me in Stalag Seventeen?”) delivers a highly charged but lispy reading of Macbeth and Richard III. And a couple of bizarro impressions of Cary Grant and Richard Mason.

At intermission I sneak back to the Saloon for more lively entertainment.

Saturday, October 29, 2006
Long night on the Lost Coast

I briefly consider making time on Interstate 5, but with nowhere to be, choose Highway 3. Galactica settles in nicely for these fun Second and Third gear sweepers despite the hard rear tire. One hundred miles back to the 101 searching for a hidden town called Ferndale at the head of the “Lost Coast Road.” An infamous, but rarely traveled stretch of rugged coastline unkind to twenty-ton fuel-trucks. Like other protected areas, gas is a rare commodity and thanks to other tree-huggers, there’s no chance for gas in bucolic Ferndale either.

After a rare break for a nice lunch (FJR top-case has served as portable kitchen) and impressed with town so far, I follow my instincts and check into the dainty Francis Creek Inn. Why stop here? I’ll let a postcard explain.

“Settled in 1852 by dairymen and ranchers from many countries. Shops, restaurants, antiques, museums, inns and galleries in a Victorian architectural setting near hills, redwoods and ocean.”

I walk down Main Street and purchase a Kaleidoscope from a blacksmith then visit the absolute western-most bar in the continental U.S. “The Palace” is 150 years old and next door to the Ivanhoe Motel. The absolute, western-most motel in the continental U.S. After spinning John Lee Hooker on the Juke and playing shuffleboard alone, I decide to come back later for an advertised Halloween party. Too bad I only have one costume.

Dressed like a Suicide Girl, Rindy is a charming little firecracker. “What’s your name?” she asks, sidling next to me like old friends. “What’s your phone number?” she asks confidently. “I’m only passing through,” I answer. Forgetting the power of such an answer.

Sunday, October 30, 2006
Flirting With Disaster

It’s noon when I finally get on the road but an empty tank and a hollow thump from the rear tire convinces me to save The Lost Coast road for another day and I return to the 101. Violent speed bumps engineered for sleepy truckers are constant reminder of thin rubber and over-ballast. These massive rifts in the asphalt may be perfect for eighteen-wheelers, but they’re hell on two and I avoid them at all cost while eating miles to Fort Bragg. Leaves continue displaying brilliant fall colors providing a colorful backdrop for the camera-friendly FJR. But words and photos fall short of describing exhilaration of this kind. If you’ve been there, you know what I mean. If not, you need to get out more.

Monday, October 30, 2006
The Long Way Home

Days are short, but the miles are long. The generous information provided by the instrument-panel provides time, gear, ambient temp and status of fuel. The trip-odometer is approaching two thousand miles and all of them winding. Successfully avoiding Interstate, I’ve found no use for the FJR’s cruise-control but taken full advantage of the adjustable windscreen and heated handgrips.

Highway 20 to the 101, back to 20, south to 29. Fantastic roads relatively free of traffic until jarred by the roiling, claustrophobic hairpins of Robert Louis Stevenson State Park. Opening up finally into the lush agricultural region of Napa all the way to the high-society of Walnut Creek, across the bay from San Francisco.

I enjoy sushi downtown, but it’s Monday night and Walnut Creek is already fast asleep. After more free cable, so am I.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Girls Gone Wild

With a crepe to go from Crepes-A-Go-Go I tuck in at ninety on the 680 South with a long train of juiced commuters hot on my heels in the diamond-lane. In San Jose, 680 becomes 101 and lifeless concrete morphs slowly into golden farmland. A quick detour on 156 takes me to Hollister to pay respects, then back on the 101 to Paso Robles where I stop at Brown’s Cycles for a new tire. And none too soon.

Without hesitation Joe Brown’s son David quickly reshods Galactica’s rear and invites me to explore the property. David is one of three brothers, all inheriting the racing-gene. Brown’s Cycles was established by his Grandfather Joe Senior in 1940 as a Jawa dealership. Another racer, he passed on the shop to his son Joe Junior, who made regular appearances in bike mags of the day including Cycle News and Cycle World. Joe kept up the tradition of sponsoring local racers that continues today. Behind the shop forgotten remains of hundreds of bikes in various states of decomposition die a slow death in a motorcycle graveyard. The result of 66 years in business. David claims little value in these empty husks but it’s a great photo-op and I take advantage of the access. In only half an hour, the work is done and I’m back on the 101.

With fresh rubber, Galactica’s a completely different animal. Now more star-fighter than mother-ship, I re-christen her Starbuck.

Much too soon I’m in San Luis Obispo enjoying a hotdog at Famous Frank’s. Another upscale University town, Cal-Poly is just around the corner. Pedestrian-friendly and bulging with lodging, bars, restaurants and well-mannered college-kids. I take a room in the Peachtree Inn at the top of the hill. A long walk or short ride down Monterey Street to the night’s Halloween festivities.

“I like your costume!” exclaims Kelly outside the door of Bull Tavern. “But put that bandanna on your head. Now you really look like a biker.” She’s wearing a revealing maid costume and it looks pretty good on her. But aside from Kelly it’s a Testical Festival at the Bull and after a quick beer I walk down the street to McCarthys where the possibilities are more promising. A bevy of college girls in sexy costumes, pulling it off while they can. And they should. I pull up next to an old guy that’s a dead-ringer for Grandpa Walton. But it’s no costume. He’s Seventy and has been coming to S.L.O. for more than thirty years. To my left a well blessed brunette in another maid costume is happily tanked and displaying her assets to anyone interested in a free-show. I point this out to Grandpa but he can’t look at that stuff anymore and his eyes sadly tell me why.

I walk the crowded streets enjoying a surreal parade of drunken twenty-somethings, but a glance at my watch informs me that I just turned Forty. Funny, I only feel Thirty. Out of my element and much too sober I ride up the hill to the Peachtree and catch up on current events with Comedy Central.

Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Life Begins at Forty

Self-proclaimed Adventurer Ed Brown introduces himself at the Peachtree’s generous continental breakfast. “Are you on the Yamaha?” he asks. “How do you like it? Where you headed?” And all the other usual questions. He shows me photos of a yacht he purchased and sailed back from New Zealand, a small-plane he restored and pilots around Illinois and Nevada’s Highway 50, his regular route to California. Ed emphatically suggests I take Highway 58, rather than 166 as planned. I take his word for it and backtrack up the 101 about eight miles to do so but a half hour later a worm-hole delivers me back to the 101 in Atascadero, fifty miles North. The map offers no explanation and there goes a gallon of gas I’ll never get back. I return to S.L.O. and take my own advice with the 166.

As far as I the eye can see nothing but happy cows and rolling farmland. Enough open-range to make Ben Cartwright jealous and I happily whistle the Bonanza theme enjoying the confidence of a new rear tire. Riding through a small Twister that magically appears in my path delivers a brief rush but otherwise nothing new to report.

Desolation, thy name is New Cuyama. After filling up in Maricopa I enter the nicely-paved and beautifully maintained Highway 33 enjoying this fine road all to myself. I could make it home late tonight, but the gauntlet through L.A. rush-hour is less-than-appealing and there remain a few more roads to explore off the beaten path.

I check in to the cozy Rancho Inn in Ojai and ride to town for birthday-dinner, alone and by design. Preferring to roll into Forty under the radar. Mama suggested I take advantage of a free dessert somewhere, so I get a table at Carrows. The oppressive volume of overlapping conversations and an unappealing family-restaurant vibe convinces me to leave before ordering. Disappointed by lack of options I stop in Los Caporales for an exceptional taco/enchilada combo washed down with ice-cold Tecate. It’s pretty darn good, but there’s no pulse on Main at this hour and I watch National Lampoon’s Vacation back at the cabin. The Griswolds make it to Wally World and I restlessly go back downtown to see about that free dessert.

At The Hub a charmingly-stoned Olive Oil provides a drunken rendition of The Birthday Song and the bartender promises a round on her, but it’s otherwise depressing and I walk next door to endure karaoke at the wine-bar Movino’s. Enjoying a fine Cabernet, a motley collection of American Idol rejects provide a painful soundtrack until last-call at Ten o’clock. There’s nothing worth stirring up in this schizophrenic town and I return to The Rancho and enjoy more free-cable. But where’s my hot-fudge sundae?

Thursday, November 2, 2006
Return to Orange County

After sharing coffee with a couple of mares next door, Starbuck and I enjoy the sweeping well-paved curves of 150 and 126 in no hurry to go home. At Fillmore, Starbuck and I take the 23 South through more fertile valley and light traffic. Despite over-ballast, she sticks to the road like a steamroller and with steering provided by fresh rubber twisties are much more forgiving.

After kissing the 101 in Thousand Oaks, we hop back on the wild ride guaranteed by Highway 23, which eventually drops us off squarely at Highway One in Malibu. Thirty miles of L.A. beaches to the 10 East and access to the 405 Freeway’s diamond-lane, ninety miles per hour the final stretch to Orange County.

Welcome to Southern California. The land of arrested development, perpetual indulgence, over-population and urban sprawl. Beautiful people, wasteful extravagance, million-dollar condos and GMC Hummers. The American Dream on steroids.

Thank God for Bigfoot country.

Scooter Envy

2008-12-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

"How fast will it go?" is always the first question. "Sixty," I lie every time, knowing the only way Yamaha's Vino 125 will reach that speed is by hurtling downhill with a strong tailwind. I've gotten close a couple times–57...58...59. But Sixty remains just beyond reach. Which is fine when the speed limit is Thirty and gas is four bucks a gallon.

If you're buying a scooter you’re probably a student or broke. Or, like me, you live in a coastal beach town and have two-large burning a hole in your pocket. Driving your truck through traffic, being herded along. A scooter could provide infinite detours. An attractive alternative if you prefer to stay under the radar.

So, for the past few weeks, I've been buzzing down local backstreets thoroughly enjoying the Vino's playful nature, all the while greeted by envious grins and occasional salutes, setting a positive example for minimal consumption and elegant simplicity. So what if I feel a bit foolish. Justifying the Vino is as simple as getting to the beach before friends do.

Putting around on the Vino, a gallon of gas will take you 60 miles. Squirting through traffic and launching off speed bumps, I got less. The luggage rack is worthless but the bin under your tush holds almost a week's worth of groceries (unless you're on the Atkins diet). The belt-drive automatic transmission makes for smooth running, but the whining exhaust note produced by the little Single can make your ears ring. If you're lucky, the roads are smooth because you have only a couple inches of suspension travel. The Vino doesn't stop on a dime, but luckily turns on one.

At rest, the $2199 Vino strikes a stylish pose. Lines are graceful and the chrome Harley Fat Boy-esque headlight tries to appear masculine.

So, how fast does the Vino go? Around here, it doesn't really matter.

Dear Monica

2008-12-28T14:58:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

On April 7, 2007, tattoo-artist Monica Henk was hit by a black SUV at the corner of Kent and Flushing in Brooklyn, New York. Monica was on a motorcycle and she was only twenty-six.

Artist. Singer. Model. Dancer. Vixen. Gemini. Bohemian. Free-spirit. Monica was no girl next door and no blank canvas.

She loved art, guns, Afro-Cuban rhythm, loud guitars and sushi. Frank Frazetta and H.P. Lovecraft. Movies but not TV. “Love isn’t for cowards… Love the life you live and live the life you love,” her myspace reveals. “If you like to get tattooed or even talk about an idea come and see me,” her website offers.

The reward has grown for the capture of the driver of the 95-97 black Chevy S-10 Blazer that killed her. If you have information call New York State Crimestoppers at 800-577-TIPS.

Rattle and Hum

2008-12-28T14:56:00.000-08:00

By Keith May

Harley, Honda, Triumph, Ducati. Fender, Martin, Gibson, Rickenbacker. Sportbikes, cruisers, dirtbikes, scooters. Six-string, twelve-string, acoustic, electric. The similarities between a beautifully crafted guitar and an impeccably-engineered motorbike are hard to ignore if you enjoy getting what you can out of both.

Sculpted feline curves, sensual and aggressive, draw you in. Polish, tune, noodle and gaze. As you listen to it's purr, attachment borders on love. "‘Til death do us part," you mutter subconsciously.

Plug it in or turn the key. Sparks ignite. Pistons pump. Vibrations echo and neighbors complain. Repeato il tiempo. Faster you go as rhythm takes over. Strum it, pick it, pound it. Screw it on. Dancing on the edge but always in control. The beat goes on.

Mike The Bike, Hurricane Hannah, Valentino Rossi.

Stevie Ray Vaughn, Pete Townsend, Eddie Van Halen.

Imagination takes you anywhere, so dream on.

Destination reached, the music ends. The instument hums but for the moment lies at rest.

Waiting.

Sturgis Virgins

2008-12-28T14:16:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Remember your first time? Vegas? Mardi Gras? Third Base? Weeks later you were still talking about it? Well, The annual Sturgis Rally in South Dakota is like that. But for a bike-lover, even better. A hippified come-as-you-are larger than Woodstock and just as friendly.

"Elk chili on the stove, beers in the cooler!" Kinder words were never heard after a full day exploring South Dakota on big-inch power-cruisers. Welcome to the Chubb's Bro's Clubhouse. A biker Shangi-La and annual home of life-long associates of our riding companion Bruce Fischer. On the large porch overlooking Sturgis Fairgrounds, Jim, Fast Rick, Greg, Sil and other Bro's gather 'round a bottomless cooler swapping new jokes and old ones.

For myself, Catterson and Cernicky, this is our first time at Sturgis and when Bruce points out "The Rally's just a short walk away." the four of us look up from chili bowls eagerly, and after an approving nod from David, follow Bruce to Main Street. This is his 25th year at The Rally and he beams with fond memories, sharing points of interest and colorful anecdotes. Wild nights at The Broken Spoke and bar fights at The Oasis.

But it's getting late and we still need to make it back to Rapid City, 45-minutes south. Despite the 40- minus windchill, I felt nary a chill chasing Cernicky at 80-plus down the interstate. The Yamaha Warrior's glowing tach and speedo a welcome comfort. Orion watching from above, the singing motor and flawless transmission providing added confidence. The nimble chassis and secure riding position as comfortable as an FZ-1. Perhaps it was the familiarity of a soft saddle and roaring pipes, or the lush paint and lavish chrome, but sparkling in the bright morning sunlight, it was definitely love at first sight.

I had avoided the V8 Boss Hoss all week. Intimidated not by its gargantuan presence, but by David's explanation of starting procedures. Watching Cernicky's tentative cornering (there's a first time for everything) only reinforced my opinion. But on our last day, headed for Wyoming's Devil's tower, my number was up. While David paid for lunch, Cernicky provided the abridged riding procedure. Two gears, plus Reverse, no clutch, etc., etc. Ignition is less than graceful, the 305-inch 344 hp motor has plans to take off before you do. Physics are the same for all bikes, however and at speed, momentum takes over allowing the rider to relax and watch the horizon unfurl before him. At least until the road curves. The clutchless shift from first to second is seamless, but when the road narrows, the shift back down can be unnerving. Getting the Boss through corners is like steering a boat through passage. The flat profile of the massive rear tire fights the rider both physically and mentally. Losing grip seems almost inevitable and after running out of road a few times, my original dislike resurfaced. The obnoxious styling was a matter of taste, but how can you ignore the heat displaced by a V8 between your legs? For me, the best motorcycles display feline qualities. The Boss is the antithesis of this philosophy. A great conversation piece for those who need a spotlight. Shaquil O'Neal, your chariot awaits.

The Triumph Rocket III was a popular ride. A surprisingly low seat-height and balanced geometry made flicking her through corners a blast. Smooth gearing transferring limitless power to a solid chassis. But its styling not everyone's cup of tea.

I'd like to comment here on the Honda 1800, but have nothing good OR bad to report. It's a Honda Shadow, only larger. Aside from the limited-edition paint, the Kawi Vulcan also suffers from anonymity. A great motor and symphonic pipe, but neither first-choice or runner-up.

The Victory also suffers from a lack of character, but not as much. Holding its own at almost every level and receiving loads of accolades. "The best Victory yet." "Handles like a dream." "Just look at the fit and finish." But trained eyes also noticed the small front wheel swallowed by a large front fender. An easy fix, but should have been caught on paper. A fine bike but still not a Harley.

And, when you fire up a Harley Fat-Boy, all those cliches are justified. The attention to detail and pride in craftmanship are on full display with no apologies necessary. Simply flawless. Like the midwest itself, photographs cannot do it justice. Nothing felt more at home on the road to Sturgis.

The Art of Hector Cademartori

2008-12-27T17:28:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Some of Cycle World magazine's most enduring design elements are the illustrations by Hector Cademartori that have accompanied the Hotshots and Service sections each issue for almost 30 years. Often humorous, sometimes formal, technically precise and endearingly whimsical, each is meticulously rendered by Hector using traditional drawing methods polished since childhood. They show a pride of craftsmanship surpassed only by Hector's eternal optimism and boundless enthusiasm for the subject matter.

Born in Buenos Aires, where Fangio is a household name, Hector was deeply influenced by racing icons like Gurney, Stewart, Rodriquez, Hill, Surtees and, of course, anything Ferrari (half of Argentina's population is of Italian descent). The racing scenes exploding out of young Hector's sketchpads delighted schoolmates and set his career path.

After high school Hector began selling his art professionally and signed on at CORSA magazine where he was placed in charge of the motorcycle section. In 1972 he purchased his first motorcycle, a 1928 Harley-Davidson. Not ideal for beginners and ridden only briefly before moving on to a 1949 Royal Enfield 500 and then to a 1952 Triumph. At the time, imports were closed in Argentina and options were limited to Fifties-era British or Italian bikes, or the local two-strokes.

Hector moved to the United States in 1983, where his automotive artistry found a ready audience. Clients have included the Automobile Club of America, California Speedway, Indianapolis Raceway, Laguna Seca Raceway, Honda, Kawasaki, Toyota, NHRA, TRD, Dan Gurney's All American Racers and Yamaha, among many other companies and individuals. In 1987, he began contributing to Cycle World and the rest is history.

“My heart remains with motorcycles, which provided my first assignments and the opportunity to begin my professional life in America, where I live in LaVerne, California, with my wife Florencia and three children, Eduardo, Florencia and Mercedes,” says Hector proudly in his charming South American English.

Hector's work can be found in galleries, living rooms, boardrooms and garages around the world.

The Ghost of Robert Johnson

2008-12-26T17:07:00.001-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

So there I was, dancing on the grave of Robert Johnson, peeling my clothes off like some ecstatic medicine-man. Thousands of angry fire-ants—an army from hell—filling me with deadly poison.

Rewind 48 hours. Memphis, Tennessee. 706 Union Avenue. Sun Studios. The historic corner Sam Phillips, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley turned R&B into Rock and Roll. Surrounded by vintage microphones and empty guitar stands, I felt the bliss a Christian feels on Easter and loitered as long as possible, inhaling the moldy, but rarified air. A Sun Anthology purchased at the counter became the soundtrack for loping through the Mississippi Delta in a rented Ford Mustang.

I was following journalist Peter Egan in a “Search for Robert Johnson” and photographing his adventure. Yes, that Robert Johnson–the black hustler who sold his soul at the crossroads to play guitar like the devil. And, yes, that Peter Egan. The patron-saint of motorcycle journalism. He was on a shiny new Triumph Bonneville, and I wasn’t. Motorcycles don’t have radios or roofs however, and I counted my blessings when the rain came. Wipers slapping time to “Mystery Train,” “Bear Cat,” “Born to Lose,” “Ooby Dooby” and “Great Balls of Fire.”

Grey, two-lane blacktop unfurling through a flat, cotton-blanketed horizon. Crop-dusters briefly interrupting the hypnotic landscape. Hot gumbo and cold beers. Fried catfish and hungry mosquitos. Tombstones and honky-tonks. Beale Street, Clarksdale, Rosedale and Highway 61. Sunrise coffees and late nights on the dark side of town. Daydreaming in the land of cotton. Of crossroad blues and the ghost of Robert Johnson.

Ants In My Pants by Skeeter Jackson

The Odd Couple

2008-12-26T17:06:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

“Cycle World magazine says this DR200 is good for 68mpg.” I mentioned, casually pushing the diminutive play-bike out of the garage. “I doubt the Scrambler gets that,” my friend Barry Hathaway added, referring to the 1965 Ducati 250, he recently purchased at a Colorado bike auction for $1700 and now glistens pale-blue in the mid-morning light. “Amazing how far motorcycles have come. With similar displacement, this should be interesting.” Tentatively adding, “But let’s not stray too far from home.”

Barry was still getting acquainted with his little Ducky and we agreed a leisurely jaunt down Pacific Coast Highway would provide a good shakedown, hopefully finding some dirt for these two “dual-purpose” bikes along the way.

Throttles pinned, but unable to keep up with Hummers and Euro-sedans blasting down the coast, we pulled over to re-evaluate. Geared like RVs, but powered like MGs, we agreed both bikes were too under powered for public corridors and began searching for trails. Surrounded by sprawling coastal development, it was soon found. An unlocked gate revealed an empty lot of tractor-paths, craters and loose earth. Round and round, up and down, we played like children on a snow-day. Barry’s Scrambler jauntily going everywhere the DR could go. That’s actually not saying much. The DR struggles to pull a grown man over steep hills and lack of torque and a cramped riding position keep the rider much too honest. At (almost) six feet, straddling the tank is not an option and placing my ass far back in the saddle at least provided some leg room. And unless you’re Stretch Armstrong (or a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal), standing on the pegs is too far a reach to the handgrips. Nevertheless, getting dirty is a lot more fun than playing chicken on the highway.

Aside from briefly overheating, Barry’s Ducati performed surprisingly well, but was significantly slower than the bullet-proof DR200. With an optimistic top-speed of 60mph, that’s pretty slow. It’s the price you pay for 70 mpg. For those who enjoy speed limits, the DR is for you. Ditto the old Scrambler.

What the Ducati lacks in modern technology, however, it more than makes up for in simple character. At every stop, the little blue Scrambler received all the attention. From old men and young gals alike. Barry gleefully explaining the old Italian eccentricities. Rear brake and kick start on left, shifter on right, drum brakes front and rear, etc. The bright yellow DR was by comparison invisible and, aside from fuel-mileage, provides no talking points. Barry’s Scrambler even sounds more interesting. And purchased for half the price!

Like the DR, the Ducati is most comfortable on level, unpaved roads, side-streets and back-alleys. But the Ducati is also at home at biker swap-meets, vintage rallies and even honky-tonks. Pull up to a House of Blues on the DR? I don’t think so.

Like a proud Papa, Barry loves his new, old Ducati. Riding it and talking about it. (Don’t get him started) Proving, yet again, that the emotional connection a rider is rewarded with from a bike that needs more than gas is priceless.

But, then again, you can’t put a price on reliability, either.

White Line Fever

2008-12-26T17:03:00.002-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

Call me romantic, but there’s nothing sweeter than an empty highway snaking through rural farm-country. And on Superbowl Sunday, I was determined to find one all to myself. While the majority of Western Civilization was glued to the tube sucking back Miller Lite and Polish sausage, I was in search of something even more elusive than truth in advertising. The Open Road.

Too much grape-juice the night before causes a late start and it’s 1:00 before I hit Interstate 5 from Orange County. A monotonous hour of six-lane concrete transports me conveniently to Oceanside and scenic Highway 76. Another half hour of suburbia and the road finally opens up in Fallbrook. And so does my throttle.

Long, sweeping, high-speed curves river through orchards, fruit stands and Indian reservations. Traffic is light and it soon gets even better. Mesa Grande Road is a short detour through pastures of heaven. With no one in front, or behind, I enjoy a brief taste of nirvana on this hidden route. But keep your eyes open for free-roaming livestock and blind curves. You won’t see either coming. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I roll into Julian at 4:30. It should be halftime by now and I wonder who’s exposing themselves on national television. Skipped lunch and it was time for dinner, but the sun has begun it’s descent behind local mountains and day is fast becoming night. Mission accomplished, I fueled the Bobber and headed north-by-northwest.

The Harley’s been chugging along non-stop for five hours now with no complaints. The proven, but thirsty 1450cc twin-cam V-twin hums along in perfect tune and minimal vibration. Stock, two-barrel pipes broadcast patented rumble at neighborly decibels.

Added rake, stretched bars and wide gearing make hidden apexes a tedious affair, but 634lb. bike is thankfully stable and responsive. Soft Dunlops track well the rider’s input. The ultra-low, deep-dish saddle provides support and comfort, but there’s no wiggle-room and none required. Your ass is planted securely and the reach to throttle feels surprisingly natural. Large diameter grips and light, but beefy levers are easy on the wrist. Mirrors provide excellent rear and peripheral vision. It’s as though The Motor Company had used my own body as a jig. But then, I’ve always liked Dynas.

When I returned to the Five, day had become night and coastal fog was rolling in. The Superbowl was long over and I battened down the hatches and merged into traffic. After seven hours in the saddle. I was tired, but remained surprisingly comfortable. No cramps, back-pain or carpel-tunnel. Perhaps it was just euphoria of the hunt.

The Coolest Kid in The Universe

2008-12-26T17:03:00.001-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

My nephew Wesley. Blessed with natural grace and fountains of energy, he rides anything with wheels (or without) and can shoot the tail off a rattlesnake at fifty yards. Quiet but fearless, he takes it all in stride of course. He is, without a doubt, in my completely objective opinion, absolutely the coolest kid in the Universe.

On a much-too-rare visit home to Georgia I spent some time with this youngest of our brood. He was ten and I was thirty-something. After humbling me on PlayStation he showed me his old Honda 50R. Mechanically sound but cosmetically challenged, a modest hand-me-down from an older cousin. Papa has a big Quad down the street so we pulled that out too and I was soon chasing Wes around pine and kudzu trying to keep up. Did I mention he’s fearless? And sneaky too–leading me into a briar-patch and smiling from the tiny exit. Luckily big Quads include a Reverse gear. Time to swap four wheels for two. Tag you’re it, Wes.

The next morning he and I were drinking coffee, tossing pennies against the curb of the local motorcycle dealer anxiously waiting for the doors to open. Outgrowing the Fifty, he wants to shop around and pray for a miracle. Inside awaited a generous collection of sparkling, never been ridden CR, KX, SX, RM, and TTs. And pimped-out pocket-bikes too. Toys for all ages. Alot to consider, but reaching the ground is priority one, at least with tiptoes. He’s instinctively drawn to the flashiest mini-motocrossers, but remarkably pragmatic and looks for something he can get the most use from. A pitch he’s charmingly rehearsing on me.

Twenty five years ago I was using the soft-sell on my Dad. He did his own research and Christmas morning a Kawasaki KD100 waited under the tree. Simple. Durable. Kick-start only. One down–three up. I rode the wheels off that little green monster and was free to ride anywhere a full tank could carry me. As long as I was home for dinner. My small world was suddenly a large one and getting bigger all the time. Thanks, Santa Claus.

Meanwhile, Wesley continues to look for an upgrade to the venerable XR50, but now that he’s discovered girls too, he has a whole new world of options.

Wesley Daniell. Coolest kid in the universe. The legend continues.

Falling in Love with a Triumph Bonneville

2008-12-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

You get used to it after awhile. The looks, the smiles, furtive glances, longing stares. Everywhere I go, women, men, children and old folks, too. At stoplights, in parking lots or chasing me down the highway to follow close beside, faces pressed against the window like giddy schoolgirls. Yeah, it’s tough sometimes, but I try not to let the adoration go to my head. Afterall, it’s the bike not the rider they’re falling in love with.

“That’s a really nice bike. I mean a reeeeeeeeeealy nice bike.” I hear repeatedly, verbatim, from a wide variety of friends and strangers all day long. People who usually shy away from bikes are magically drawn to the 2006 Triumph Bonneville. And staying true to its British pedigree, it receives winks and nods from purists, too. Thanks to Brando, McQueen and Arthur Fonzarelli, the Bonnie’s silhouette is burned forever in our collective consciousness and triggers idyllic notions of biker fantasies.

Legs wrap around the small tank naturally, back straight, hands at shoulder width, a soft seat with room for three and enough power from the oil-cooled 790cc Twin to stay (slightly) ahead of traffic. A full tank carries me a tick over 100 miles before hitting reserve.

Fit and finish are immaculate, but as attractive as this bike is cosmetically, under her skin a thousand parts are happily chugging away in perfect union. Featherweight clutch action and a nicely meshed gearbox keep the party going. Idle to redline, smooth as butter and quiet as a mouse. The perfect accomplice for a friend’s ranch-style wedding in the Santa Ynez Valley, 200 miles away.

I get out of town early Friday and hit the 101 just before lunch-hour. Blasting through Ventura, Oxnard and Santa Barbara, I exit to find some elbow room on the casual two-lane of Highway 154. Ah, freedom at last! A detour on 246 carries me through hills of gold and manicured wine country. The Bonneville is a fine commuter, but really shows her legs in this open country and it’s hard not to fall for her easy nature. Or, maybe there’s just love in the air.

At the wedding later that day the groom arrives on horseback, his bride in a horse-drawn carriage. After a moving hilltop ceremony, dinner brings emotional speeches, stirring toasts, prime rib and dancing ’til midnight. Strangers become friends, friends become lovers, lovers become serious.

The morning after, I was back in the saddle, just me and the Bonnie, beating down the highway, enjoying those furtive glances.

Naked to Colorado

2008-12-26T16:52:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May

La Cave Restaurant in Newport Beach, California has been a favored Southern California steakhouse and lounge since 1962. Literally underground, the dim, warm light provides subtle illumination to red-vinyl booths filled with Orange County’s wealthiest alcoholics. Legend goes that La Cave was a favored haunt of John Wayne who lived nearby. A constant parade of hipsters and well-dressed curmudgeons make deals or drown sorrows around the vintage walnut bar. It’s a cozy setting for photographer Barry Hathaway and I to enjoy drinks and watch plots thicken.

“Was wonderin’ if you want to drive with me to Colorado Springs to see my Grandfather,” Barry asks tentatively. “Drive to Colorado? No thanks. Too bad your bike is in Europe or we could ride to Colorado. Then I might be interested,” I countered. Topic closed, we returned to inflated tales of previous conquest until last call.

Next day, Barry calls to say he has borrowed a Moto-Guzzi 1100 and only hours later, we’re hammer-down on I-15, running the gauntlet through Las Vegas. Colorado Springs, here we come. “Today we pay our dues!” Barry yells through the wind.

450 miles of baking desert later, we check into an adobe motel in Zion, Utah. After seven hours tucked in, flat out on my Suzuki SV650, I’m looking forward to a hot meal at a comfortable diner. Unfortunately, all we find is a grocery store, and endure cold sandwiches and warm salads in the deli aisle. “How do you feel about waking early to catch the sunrise?” Barry asks. “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I respond. The sun rises without us, but we also miss freezing our ass off.

A twist of the throttle and we enter Zion National Park. Infinite formations of rock melt like candle wax across the horizon. The winding roads a welcome change from yesterday’s Interstate. Arched windows carved into tunnels offer a blurred glimpse of what lies ahead. Anticipation building, we exit into bright sunlight. Eyes quickly adjust to focus on dramatic panoramas of rock and pine. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, Zion is behind us. We consider turning back, but are anxious to see what lies ahead.

My compliments to America’s Bureau of Land Management as well as the D.O.T. Perfectly maintained highways snake gracefully through Bryce Canyon. A sea of boulders large and small defying gravity in abstract formations and intricate patterns. Bryce seamlessly becomes Escalante. Another priceless rock collection and more flawlessly maintained roads free of traffic. A gradual increase in elevation reveals groves of chalky, white aspens covering the rolling hillsides. Back at sea level, aspens are replaced again by rocks. Stopping at last in Hanksville, we check into another cheap motel, contemplate dinner and watch the sun go down before debating merits of seeing it come back up.

“Looks like rain…” I sarcastically observe opening the door to a crisp, cloudless morning.” “The only dark cloud is over your head,” Barry responds with impeccable timing.

An ignored treasure, Glen Canyon is heaven on Earth. While the majority of vacationers fish in Powell, party in Havasu or fill the Grand Canyon, time passes among these burnt sienna walls without interruption.

Running on fumes to Blanding. North to Monticello. East on 666 to 141. 90 to 145. 162 to 550. Crossing the Rockies on 50 and stopping finally in Salida where we call it a day.

This time Barry does wake me at sunrise. He’s anxious to see his Grandfather who lives in nearby Woodland Park, Colorado. Paul is a well-respected artisan of metal, wood and textiles, living in the home he built for his family two generations ago. The property is filled by his prolific work, surrounded by old-growth pines at the end of a dusty road. Paul’s health is failing and that’s why we’re here. “The secret to good coffee is good water.” he says. “Damn good water,” I reply. After quality-time with Paul, we motor on to Colorado Springs and part company while Barry visits the rest of his family.

In a greasy spoon called “Western Omelet” I meet Gary, a fellow rider. “You’re bike looks fast,” He comments, admiring the SV outside the window. “I have an XR for local mountain trails,” he adds. When I mention the beauty of our National Park System, his tone changes, regarding entry fees and fishing taxes. “They get you coming and going,” he says.

After checking into Garden of the Gods Inn, I walk down Colorado Avenue looking for cheer. Among touristy gift shops sits a historic roadhouse called The Meadow Muffin. Alone at the bar, I try to appear inconspicuous but the tattered roadmap in my lap is an easy giveaway. “It’s Happy Hour all day,” the bartender offers. Taking it as a sign, I watch the afternoon go by through a dusty window.

Next morning the motel clerk points out the baldness of my rear tire. On a tight schedule (and budget) I had been trying to ignore it. I do some calculations and when I check messages it only confirms that I need to get back to Costa Mesa. Since Barry needs more time with family, I head South on Friday, now flying solo.

Regardless of the balding tire, I choose a scenic route and glide onto Highway 25 South with dark clouds directly in my path. It really does look like rain this time. The ominous weather follows me to South Fork, where ice on Wolf Creek’s 11,000-foot pass forces an extended time out. I check into a cheap room and meditate on this new obstacle.

Saturday morning, I awake determined to cross the Wolf Creek summit, regardless of bald tire and icy impasse. Tentatively, I rumble up the slope, into the clouds. Swirling flakes surround me, slush and ice beneath me. Twenty miles of elevation ahead of me. My hands and feet are wet and numb, the extreme conditions slowing me to an idling crawl. Big rigs parked along turnouts weighing their own options, I note an absence of vehicles headed in the opposite direction and soon understand why. The SV stutters in agreement, and I reluctantly turn around. Back in South Fork staring at the map it appears the only route west is a detour, one hundred miles east. Swallowing my pride, I fold the map and accept my fate.

Wind blasts from all directions, only picking up speed in New Mexico. Now at 8,000 feet, dark clouds blanket the surrounding hillsides. Determined to make forward progress and going a bit nutty, actually. Yelling euphorically at the poor hand I’ve been dealt, wishing I was back at The Meadow Muffin. Upward and downward, upward and downward, reaching Santa Fe at 1:30. I enjoy a sandwhich and bake in the patio sun before heading on to Albuquerque. Extreme weather now behind, a new problem rears its head.

Without warning, the SV loses compression. No response from throttle, I downshift and stay on it. Surging forward, she reignites. The problem continues intermittently, but each time correcting itself. Limping to Albuquerque, where I call friends for remote diagnostics. Theories include: 1: vacuum hose kinked; 2: loss of cylinder; 3: electrical connections; 4: water in gas. I check hoses and connections then limp to a local parts store for fuel additive. Riding around the parking lot, the bike now sounds fine.

As I hit the onramp, the SV again falters. It’s now Sunday, so either I go for it, nursing her down the highway or lose another day waiting for shops to open Monday. I choose to push forward. The SV cooperates and after a hundred miles, I begin to relax. Happy to be moving forward. But, you guessed it, the SV stalls out again. I stay on the throttle and downshift, awaiting the now familiar surge of power. I begin inventing morbid scenarios; Broken down, leaving the bike, hitching a ride, returning to the bike, the bike gone. Flying home, defeated. I pay close attention to mile-markers and populated exits.

When I eventually arrive in Flagstaff I begin tearing the bike apart. Plugs? Fine. Filters? Fine. Hoses? Fine. Everything within reach appears sound. Tomorrow is Monday. Do I continue limping home, across the barren Mojave?

Barry calls from Colorado, enjoying his extended visit. He suggests I locate a mechanic nearby and replace that bald tire while I’m at it. Relieved to have a plan, I enjoy dinner downtown. There are worse places to be stuck than Flagstaff.

Monday morning, I locate a Suzuki dealership in the yellow pages and arrive promptly at 9am. But there’s no Suzuki dealer, instead a Hyundai lot. So, this is karma. With grim determination, I hit the onramp. I even allow myself enjoyment of a beautiful spring day, making it all the way to Seligman, California before trouble re-arises. The same routine: No power, downshift, throttle, eventual surge forward. No power, downshift, throttle, eventual surge forward. But now, in this barren desert, the bald rear tire has my full attention. Down to steel belt, I’m amazed it holds air. With a thin, flat profile, I feel every pebble. Confident that engine problems will reliably appear and disappear, morbid scenarios now involve exploding tires and loss of control. I ride with extreme caution and blind faith. Inching ever closer to salvation.

At the end of the day, I stutter into my garage, park the bike and call Barry to tell him that my days of spontaneous adventure are over. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles. “I guess that dark cloud followed you all the way home. I’ve seen nothing but clear skies and rainbows. And the Guzzi is running flawlessly. I’ll see you at the bar tonight.”

Costa Mesa Speedway

2008-12-26T16:45:00.000-08:00

Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

“Two hundred pounds! Eighty horsepower! No suspension and noooooo brakes!” Announcer Terry Clayton growls over P.A. “Lindsay Lohan, please report to the Announcer’s booth!” As the sun falls behind marine layer, anorexic Speedway bikes roar to life for final adjustments as fans swarm bleachers juggling cold brews, kettle corn and cotton candy. Welcome to Round One of the 2007 AMA Speedway National Championship Series at the cradle of Speedway racing in North America.

At 7:15, riders greet audience in two-hundred yard parade along the inside wall, slapping high-fives to wide-eyed children and parents alike. Local favorites and National Champs sharing the spotlight before all hell breaks loose at 7:30. Greg Hancock, Billy Hamill, Tommy Hedden, Mike Faria, Eddie Castro, Bryan Yarrow and Bobby “Boogaloo” Schwartz. All on the wrong side of Thirty but enjoying long, if not lucrative careers on the Speedway circuit. Defending their status each weekend against upstarts like fifteen-year old Junior phenom Ricky Wells who’s here to earn a spot on tonight’s roster.

Like clockwork, four eliminators lead to twenty races and four dramatic finals. Thirty races in two hours of cursing, crashing, bar-banging action. A determined Wells impresses, but BMOC Greg Hancock takes home the bling and by only ten-o’clock lights are out and fans are headed home with new stories to tell.

Speedway racing’s biggest fan and most vocal advocate is loud-talker and straight-shooter “Rad” Brad Oxley of International Speedway, Inc. A youthful 49, Brad was National Speedway Champion in 1987 and 1999, raced Flat-Track as a grom, instructs newbies and still finds time and energy to race Motorcross, too. His parents founded International Speedway, Inc. in 1969 and according to Brad, “Their hard work established the blueprint that has kept it going so long.” Costa Mesa Speedway has been Brad’s second home since its Genesis and his heroes are all “Speedway Dudes.” His enthusiasm is infectious.

“In the Seventies, Flat-Track racing in Southern California was enjoying its heyday,” Brad explains. “Ascot, Elsinore, Paris, Corona, El Toro, Trojan, Costa Mesa and dozens more, drawing hundreds of competitors and thousands of fans almost every night of the week. It was the AMA’s baby until Supercross, Motocross and Road Racing exploded in popularity. Since then, the attraction of Flat-Track racing in Southern California has waned and Speedway has done everything possible to pick up the slack. It’s the next, best and last thing left.” Accepting this torch, it’s been blessing and burden for Brad to keep things going and it’s not easy. Thanks to development, lawsuits, noise complaints and insurance costs, only a smattering of tracks survive in North America and Speedway is no longer the AMA’s darling. “Back in the day, it might have cost five thousand to stage an event, but now, with one hundred paid employees, insurance, fees, purse, etc. it can cost thirty-thousand plus.”

A mix of tradition and variety keep the shows fresh–Kid Nights, Harley-Nights, Legend-Nights, Freestyle displays–Brad and his crew doing everything possible to reach new fans while fostering loyalty of old ones. They couldn’t take Speedway more seriously and you have to walk away impressed if not surprised by the organization and professionalism. Only determination of promoters like Brad and loyalty of fans have kept Speedway alive in lean times.

A spectator-sport, Speedway is a bizarro world where the smell of methanol and BBQ is sweet ambrosia and the cacophony of high-revving 4-Stroke Singles is music to the ears. The bikes? 500cc, 450hp Jawas and Weslakes with super hi-compression engines that rev to 15,000. Bump-start only, no suspension, no brakes, one giant gear and the weight of a CR80. This all amounts to a dangerously sick power-to-weight ratio.

“Fans are fooled into thinking that riding a Speedway bike is easy, but it’s a real handful. The first time you back off the throttle, it’s right into the wall. No real steering with that thin front wheel, no brakes to set up corner and no changing direction once you’ve entered it. Like a ballet with throttle while fighting intuitions of normal riding techniques. You can actually back it through a corner and that’s when it becomes an art. You gotta push your bodyweight towards the front from the right footpeg to make that rear wheel light enough to do the steering. Meanwhile, your left leg is skimming along as an outrigger. But you don’t want to plant that bad boy or you’ll kick yourself in the back of the head. It’s a balancing-act between left, right, front, rear and throttle, but you got to break it loose. Stay on the edge of control. It’s the most natural and graceful thing ever once you get it. If you’re not small and light, you better be strong. A race may last only 48 seconds, but it’s the most hang on for dear life 48 seconds you’ll ever experience.”

So how do you stop? “Sideways, scrubbing speed down to Twenty, then it’s a Flintstone thing. If someone crashes in front of you the only option is to lay it down which is an art in itself. A controlled falling down.”

The rub for thrillseekers actually wanting to ride one of these bikes is that you can’t just pick one up at a local dealer and ride off into the wilderness. These are very specialized machine and very hard to ride safely. And where do you ride one? Only on a Speedway track, which makes the folks that ride them a rare and passionate breed, indeed. The age for these fans-turned-riders and kids inheriting the gene ranges from 7 to 75, with divisions for all levels of experience. A retired Los Angeles Fire Captain, 75 year old Hugh Randolph competed in scrambles and desert racing in the Sixties and became a fan of Speedway in the Seventies. In 1973, he took lessons from Stu Morley at El Mirage. Thirty years later, he debuted at Costa Mesa Speedway as a 72-year-old rookie. Regardless of his actual performance, fans wait in line for hours in the pits at the post-event celebration for his autograph.

Costa Mesa Speedway’s first announcer, Larry Huffman is the man credited with giving these “Speedway Dudes” bigger-than-life personalities that fans could cheer for. Much like WWF stars, riders quickly learn to play up biographical or inflated anecdotes for attention and sponsorships. Like legendary racer “Tumbleweed” Walton, who fans would offer $400 cash to just finish a race. Everyone loves an underdog and you don’t have to be a winner to be a star at Speedway, just colorful leathers, beaming personality and an ability to play well with others. Win, lose or crash, the Speedway community is nothing if not forgiving.

2008 will be a special season as Costa Mesa Speedway celebrates its 40th anniversary of continuous racing. Like other things we take for granted, you might want to enjoy a night at Speedway before it disappears.

Cheating Death: Life on The Highway

2008-12-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

"Go where the wind blows you and let pictures tell the story. Go as far as you can, take as long as you need, but bring this Harley back in one piece."

By Keith May

(Originally published in Cycle World magazine)

April 1, 2001:
Unpredictable. Unforgiving. Unrelenting. Greetings from the wind. A phantom menace that takes great pleasure in blowing me across the highway like a drunken sailor. I left a couple of hours ago headed north from Costa Mesa towards Eureka, but reluctantly change course and head east across the Southwest. Wind now at my back, I sink into the soft leather saddle and soak in the bike’s character. Silver paint, black motor, roaring exhaust and plenty of chrome. A sporty cruiser with adjustable windscreen and nylon saddlebags. Competent on the interstate and agile on twisting back roads, the big Harley inspires confidence and I begin calling her “Silver” to feel more like the Lone Ranger.

While looking for Route 66, I spot hundreds of crushed school buses stacked together like banana peels in a massive junkyard and ride tentatively down a sandy wash looking for a decent camera-angle. A bad decision on a heavy street bike realized only after the wheels take anchor in the heavy silt. With nowhere to plant my right foot or the kickstand, I rock the bike with the toes of my left foot while goosing the throttle. A giant fountain of sand rains over me as the tires sink only further. A menacing guard-dog sign adding unwanted urgency. Suddenly, my prayers are answered and Silver lunges awkwardly forward out of the trap. Photo missed, but lesson learned.

With an angel on my shoulder and covered in dust, I ramble on to a deserted stretch of 66 and introduce myself to America’s Mother Road. After taking portraits of Silver at an abandoned gas station, I check in to a concrete room in a small motel in Ludlow as the sun disappears behind distant, glowing mesas.

After inhaling a hot meal at an A-frame diner filled with plastic flowers and other weary travelers, I fall asleep listening to the Disney classic “Old Yeller” on a clock radio. At the sentimental ending, Fess Parker returns to impart the following wisdom on his confused son:

“Sometimes for no apparent reason, life slaps you down so hard you feel like your insides are splattered on the ground. But not always. Most times life is good. But if you think about the bad, you ruin the good. You can always find something good if you look for it.”

Day Two
More wind. Rough asphalt. Geography has changed from featureless desert to minarets of rock and earth reaching for a cloudless, azure sky. At a stop for gas and a map of Arizona, a scruffy kid riding a weathered ATV suggests I visit nearby Oatman. In need of direction, I take his advice.

A once thriving mining town, Oatman is now a donkey-filled main street of shabby gift shops. A gunfight is staged at 1pm in front of Wells Fargo. Outlaws burst through the swinging front doors carrying stolen bags of gold but are immediately confronted by the town Sheriff, who demands they stand down. After a brief exchange of inebriated threats and insults, the outlaws shoot the Sheriff down in cold blood. But as the villains boast belligerently to the camera-wielding audience, the Sheriff quietly rises in the background, exacting his revenge in a blaze of gunfire.

When the show is over, tourists enthusiastically stuff cash and coin into the grizzled actors’ sweat-ringed hats. It’s choreographed highway robbery, but fantastic theater. Curiosity fulfilled, I leave the dusty town and enjoy a lazy ride through Needles, to Kingman.

At days end, I force down a dry hamburger and cold fries at Mad-Dog’s Bar and Grill while avoiding stares of drunken cowboys surrounding the bar. Back in my room, I begin this journal and drift seamlessly into sleep.

Day Three
After complimentary breakfast of Fruit Loops and orange juice, I take a brochure for “Meteor Crater” and point Silver towards the dramatic spectacle.

Route 66 often becomes a “Frontage” road, running parallel to the freeway. At any time, the traveler can return to the herd, but I choose instead the pace on the fringe.

Now feeling quite at home, I stop in Seligman, Arizona at postcard photographer Bill Riley’s hard-to-ignore gift shop. A colorful, western façade with costumed mannequins posed meticulously around the property. Twin Studebakers parked conspicuously at the entrance. Inside, I discover endless shelves littered with kitschy souvenirs adorned with the infamous Route 66 logo. I purchase a couple of postcards, receive an honorary Route 66 driver’s license and escape as a tour bus empties a bus of arthritic tourists into the waiting trap.

Increasing elevation and heavy sleet brings out my jacket’s electric liner and I join The Santa Fe Trail. The road slick and fog heavy. The shoulder buried in ice and snow. Cold, tired and hungry, I roll into Flagstaff check into a motel and sleep hard. My plan is to leave at sunrise in search of Meteor Crater.

Day Four
“Common sense is the better part of valor!” My new friend yells through the wind and rain. I had stopped to tighten my load, but rain has again become sleet and the animated warnings of these riders headed in the opposite direction convinces me to return to Flagstaff and hunker down.

At a cozy diner on San Francisco street, I’m quickly greeted by a pretty waitress determined to make me warm and comfortable. Only twenty-two, Aly has rosy cheeks and a pretty smile. We make plans to meet later at “Charly’s.”

The Saddle Tramps are a traveling band from Reno featuring a busty blonde, pistol-toting go-go dancer named Suzy Switchblade. With song titles like “Cindy Brady’s Having My Baby,” and “Truck Driving Lover,” these bastard sons of Johnny Cash keep the house rocking well past last-call. Scripted, comical anecdotes introduce each song while Suzy shakes her money-maker and fires loud blanks into the air. Aly arrives with fast friends and after a few rounds, we take off for a slippery ride through snow and sleet in the soggy bed of a rusted pickup truck. Pepperming Schnaps keeping us warm, playful kisses making us hot. At the end of an abandoned mining road, we pile out of the truck and make drunken snow angels before heading back to town. Aware of our attraction, but protective of their friend, I’m dropped off alone. Aly lingers, but is pulled away. Afterall, they hardly know this biker passing through.

Day Five
I wake to find Silver buried in snow, but in last night’s haze I had thrown a motel blanket over her and she happily rumbles to life. Unlike myself, still a little buzzed.

After a long shower and hot breakfast, I flip from The Weather Channel to The Andy Griffith Show in search of an optimistic forecast. Warnings of “severe” wind and rain across the southwest forces intermission. Fate accepted, I bundle up and walk to a truckstop across the highway.

Cold chicken fried steak, warm orange juice and limited conversation. Country music plays softly in the smoke-filled background. My waitress, Jennifer, shares her own tales of exploring the Southwest in a silver Airstream. An attractive fifty-something, she agrees that most Americans have no idea how vast their country is, and exploring it should be a mandatory experience.

Aly calls at six and brings over “Perry,” her adorable boxer. After sloppy introductions, we visit the Fluff And Fold, then enjoy dinner and wine in a studio apartment she shares with an ex-boyfriend. Aly is a regular at open-mic nights and shares her original folk songs, delivered in a soft, raspy voice over smooth chord changes. A gypsy by nature, picking up stakes when life becomes routine. At 10, Aly’s ex-boyfriend (but still her roommate) arrives with a twelve-pack, successfully changing the atmosphere. Foiled again, I exit graciously and leave Flagstaff the following morning.

Day Six
In the 1800s, Jerome was a booming copper-mining town, but is now a forgotten State Park and self-proclaimed ghost-town. At the end of a gravel road I pay admission to view a collection of assorted relics displayed with deliberate chaos. A faux missile sits on a nearby hilltop and the proud caretaker informs me that it’s aimed at Washington, D.C. I photograph this and many other abstract details, but with rain clouds approaching, I leave quickly for Camp Verde. I arrive late, take the last room in an over-priced Super 8 and walk to Dairy Queen, the only option in town.

Day Seven
The wind returns and I tuck closely behind 18-wheelers avoiding gusts attempting to blow me into on-coming traffic. Flat-out through Arizona’s red rock region to New Mexico, eventually stopping in a lonely border town called Reserve. The bar’s closed, there’s no restaurant in town and I return to my room and make oatmeal on a pocket stove I’d brought for emergencies.

Day Eight
Mongrel dogs chase me out of town into Billy the Kid country. The panoramic region where the young outlaw’s vicious crimes became romanticized legend. Silver displays a deep affection for the incredible series of sweeping curves of NM180, and I backtrack fifty miles so she can do it again.

A perfect day ends at Los Molinas, where Billy was sentenced to hang but escaped. Only to be shot dead by Pat Garret three months later at Fort Sumter. Or, so the legend goes.

Day Nine
More driving winds blow me through a U.S. missile test range to the surreal geography of White Sands, New Mexico. After climbing a maze of gypsum dunes, I enjoy a tuna sandwich at the Welcome Center before enjoying a lazy, featureless ride through a post-apocalyptic landscape.

Awaiting me is a gauntlet of terrifying dust storms, filling my breath and vision with fine sand. A nervous couple passes in SUV and rather than giving me the usual thumbs-up, cross their fingers and flash me anxious looks.

Luckily, mortal fear induces a state of auto-pilot where adrenaline removes all distraction to focus purely on self-preservation. With no escape in sight I press on, adrenaline in overdrive.

When I eventually pull in to Roswell, New Mexico, I’m a nervous wreck and physically spent. Throat dry, glands swollen and swallowing difficult. I lose my glasses but find some cough drops. Locals appear indifferent but otherwise human.

I numbly liberate Silver from her heavy load. A now automatic process repeated every night, and in reverse each following morning.

Day Ten
After an eventless night recovering, I leave Roswell, fighting more wind to Carlsbad Caverns. Like something fantastic from the mind of Jules Verne, nothing could prepare me for the size of this vast, intricate chasm of melting wall and dripping ceiling. But if you’ve seen one stalagmite you’ve seen them all. Two hours and a postcard later I’m back on the highway crossing the Texas state line, all too aware of the emptiness ahead of me. It can take a lifetime to cross this great state and many never make it. Gliding along the interstate, tired eyes attempt to focus on the featureless horizon, distracted only by occasional tumbleweeds.

I arrive in Ozona under a brilliant Texas sunset. After checking in to a Travelodge, I enjoy dinner at The Davy Crockett Club. Formerly a sheep barn, it’s now a sawdust-filled steakhouse. A cadre of out-of-state bikes is hitched out front but I choose instead to dine at the bar with beaver-pelted locals.

Steve is a thirty-something paramedic who studies the size of a person’s veins when off-duty, “Just in case of emergency,” he explains over cold Lone Stars. Steve shares his own dream of exploring America on a Harley while I listen intently. His friends see a willing ear and are soon sharing their dreams also. Given a chance, and a few cold ones, any man will share his life story. And most are worth hearing.

Day Eleven
Feet on highway pegs, I lean back and enjoy the hypnotic ride across the flat earth of West Texas. I reach San Antonio through confusing detours and oppressive heat but find no parking available. The bike buried in gear and The Alamo surrounded, I leave without a picture.

The Live Music Capitol of the World, Austin lives up to its reputation every night. A college town filled with crowded clubs and eccentric locals. While enjoying a late dinner in “Paradise,” a pretty gal approaches and casually takes the empty stool next to mine. She inquires about my adventure and expresses an interest in photography so I offer her a camera and we leave the crowded bar to cruise the streets.

Kiely’s a fun but serious girl. Incredibly smart but barely making it in the big city. She does a fine job of showing me around, introducing me to interesting friends on every corner. But in a popular club called “Emo’s,” we become separated for much too long and I begin worrying about the camera and question my faith in human nature.

I’m preparing to search the alley when Kiely reappears. “I was taking photos inside the girls room,” she says innocently. Relieved to see her, my faith has been restored and I choose not to share previous suspicions.

At 2am we ride Silver up the hill to my hotel, order “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” on pay-per-view and get more comfortable. Soft kisses lead to heavy petting and we awake slightly better acquainted.

Day Twelve
Kiely and I ride Silver around Austin’s city limits enjoying the end of our time together. After sweet goodbyes I head further east.

A perfect example that no amount of planning could have accommodated the sprawl man has created. Houston, Texas is a human log-jam. After spending half a day getting through it I remove my jacket to cool off, only to be painfully reminded by a gravel truck that the protection of a jacket is always a good idea.

The welt on my shoulder stings like hell, but the air of the bayou is filled with ambrosia of honeysuckles and I ride euphorically along concrete bridges spanning the murky swamp below. Each mile removing another layer of preconception. Observer now participant. Expectation replaced by possibility. Freedom suddenly appreciated.

My newfound optimism is tested in New Orleans.

Like most big cities, “The Big Easy” is overcrowded, unhealthy and in a state of moral decline. The thick mid-day air sucks my energy in one hot breath. There’s nowhere to park the bike, hotels are beyond budget and every turn leads me farther into a urine-soaked abyss. Disgusted, I twist the throttle and motor on. Regretting photos missed, however, I check into an affordable motel outside of town and return to Bourbon Street in the relative cool of sunset.

It's the night before Easter in “The Absinthe Bar.” Once the famous watering hole for Mark Twain and his contemporaries, it’s now called “Mango-Mango” and is just another Disneyesque façade serving $10 daiquiris while disco blares obnoxiously through loud-speakers. The ugly masses throng down Bourbon Street like zombies looking for a fix. Anything to escape the obscene reality around them. Beggars litter the streets while performers tap-dance or stand completely motionless as dazed tourists toss cash and coin into buckets and boxes. “Love Acts” are promised in neon, painted women luring customers past the velvet-roped entrance. This is Dante’s Inferno only more desperate.

Purgatory behind, I enjoy a brisk shower, crank the A.C. and lie naked, sweating on the sheets.

Day Thirteen
Silver has had enough of this oppressive humid climate and rattles her unhappiness at every opportunity. She’s been through mountain snow, desert heat, and overpopulation. She’s earned my sympathy and we head north to the inviting climate of Mississippi. Silver immediately expresses her gratitude, revving full-song along flawless Interstate 59. With a gracious speed limit of 70 mph on a perfect ribbon of grey asphalt, this is a great place to unwind.

The clean smell of rain arrives and I prepare for the wet. A dark blanket fills the sky and lightning flashes on the grey horizon. Benign drizzle becomes benevolent downpour and I begin looking for shelter.

Sliding onto an exit, I spot a small brick church, pull up and huddle alone on a damp porch. Puddles form in the mud around Silver as I call Mama on the cell-phone and tell her I won’t be home on Easter. “But at least I’m at church!” I add half-joking. Hearing family in the background I take my chances. Clouds part and I ramble on to Alabama over steaming pavement.

It’s only a hundred miles to Georgia, but when riding at night, exhausted and alone on unfamiliar blacktop, bad things can happen. By the time you see a hazard it’s too late to avoid it. Reluctantly the search begins for a cheap room.

It’s late in Birmingham when I roll in to The Villager motel. When a tattooed unfriendly leaps from the shadows to ask about my beautiful Harley, I cautiously reload the bike and politely move on to safer lodging on the nicer side of town.

Day Fourteen
The phantom menace, but Silver keeps her nose forward. Unlike the driving winds out west, these gusts hit with erratic fury. Two lefts, and then a right, I’m waiting for the uppercut. Through a perpetually green Talladega Forest, I cross the Georgia state line and welcome familiar surroundings of home.

Pop’s working in the garage while Mama prepares lunch in the kitchen. She wasn’t pleased about this adventure, but Pop understood completely. When I told him of my mission to document the good, the bad and the ugly of America, his automatic response was “You’ll definitely see a lot of ugly!”

Day Fifteen
After a night’s rest in my old room—formerly a shrine to Van Halen, now to cherubs and Beanie Babies—I spend the day riding shotgun with Pop, sharing memories while searching for landmarks.

As always, Pop is game for anything and appears content participating in my scavenger hunt. We locate a forgotten confederate graveyard and explore a textile mill destroyed by Union soldiers. After dropping Silver off for much-needed service, we hike through canyons of 18-wheelers at a local truck stop.

My Pop’s a truck driver and as a child I naively imagined the adventures he must be having on the open road. Infinite convoys of determined drivers dropping freight and moving on. A brotherhood of mesh-capped warriors communicating over the C.B., warning of “Smokies” and “County-mounties.” Bucketing along the interstate, occasionally stealing a nap in the sleeper-cab, a big diesel purring steadily underneath.

Occasionally Pop would take me along. I was in heaven, reading comics while watching the world go by beneath us. Pop talking on the C.B. as though he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-four, good buddies.”

This was the rural south. The highway carving infinite grey swaths through blue-green mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for Moon-Pies and pecan logs. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck-stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and Atlanta Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The bible belt. The Old South before it was new. The same country, twenty years later, that I found myself in.

After dropping off Pop I visit a childhood sweetheart. Still young and vibrant, Kathy remains a natural beauty. Still living with her father, Nick in the same house I visited every day of my youth. Kathy lights up a room with a smile that’s sincere and warming to my heart. These are good people and I miss their company.

The next day Pop and I again search for interesting photo-ops. Scenic drives through Hiram, Marietta and Atlanta. Later, we pick up Silver and she appears happy to see me, getting reacquainted on Georgia back roads.

After dinner with the family I meet Kathy’s brother, Jason at Hooters to enjoy a bikini contest. Salivating locals display their affections along the short runway. The bouncing beauties easily work them into a riotous frenzy, but after the winner is chosen the crowd quickly returns to its first love, Budweiser.

Day Sixteen
On Friday, I visit the fifth grade class of my angelic niece Erica for Show and Tell. “Where do you poop?” and “When do you sleep?” They ask. But what they really want is to see "Silver" so we walk single-file to the parking lot for introductions. The children jump back in unison when Silver roars to life, immediately sharing my awe of her. I try to leave a positive impression and ride into the sunset, hoping they pursue their own adventures someday.

Return to California

Day Twenty Three
Pop and I leave while Mama waves goodbye. A look of apprehension, thinly veiled with forced smiles. Pop’s rented a big Harley Road King to accompany me out of Georgia. It’s been twenty years since he had his Honda Gold Wing, however, and Mama’s worry may finally be justified.

I turn and wave goodbye to the video camera and follow Pop to Dahlonega, a small town nestled deep in the north Georgia mountains. Dogwood and Pine generously display saturated colors of spring. The sight and smell of new life fills my senses.

A historic gold mining town, Dahlonega is steeped in southern culture. There’s an art and music festival in the town square and we park the bikes to sample the flavors. After taking photos and enjoying BBQ sandwiches, we leave in search for adventure. Each wrong turn leading to more hidden treasure.

It’s great riding with Pop. He appears comfortable on the Harley and is obviously enjoying himself. It’s a perfect day so far.

On a twisty road fringed with gravel things change dramatically. Pop is 50 yards ahead of me when he enters too fast into a tight corner. It’s painful to watch as I helplessly watch him drift, unable to correct. He hits the road hard and slides awkwardly into a ditch.

I’m off Silver before the dust clears, helping him up and brushing off the gravel. Luckily, Pop is only shaken but the bike has suffered severely. The damage is massive but the engine turns over and the bike appears somewhat ridable. We limp to the town of Helen and discuss our options over an early dinner. It’s obvious Pop is in no hurry to get back in the saddle and it breaks my heart to see him so defeated. We check into a nearby motel and call it a day.

There’s nothing either of us would like more than a cold beer, but in a dry town we settle for Pepsi. Pop calls Mama but neglects to mention the accident. He doesn’t want to worry her and tries to sound upbeat. The following morning Pop’s friend, Billy brings a trailer to carry the wounded home.

Day Twenty Four
Without Pop, I numbly stumble onto Highway 60, a popular stretch of undulating twists and turns following the Ocoee River to Tennessee. It’s the weekend and the churning river overflows with canoes, kayaks and tire-tubes. Numbly, I meander through hills and valleys in search of a “See Rock City” barn. Decades ago the marketing staff at Lookout Mountain painted hundreds of barn roofs in every direction with bright, bold lettering inviting travelers to “See Rock City.” Brainwashed through repetition, many found themselves there by accident. A wrong turn carries me to Alabama, where I discover one of the few originals. Another mission accomplished.

Heading north on Highway 72, bound for Memphis. A straight shot through one small town after another, including Tuscumbia, the birthplace of Helen Keller.

In Collierville, Tennessee is a historic town square where I introduce myself to Henry. A spry, eighty-year-old pump-jockey. He’s polite and willing to be included in my adventure. News apparently travels fast and I’m soon approached by a photographer requesting that he include me in the town paper.

A tempting exit takes me up a country road where I enjoy following an old GMC truck. A small girl repeatedly turns to wave through the sliding rear window, staring innocently at this bucketing motorcycle and its anonymous rider. We exchange greetings for miles until I eventually turn and watch her disappear in the mirror, still waving through the window.

A few miles later, I’m struck unaware by a heavy downpour and pull into Memphis soaked to bone.

Day Twenty Five
Exploring a Truck Wash in Arkansas, I meet Bev Gavin. “Not Beverly. Bev.” A gaunt blonde with sinewy arms, Bev’s an independent trucker from Pennsylvania with plenty of miles behind her. She’s waiting for her next load by polishing the chrome on her beautiful Kenworth. A big job for a small woman, but she appears to enjoy it. Like Pop, Bev prefers the steady pace of the highway to the shrewd politics of corporate America.

In Imboden, Arkansas I spot a sign proudly declaring “Confederate Souvenirs” and make an immediate U-turn. The owner, Roy Waggoner, is waiting out front to greet me as I rumble to a stop. A gracious man with noble Cherokee heritage, Roy taught history and coached football at Imboden High. The dime tour reveals a treasure-chest of politically incorrect items, both tacky and priceless celebrating the Confederacy. Roy’s wife “Mom” is a gentle southern woman and asks me to call when I make it to California.

Down the road in Hardy, Arkansas I’m being watched intently by a parked squad car while photographing an old gravity pump. I wave but receive no response and walk toward the officer. He doesn’t budge or roll down the window but instead maintains his unnerving stare. I’m about to knock on the window when I realize the officer is a mannequin and the car a prop, intended to slow traffic entering Main Street. Curiosity becomes embarrassment and I walk away sheepishly, hoping no one was watching.

Day Twenty Six
A billboard advertising “Livestock Auction Today! Next Exit!” catches my eye and I hit the offramp without hesitation. As in most stops, simple folk are good-natured and easily welcome the mysterious stranger into their fold. The auction’s organizers are flattered by my interest, and after a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy, I spend the morning photographing wranglers, auctioneers and a family of camera-shy Amish. At auction’s end I say goodbye and return to the highway, rocketing to Oklahoma City where I call it a day.

Day Twenty Seven
The Oklahoma City Memorial is built on the site of the Murrah Building, where 168 people lost their life in an act of terrorism. Prior to September 11, 2001, this was the largest terrorist attack in U.S. history. A home-grown attack planned and executed by Americans.

Numbed by the experience and hoping for distraction, I stop at “King of The Road” Roger Miller’s hometown, Erick, Oklahoma. An empty town oddly suiting the famous balladeer. There was apparently nothing to keep him around.

It’s a bumpy ride to Amarillo. This poorly maintained stretch of Highway 40 is riddled with cracks the size of small canyons. An obstacle course of pot-holes and discarded tire tread requiring full attention and quick reactions. When wind or traffic prevents me from avoiding them, I catch some pretty big air. Immediately pulling over to re-attach a dangling saddlebag.

Thirty miles east of Amarillo is the towering “Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Over 200 feet high, the monolith was erected by The Cross Ministries. The largest cross in the western hemisphere, surrounded by highly detailed bronze statues reenacting Christ’s trial, death and resurrection. The caretaker invites me for a ride on his golf-cart and while pointing out details of construction and intent, he mentions I can take photos, but only until I run out of film.

Silver’s running on fumes when I coast relieved into an open gas station. Welcome to Amarillo. A prison town without merit. Feeling outnumbered by wandering parolees, I look forward to my own escape.

Day Twenty Eight
After another healthy breakfast of coffee, eggs and bacon, I depart to visit famous “Cadillac Ranch” on the other side of town. The result of a creative farmer with too much time on his hands, the partially buried Caddies are now covered in graffiti from hundreds of daily visitors, only adding to its bizarre appearance.

After 6,000 miles in the saddle, my butt hurts. My fingers cramp on the tight clutch, and I’m homesick for my barstool in southern California.

I head towards Taos, New Mexico, but am confronted by lightning storms of Tolkien dimension. Sitting on the only metal object around, I turn back and stop in a hidden town called Roy to consider options over a warm patty-melt in a dusty diner. Relying on the spirited advice of local seniors, Santa Fe is chosen as my new destination.

Lightning comfortably behind, I motor through the most amazing canyon country I’ve seen thus far. New Mexico is truly a land of enchantment and it becomes quite easy to appreciate Native American mysticism.

In Santa Fe I convince a gentleman at the Welcome Center to keep an eye on Silver while I explore the spiritual vibe permeating the crisp desert atmosphere. After trading with indians, meeting a shaman and pausing at The Cathedral of Saint Assisi, I wait for my turn to view The Miraculous Staircase inside Loretto Chapel. It’s worth the wait. An engineering marvel built between 1877 and 1881 by an anonymous carpenter who quietly disappeared after answering the choir’s prayers.

Tour complete, I leave hoping to photograph a grandiose sunset at remote El Malpais National Monument. Unfortunately, the bike’s shift lever rattles off as I bounce roughly down a graded service road. Idling along in second gear, its absence went unnoticed. It’s eventually located, but daylight is lost and this is a vast reservation. Luckily, the sunset provides a light show, the stars provide an encore, and I’m not relieved to find civilization afterall.

After dining alone near anxious prom-dates, I check in to a freezing room in Gallup where trains shake the foundation as they whistle through the crossing behind the motel. Angry Navajos argue outside my window and I sleep with one eye open.

Day Twenty Nine
I arrive at Meteor Crater to view the world’s largest roadside attraction. Left behind by a close encounter fifty thousand years ago. Sitting on the edge, wind swirling around me, I reflect on the journey so far.

In a world gone mad, it was a relief to find an America unaffected by sprawl. Small towns where change is slow and the future distant. Fading relics in forgotten landscapes. Historical landmarks at every exit. Modest placards declaring favorite sons and battles won. Hand-made attractions competing with natural wonders for profit and attention.

Five hundred miles of scorching Mojave desert and tangled L.A. traffic later, I arrived back in Southern California. Dream assignment complete and rural America somewhere far behind.

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