The motorcycles were the main attraction: backed into place, shoulder to shoulder, their chromed front ends challenged each other across the busy street. The Harleys posed like chained mastiffs, just waiting their masters' signal.
Harley-Davidson ruled. There were some magnificently equipped Honda Gold Wings, BMWs, Triumphs, and lesser lights, but few eyes paused. The Harley look dominated. Try as they might, no motorcycle company had ever approached Harley-Davidson's appeal.
The attraction was a little difficult to explain. Other machines could claim equal or better mechanics, and every conceivable shape had been tried and was probably present at Daytona.
Many of the Harleys were old bikes like Dog's. Mechanically and technically they were dinosaurs. The old knuckle, flat, pan, and shovel head engines leaked oil, fouled plugs, and required constant tinkering and puttering.
Yet, they had the look. They felt like real motorcycles, and most of all they had the sound A Honda whispered with car-like quiet. Triumphs could be made to spit and pop, but a Harley . . . the big twin "V" engines, ancient as the design might be, sounded their beast-like thunder at some primal level and tempo that grabbed a rider's guts and never let go. Everyone, no matter what they rode, understood the hunger for a Harley-Davidson.
The Harley camaraderie was, of course, unique. Honda, Suzuki, Kawasaki and other Rising Sun companies had their clubs and aficionados, but Harley drew from countless wells. Yuppies wore Harley-Davidson clothing and rode Sportsters; a few straddled big twins. People who never rode had Harley T-shirts and Harley-Davidson decals in their rear windows. Harley riders formed brotherhoods that spread tentacles nationwide, and the hottest selling exports to Europe were customized Harley-Davidsons.
Customizing was special to Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Other makes sold a little chrome and a few do-dads. After market Harley parts and equipment were flourishing industries. Shops across the nation specialized in engine modifications, chromed pieces, and exotic paint jobs. A few places did it all.
At least five magazines—Easyriders, In The Wind, Harley Women, American Iron, and The Enthusiast—pumped Harley riding. The big annual powwow at Daytona epitomized Harley-Davidson. Exciting, adventurous, sometimes outrageous, Bike Week drew the brothers. How much you made or how famous your name was likely to compare poorly with what you rode and where you rode it.
The kings of the Harley fraternity were the old guard, long on the road riders like Old Dog Carlisle. If it had been done, they had been there. Once there had been an older generation that had ridden the earliest of motorcycles, but they were about gone now. The old regulars were now in their fifties, and few, like Old Dog, more than that. Not all old bikers were widely known-many stayed home and rode locally.
The roamers saw a lot of byways and attended many rallies, races, and campings. They were the Harley-Davidson elite, although few of them gave a hoot in hell about the bestowed fame. Doing was important. Their machines held interest, and memories were their crown jewels. What was next hung in the wind for all of them: Rolling Thunder in Washington DC . . . 40,000 riders would show up; Americade in New York—a lot would share with the Mom and Pop Gold Wings; then the hoopla of Sturgis in August—everyone wanted to make Sturgis.
Tim began to believe every biker in the world knew his Uncle Dog. Hairy, tattooed, leathered men wrapped arms around Old Dog in bear hug greeting or exuberantly high fived or perhaps just gripped hands in lengthy memory sharing.
Their progress along Main Street was less than a crawl. A lady with many fringes on her jacket and chaps scrubbed Timmy's hair into a snarl, exclaiming, "Hey, Little Dog. Haven't seen you since Jake and I stopped by your place."
Tim could not remember her, but she said he had grown a lot. If they hadn't seen a kid in six months or so, everybody said that. Everybody also scrubbed kids' heads. It was the thing to do, he guessed.
Timmy did like being called Little Dog. Not many called him that, and his mother hated it.
He wondered how he could get the nickname permanent-like. Uncle Dog didn't seem to mind. Sometimes they were called "Old Dog and Young Dog. Tim liked Little Dog best.
After a while, Old Dog suggested that Tim go look at bikes. He would be talking along the street. If Tim couldn't find him, they'd meet where planned in an hour. Tim liked that better. There were things to see and hear.
Leather shops were booming. They opened for the week—then went home. Pins and T-shirts were sold everywhere. Drinking places had hard looking guys in the doorways beside signs that announced, "No Colors and No Attitudes." Colors meant club insignia, of course. There were clubs and even gangs that waged constant battle. During Bike Week, Daytona Beach was declared neutral ground by mutual consent as well as police enforcement, and trouble was rare. There was less violence and fewer accidents than occurred during Spring Break, or Speed Week when cars raced. The bikers were louder, but rarely obstreperous.
Timmy saw motorcycles that boggled his mind. One big Harley was one hundred percent chrome plated. The ultimate chrome job, the machine was greatly admired, but he also heard, "I wonder if anyone ever sat on the seat." A voice suggested the engine never got turned over, and another added, "If that bike got caught in the rain, the owner would die." Different strokes for different folks applied to Harley-Davidsons.
Old Dog had little use for Harley Sportsters. Dog said that most Sportster riders wished they had a big twin, or they rode sportsters because they were afraid of a real road machine.
Tim liked them just the same. A little smaller in most ways, Sportsters could be purchased with the biggest of engines. Although rough on the butt for lengthy trips, Sportsters handled quicker than their big brothers. For smaller riders, Sportsters made sense. Tim guessed he would start with one.
Old Dog found a seat on Black John's panhead and decided to stay there. His legs felt a little puny and sitting was better.
During a break in conversation he asked, "Anybody remember a rider called Hunch that was around back in the early eighties?"
One guy did. "I try to forget him, Dog. Hunch was dirty. I figure he killed a kid for his ride."
The listeners were attentive, Old Dog among them.
"You remember that ghost town we hung out in one summer, the one up above Silver City?"
"Yeah, it's a tourist trap now."
"You mean like Daytona Beach?" They shared laughter.
"A young guy named Bidwell showed up with a hell of a bike. If a piece could be chromed, it had been. It made everybody drool.
"The kid was quitting, going home to Lincoln, Nebraska.
"Hunch wasn't popular, and the brothers were hinting he should move on. Hunch left with the kid. Next time I saw Hunch was in L. A. He was riding the kid's Harley. Claimed he bought it with his old bike in trade.
"Well, could be. The kid was quitting the road, but Bidwell loved his machine. Anyway, a year later I was in Lincoln, so for the hell of it I looked up the Bidwell family."
The rider paused adding tension to his story. "The kid had never come home."
A listener said, "Holy hell! "
Another said, "Still, he could have . . ."
The storyteller interrupted. "That isn't the end of it. A month or two later, I was eating in a beanery along I-90 and what pulls up is Hunch's old shovel.
"I made talk, and the rider told me how he'd bought the shovel from Hunch because Hunch had a new machine. The guy described the kid's Harley clear to the axles. Fellow's name was Bates out of Denver. I made it a point to remember.
The silence was a little shocked.
"You report it?"
"Naw. I don't know Hunch's name, and it was a cold trail. Family might have listened, but I just let it go."
"Why're you asking about a foul ball like that, Dog?"
"Just wondering where he'd gone to."
A rider laughed, "Stool will know."
"Yeah, anybody seen Stool?"
"He's around. Saw him in the Easyriders store last evening."
; Old Dog figured Stool might have some Hunch news. Stool absorbed biker information like a computer and never seemed to forget anything.
Dog had a reason for asking, although it had nothing to do with his own encounter long years back with the rider called Hunch.
Chapter 11
They had been easy riding up in Oregon, just seeing country and checking things out. Running back south on Route 101 they had cut off at Garberville and headed west to the ocean. They set up camp on the black sand edging Bear Harbor. Out of nowhere, Hunch came tooling in on a tired-looking shovelhead.
Hunch's tanks had marijuana leaves painted crudely on each side, which few riders thought was either sensitive or wise. Hunch was loud and braggy, and his welcome turned cold before his engine. Most brothers blended in, but Hunch was about as comfortable to be around as barbed wire.
Old Dog had been decades on the road, and his experience in judging strangers had passed from a tentative maybe to almost a sure thing. Dog suffered immediate distrust of the new arrival. He kept his greeting reserved and made no attempt to draw Hunch closer.
Hunch claimed to be from New England, but his accent was South Texas. A lot of brothers fudged on who they were or where they were from, so no one cared.
The stranger had money and flashed it obnoxiously. His talk was crude, and his attempts at jokes were forced efforts that invariably fizzled.
The man was also an interrupter. In the middle of another's yarn, Hunch would butt in with barely relevant trivia that was intended to demonstrate his familiarity with the topic. The guys endured because allowing a man to be himself was part of the informal creed. Bikers came in all persuasions, and to get along they learned to grant more than a little slack.
Then Hunch began getting on Little Pat. That was easy because Pat was small and timid. In pick-up ball, Pat would have been the last chosen. He rode his Sportster poorly and was always out on the fringe of things, sort of just hanging on. But, Little Pat was gentle and decent. From just being around he had become one of the bunch, sort of an unofficial mascot.
When Hunch started bugging Little Pat he looked around for group approval. He got none but kept on anyway. Hunch had been in camp only half an evening, and he was already close to eviction.
Hunch settled in for serious badgering. Pat's Sportster was a baby's machine; Pat's glasses came from Coke bottles; Hunch thought Little Pat's father might have been Italian because Pat's arms looked like spaghetti sticks.
Old Dog suffered Hunch's braying laughter through more than a few bullying commentaries. Brothers shifted uneasily, and Little Pat's pained embarrassment grew difficult to endure.
As the old guy on the ride, Dog had been up front, sort of leading, but there was no appointed chief. Still, eyes began slanting in his direction, and Old Dog guessed he was the one who ought to speak up.
When he had had enough, Dog kept a leash on his feelings, but he made his words bite. He had learned long before, maybe as far back as the Korean War, that it was best to have things clear and straightforward, misunderstandings were fewer, and trouble could sometimes be averted.
He said, "Back off, Hunch. Little Pat's a friend of long standing. We like him the way he is. If you don't, just hit the road."
It would have helped if a few others had voiced their own displeasure, but Old Dog was not surprised when they didn't. It was human nature to let someone else bear the burden. If things got physical, brothers would be all over Hunch, but for the moment they only watched.
For an instant, Hunch appeared stunned. Then his big jawed face began reddening, and he swelled his shoulders making himself appear more formidable.
Hunch was big enough to be intimidating. Probably still in his twenties, a fortyish gut hung over his belt, but he had weight and youth on his side. Big handed and as tall as most, Hunch did not see a lot of trouble in one gray haired oldster sitting sideways on a shovelhead's saddle.
"Who in hell are you to tell me what to do?" Hunch balled his fists.
Dog said, "I'm speaking for everybody. Shut up or ride out." Nods supported Old Dog's right, but Hunch was concentrating on the speaker.
"I don't take s--- from nobody, old man. I ride where I want and say what I want."
Old Dog appeared unperturbed. "That's nice to hear. Real powerful words."
Someone snickered. Hunch heard it, and his eyes meaned down. He made his voice menacing. "You're crowding the wrong guy, old man." He made "old man" sound like an insult.
Old Dog got down to business. His left hand pointed to the only road in or out. "You've used up all the good will we've got, Hunch. Ride out now, or we will dump you and your shovel into the harbor. Then we'll ride out and leave you." Others added, "That's right" and "get going."
Hunch got going . . . straight at his tormentor. His big fists were chest high for punching, and his thick featured head led his charge.
In California, nobody wore helmets, but long riders, who crossed many states and encountered many laws, carried them, usually strapped behind their saddles. Old Dog's black bullet helmet was already unfastened and close to his right hand. When Hunch started, Dog came off the seat, the hard plastic shell in his grip. He swung it close in and fast. Hunch was too late seeing it coming.
Old Dog's aim was right. The helmet's impact along Hunch's skull sounded like the thing had been dropped on concrete. Its solid thunk made men wince. Little Pat almost cried out.
Hunch's ferocious attack ended abruptly. No momentum carried him forward. He appeared to have stepped into an invisible wall.
Fists still raised, Hunch sunk onto his knees. His eyes were a little unfocused, but he did not collapse.
Old Dog took a close look, said, "Oh hell," and brought the helmet around in a wicked back hand against Hunch's forehead. Hunch's head rocked back on his neck, but he again did not fall. Old Dog gave him another, about where the first one had landed.
This time Hunch went. He started forward, but Old Dog's foot shoved him sideward, so he would not bury his face in the sand. Hunch's thick legs slid a little, allowing the unconscious body to flop onto a shoulder.
Old Dog rehung his helmet on the saddle back and straddled his cycle. A brother came close to have a look. "Out cold." That seemed a bit obvious, and a few riders said so.
Dog fired up and pulled his Harley a few yards away. It left Hunch's carcass lying alone.
Someone suggested, "Throw a bucket of water on him."
A voice laughed, "Now who in hell carries a bucket along?"
Old Dog said, "Let him be for a minute." He again got his helmet and walked the few steps to the beach. He waited for the right wave and filled the helmet with sea water. He came back and sat the helmet down and waited.
"Maybe he's dead."
"If he is, we'll take him in and claim he fell off his scooter."
"Yeah, everybody will be happy to believe that. Half the people wish we'd all wreck."
"He isn't dead. Hell, can't you see him breathing?"
"You have to look awful close."
A rider said, "I like Hunch a lot better when he's unconscious."
"Why don't you douse him now, Old Dog?"
"You've seen too many movies. It works a lot better if you don't hurry waking up. I'll dump on him once he starts moving."
"Where'd he come from, anyway?"
"His Harley was parked by a building in Whitethorn. Didn't you see it, for god's sake?"
"I was looking at the girls on the porch."
"The ones who were admiring me?"
"No, those were the grandmas. I mean the daughters." Hunch's still form was receiving little respect.
Hunch's leg twitched, then an arm moved. A brother said, "Watch him, Old Dog, he might have a piece."
Dog said, "You're right." He went over and gave Hunch's pockets a few squeezes.
Another rider poked in Hunch's saddlebags. "Nothin' in here, unless it's real small, Dog."
Hunch began sitting up. Old Dog poured the water over his head, and the man
shook himself like a soaked hound.
When he began looking around, Old Dog said, "Take your time. When you are ready, ride out." Hunch did not respond.
Dog took a friend aside. "How about you riding into Whitethorn right now. If this jazbo gets a rifle or looks like he's considering getting even, we ought to know."
"Right." The rider headed for his putt.
A brother had hauled an AR-7 survival rifle from his saddlebag. He looked questioningly at Old Dog.
Dog nodded, "Good idea."
A semi-automatic. 22 caliber, the AR-7 stored itself within its own plastic stock. Its owner slapped the pieces together and waited as Hunch struggled to his feet. Hunch shook his head again as though to clear cobwebs and started to speak.
The rifle owner snapped a half dozen rapid fire rounds into the bay, their stinging reports freezing Hunch's unspoken words.
Riders closed in around Hunch, although Old Dog did not bother.
One gave the still groggy biker an ungentle shove toward his Harley.
"Don't talk, just ride out."
Another added, "And keep going, Hunch. We don't want to hear you coming back."
Hunch's glare was for Old Dog, but he got astride and rode out without defiant words. After a while his motor sound faded in distance.
The peace of their camp had been shattered, and it wasn't the same. Night was close, however, so they would stay.
One suggested, "Let's ease back north to Shelter Cove tomorrow."
The plan met with approval.
Little Pat was even quieter than usual. Old Dog went over and sprawled on an elbow beside him.
"Don't let it get you, Pat. That Hunch is a no good bastard."
The gentle man was still mortified. "I'd give anything to be able to stand up to people like that, Old Dog, but I can't. I never can. I get weak I'm so scared, and I can't make myself do anything."
Dog thought it over for a minute. "Nothing you could do, Pat. If you were a get-even guy you could stick a blade in Hunch while he was asleep." Little Pat shuddered. "Seeing you're not, I figure you'd best try to let it roll off you like water off a duck's back. Hard to do, of course."
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