Biker 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy: II of III

By Donny Petersen

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity... but they've always worked for me. Living on the Edge. The thrill of speed overcomes fear of death, Leaning hard into aggressive -wind, Screaming engine pulsates; throbbing below. Brothers in front and to the back of me; one, tight beside me. Straight ahead, squinting eyes, tearing, salt burning the skin, We dare not look; we feel, we hear, we sense where each of us be. Constantly, adjusting tight distances instinctively. Masters of our beasts; unified, man and machine. Lone wolves in the pack meld as one. We form as a predatory snake. Rhythmically, poetically it weaves. Effortlessly, through and around, Pugnaciously, racing in and out. Melodiously, to the music we all hear. Thundering, barking exhausts. The tune of death; the adrenaline of life, The fearsome, intoxicating dance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Oct 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228805786

Donny Petersen

no back cover author bio or author picture.

Book preview

The Trilogy: Part II of III

BIKER 101

THE LIFE OF DON

TRUE TALES OF THE

TALES I CAN TELL…

DONNY PETERSEN

________________

1% Outlaw Productions

Biker 101: The Life of Don

The Trilogy: II of III

Copyright © 2018 by Donny Petersen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, Graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Donny Petersen’s eight technical books plus Biker 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy I of III and this book, Biker 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy II of III may be ordered through booksellers:

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author or people that the author writes about.

Any people depicted in stock imagery are models, and such images are used for illustration only.

Book Genre: Memoir-Fiction; fantasy Donny Petersen rev. date 01/10/2018

ISBN

978-0-2288-0577-9 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-0576-2 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-0578-6 (eBook)

BIKER 101:

THE LIFE OF DON

Part II of III

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity…

but they’ve always

worked for me."

HUNTER S. THOMPSON,

THE STRANGE AND TERRIBLE SAGA

OF MOTORCYCLE GANGS.

Other Books by the Author

Donny’s Unauthorized Technical Guides to Harley-Davidson 1936 to Present

Volume I: The Twin Cam: 1999 to 2008

431 pages: ISBN 9780595882250 E-Book, 9780595896011 HC, 9780595439027 SC.

Volume I: The Twin Cam: 1999 to Present

708 pages: ISBN 9781450267700 E-Book, 9781450267717 HC, 9781450267724 SC.

Winner of the New York 2012 International Book Awards (New York City)

Volume II: Performancing the Twin Cam

714 pages: ISBN 9780595627974 E-Book, 9780595515165 HC, 9780595527458 SC.

758 pages Garage Copy (8.25 x11): ISBN 9781440111952 SC only.

Volume III: The Evolution: 1984 to 2000

716 pages: ISBN 9781450208192 E-Book, 9781450208208 HC, 9781450208185 SC.

Volume IV: Performancing the Evolution

718 pages: ISBN 978-1-49173-728-6 E-Book, 978-1-49173-730 9 HC, 978-1-49173-729-3 SC

Volume V: Part I of II – The Shovelhead: 1966 to 1985

749 pages: ISBN 9781475942835 E-Book, 9781475942842 HC, 9781475942828 SC.

Winner of the 2013 International Book Awards.

Volume V: Part II of II – The Shovelhead: 1966 to 1985

749 pages:ISBN 9781475973617 E-Book, 9781475973624 HC, 978147573600 SC.

Winner of the 2014 International Book Awards.

Volume VI: The Ironhead Sportster: 1957 to 1985

1026 pages: ISBN 978-1-5320 0810 8 E-Book, 978-1-5320 0811-5 HC, 978-1-5320 0809-2 SC.

Biker 101: The Life of Don: private printing; available at www.donnypetersen.com. This book is the first two published Trilogy books combined with 788 pages and 88 pictures.

Biker 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy: Part I of III: 448 pages, 44 pictures: ISBN 978-1-7751930-0-5 E-Book; 978-1-7751930-1-2 HC; 978-1-7751930-2-9 SC.

Future planned books are:

• Biker 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy: Part III of III

• The Evolution Sportster: 1986 to 2003, (rigid mounts),

• The Evolution Sportster: 2004 to Present, (rubber mounts),

• The Panhead: 1948 to 1965,

• The Knucklehead: 1936 to 1947,

• The 45 Flathead: 1929 to 1973.

Disclaimer

This book expresses the views of I, Petersen. I, Petersen do not assume and expressly disclaims any liability concerning the use of, or for damages resulting from the use of any information, advice, or recommendations within. This is not an official publication. Reference to any product, process, publication, service, or offering of any third party by trade name, manufacturer, publisher, magazine, book, or otherwise does not constitute or imply the endorsement or recommendation of such by I, Petersen, Harley-Davidson Inc. or Harley-Davidson Motor Company, H-D Michigan, Inc. and Easyriders (magazine), Paisano Publications, Inc., Agoura Hills, California, USA.

E. & O. E. (errors and omissions excepted)

Use of the word Harley-Davidson, Harley, Harleys, Victory, various model names and designations, along with trademarks and copyrights owned by Harley-Davidson, Inc., Victory or any companies owned, connected or affiliated to the foregoing are provided solely for reference, and there is no affiliation between these company(s) and I, Petersen

E. & O. E.

Care has been taken to trace ownership of copyright material contained in this book; however, I (Petersen) and the publisher will welcome any information that enables them to rectify any future reference or credit for future publications.

Contents

Other Books by the Author

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Preface

Introduction

Forward

Chapter I:   Winding up on a Motorcycle

Rod the Hat

Hatred for Jap Bikes

From a Slob to a Hard Body

Why Did I Change to a Victory Motorcycle?

Pack Riding

A Gaggle of Geese

Bike Down in the Middle of the Pack

Hitting Animals at Speed

Bears, Cows, Deer, and a The Moose’s Underbelly

My First Bikes

1959, 1200cc FLH Panhead, Handbanger, Suicide Clutch, and Deadman’s Throttle, Bagger

Indian 45, Rigid Frame, Handbanger, Suicide Clutch, Chopper

How Many Bikes have I Owned?

How Big Is a Bike Club?

1% Clubs

Non-1% Clubs

HOG

Night Wolves: Russia

Motor Maids

Chapter II:   The Enemy Within

Greed is the Enemy

Communication

The Pretenders

Riding

The Party is on the Road

Less is More ¹

The Way it Was

Bike Maintenance was Half the Fun

Times Change

Flash: Losing it All

Why’s Everybody Always Picking on Me?

If Me Now, Who will be Next?

Legitimate or Bullshit Tickets?

Carding: Intelligence Gathering

If the Public Cannot See a problem, There is No Problem

A few Reasons Why we are Picked On

Society’s Safe Bogeyman

Chapter III:   The Way it Was

I am Lucky?

Poetry in Motion

The Wild One: Birth of the One Percenter

Life Magazine Creates the Mythology

The 1% is Born

The Real Story

Never Get in the Way of a Good Story

The Bike of Choice of the Original One Percenters

Elvis Presley, Movie Stars, and Musicians

Steppenwolf

Donny’s Blasts from the Past

Then Came Bronson on a ‘69 XLH

Easy Rider: The Movie

Hunter S. Thompson

Easyriders: The Magazine

Top of the Pile

The Mask: 1985

H.O.G.

Nouveau Riders Create Problems for the Hard Core

Chapter IV:   The School Teacher and Biker Rights Advocate

Teaching

Teaching the Straights about the Counterculture and Psychedelic Drug Use

The Havana Harley Riders Club

Teaching Mechanics and Performance at my Shop

Teaching + Course Development

Biker TV

Mechanic Course Development, Authoring Licensing Exams

TV Offers

Fired for Being Me

Another Useless Court Case

The Third Judge had Nice Things to Say

Bikers Rights

The Court Case: Bending the Law like a Pretzel

Para-Dice Riders MC vs. Durham (Police)

Meetings with Police Brass … just another Liar

Superior Court of Ontario Trial

Snipers

Recording and Video Surveillance inside Court

Secret Witness: The Big Time California Rat

The Intimidator: Scratching my Nose

The Judge Ruled

My Empire Club Speech

Introduction by Gareth Seltzer

My Address to the Empire Club

Chapter V:   Tropical Paradise: Biker Style

The Story of Little Beach

The Assassination

The General

The Tarantulas

Little Beach

Morning Swim

Playing in the Traffic with the DEA and the General

Back in the DR: our Paradise

No Loud Mufflers

Dominican Jail

Casa Marina Beach Resort

Two Guns and a Machete

Riding Mount Isabella

The House of ill Repute

Rage of Jealousy: Fatal Stabbing Costs me 50 Bucks

The Doorman: Murder Cost 28K

Riding to the Haitian Slave Camp

Orange Juice: Freshly squeezed off the Tree

The Spanish Fort

Christopher, yes, that would be Columbus

The Haitian Slave Camp

Albino Blacks

The Havana Harley Riders Club

Harley Intellectual Wrestling

Pristine Antique Harley-Davidsons

Dressing for an Embassy Soiree´

Teaching the Knowledgeable

The Mob and the Dictator’s Treasure

Drinking at Meyer Lansky’s Bar

The Treasure Trove Hidden in Secret Caves

The Family Response

Chuck the Bike: Dreams and Schemes

Organizing the Construction Trades

Chuck, Wolfgang, and others Plan their Own Country

North Korea Hires Chuck to Kill the South Korean President

Look who Allegedly Supplied Chuck with Weapons?

Riding Dubai

Dubai Women

Skiing in a Burqa

Swimming

Pack ride to Oman

The Desert Sand Relentlessly Conquers All

Riding a Camel

The Ride to Abu Dhabi

The Friendly Faces of Islam

Lost in Izmir, Turkey

Abu Dhabi

The Not-so-Friendly Faces of Islam

Respect gets Respect

… and then there is Hatred

If you Look like a Victim, you Will Become One

God’s Window

Riding from Jo-burg to Durban

They will Rob at Night and you will Beg to Die in the Morn

Riding the Coast

Snakes! Guy Hates Snakes!

Mosquitos are bad Motherfuckers

Dangling your Feet in the Water

Crocs, Hippos, and Bull Sharks

Swaziland: An indomitable Zulu Country

The Zulu Wars

A Most Dangerous Ride

The Only Fear I Have is of my Wife

The Water is so Pure; it makes an Excellent Drink Regardless of the Quality of the Whiskey

The Highwayman

Built by Scoundrels and the Truly Brave

Rats

The Rickshaw Ride

Soldiers of Fortune

Hong Kong Drugging

Macau Whore House

Rio: Copacabana Beach

Shit Rolls Downhill

Gangsters Playing with the Police

Police as Gangsters

Brazilians are Outgoing and Friendly

Murder in Front of the House

Morning Smoke: Head in a Pail

Wanna Party

Curing Erectile Dysfunction: Drink the Steaming Blood of a King Cobra

The Orangutan

Horror Movie Setting

Confucius

Bangkok Nights

Venice of the East

The Sex District

Bangkok Seemed Safe Enough

Not so Safe After All

White People all Look the Same, Ugly, and they Smell

Riding Through Bangkok

Coyote and Go-Go Bars

Ladyboys: Picking the Girls from the Boys

Thai Shaming Sikh

Shaming

I was Wrong: There is No Prostitution!

Riding Elephants in the Jungle

Chapter VI:   Mountain Adventure

The Rule

Flying to Deepest Africa: Kilimanjaro

Ten Different Ways to Die Every Day

King Solomon’s Mines

The Chagga Mountain People

Getting High on Malaria

Jimmy Carter is a Great Man

Guinea Worm

Eradication

Hanging out at the Base of Killy: Banana Beer

Love at First Sight: Oh Lucky Me!

Climbing Mother God

Monkey See, Monkey Do

Tarzan, Swinging with Jungle Vines

Simple to Gourmet Mountain Food

Easy but Vigorous Climbing

Acute Altitude (Mountain) Sickness: Pulmonary and Cerebral Edemas

The Mind must take over, for the Body is Depleted

The Ascent

Bribery can Lead to Death

Leprosy

White Water Rafting in the Jungle

The Game of Chicken

Photographing a Lion up Close

Deep Sea Fishing in the Indian Ocean

Deep Sea Fishing

Giraffes on the Runway

Jungle Leopard Lost in Your House?

Street Animals

Calling the Police; Lock up the Servants

Don’t Fuck with a Maasai Woman

Zoo with no Fences

Picnicking with the Baboons

Partying with UN Soldiers from Rwanda

The Do-gooders not doing Much Good

Africa is King Solomon’s Mine

Is Travel to Exotic Places Safe?

Noah’s Ark

The Lost City of the Incas: Machu Picchu: Peru

Trekking to the Lost City of the Incas

The Mighty Condor

Trekking Into Machu Picchu

Climbing Huayna Picchu: Conquering Fear

Shining Path Guerillas: the Train Ride Back to Cuzco

Flying to Kathmandu

Gagging on Fish and Chips

Toilets, Malaria, and a Plane Crash

Death in Nepal

Kathmandu Valley: A Different World

Yak Steak

The Monkey Temple

Bhaktapur, a Medieval City of Ornate Wood

Gurkha Warriors

The Swami

Burning the Dead

Russian Military Helicopter to the Most Dangerous Airport in the World

A Fecal Experience

Yaks

Going to the Washroom

Mt. Everest: The Death Zone

The Deal: Leave the Sick or Hurt Behind

The Climb

How to Die at Altitude: My Mistakes

Lukla to Base Camp (almost)

Suspension Bridges

Rats in the Walls, Ceiling, Floors

Acclimatization: I had no Time for This

The Shit Begins to Splatter

Dying on Everest

Mountain Doctor: the Diagnosis

Saving a Blubbering, Dying Man

Stranded Mountaineers, Tibetan Refugees, and Me

Son, People Die here Everyday: No Cash, No Rescue

Death Defying Copter Rescue

Wife-3’s Comments

Who was the First to Summit Everest?

Karma: Death Rewarded by Life

Bribery and the Flight Home

Wife-3 Splits

My Marriage Failures

Republic of China: Finding Buddha in the Taroken Gorge

The Gorge is Dangerous

Buddha

Don, the Yankee Imperialist Dog!

Chiang Kai-shek

We, the Chinese Have Been at War for 5000 Years!

War Planes

Transylvania: Dracula

So off we went to Transylvania

Castle Bran: Home to Dracula

Chapter VII:   Water Adventure

Learning to Dive: Whale Sharks in the South China Sea

Go Big or Go Home

Titanic of the Caribbean

Don’t Pee in the Amazon River!

Piranha

The Willy Fish

Peeing in the Back Yard

Bahamas Shark Dive

Chapter VIII:   The Steroid Years

The 505 Club

Mr Big

Steroids Can Bring out the Worst in People

Gold’s Gym

Big Chris: Roid Rage

Randy: Gangrene in Club Fed

Gerry the Short Giant

Rob Roy: Murder for Drugs

Ole: Nordic Monster

Baby Huey

Missing Court: the Bullpen

Sven: Fear and Extortion Specialist

The Moral of the Stories

Confession Time

The Gold’s Gym Fight

The Hunt

The Fight

Chapter IX:   Tales from a Cop Bar

The Street Meat Cop and the 1%er

Cops Don’t Intimidate People; do they?

The Cop’s, Cop

The Funeral

Defending the Girls: Another Crazy

The Star: Shitting His Pants

Strip Joint Romance

Theo’s Wannabe Gangster Wife

Shitting in your Suit

Tramp

Ray’s Last Ride

Chapter X:   Taming a Low-Life Bar

The White Guys

The Brown Guys

The Black Guys

Too Many Friends

The Iranians: Taming a Bar in Dubai

Chapter XI:   Crazy Lloyd

Crazy Equals Strength

Do Not Wrestle with a Crazy

Crazy Lloyd’s Mom

The Hardest Punch

The Walk By

Who Head-Butts a Cop in the Station?

Picking on a 1% Bike Club

Twisted Thinking: Lloyd Thought I did Him Wrong

Killing Two Birds with One Stone

Magic: Brotherhood in Action

Himmler

The Street said it was On

My Secretary Lora’s Account

I met the Fists of Donny Petersen

Huey Gives Lloyd’s Young Daughter a Ride on His Back

Glossary of Street Terminology

Acknowledgements

Photo credit for front cover: Donny Petersen: Unknown, photographer, circa 1976

Photo credit for rear cover: Ace, Vagabonds MC funeral run:

Unknown photographer, 1985, copyright derivative, Donny Petersen.

Preface

Finally, a Real Biker!

I was surrounded by over 100,000 bikers, pretenders, enthusiasts, cops, and freaks at the Port Dover, Friday the 13th pilgrimage.

Every Friday the 13th, winter or summer, bikers from all over ride to Port Dover, a sleepy fishing village on the northern shore of Lake Erie. The town cannot handle this many visitors but it happens anyway. Parks, empty lots, the beach, and close by farms become tent cities.

Police have tried stopping it. The town has tried controlling this event. In the end, both the town and the provincial police now do their best to regulate the event. Police now prevent any cars coming within around ten miles of Port Dover. Only motorcycles are allowed. Main streets, side streets, and alleyways are turned into one way thoroughfares. This allows tight, angled parking on both sides. Thus, the bikes can slowly flow into and out of town. Even, with these controls, the mass pilgrimage of bikes cannot be adequately accommodated. There are motorcycles everywhere.

One Friday the 13th, I was walking up the street through the heavy crowds.

A woman behind me nervously asked if she could take a picture of my back. I said yes. She took the picture. Because I was friendly, she asked, Can I get a pic of you from the front with me beside you? I replied yes. She handed her camera to her significant other and told him to take the picture. I looked at this bird, her husband/boyfriend or whatever he was. The guy was wearing a 3-cut Sons of Anarchy back patch with all the front flashes. He took the picture; she thanked me, and exclaimed, Finally! A real biker!

Introduction

I am Not Writing about You

Sometimes, but not always, I have changed names for a variety of reasons. It may be to protect the individual from unwanted attention. Importantly, it may shield a parent, child, sibling, or close friend from embarrassment or whatever. This book is not about hurting people or their feelings. The book is about my cruises through life. I have run into many characters. You may be a character of similar nature, but this does not mean I am writing about you.

So, if I have inadvertently changed a name to yours, and you have had a similar life experience, be assured I am not writing about you.

My Beliefs and Yours

I realize my views may offend some. Let me unequivocally state that I respect those who have differing opinions, including ones of faith.

Your beliefs are yours.

My views are mine, alone.

I am not trying to push my beliefs on anyone.

Live your own life; I will live mine.

Develop your own truths.

Many times I use Street Slang of the Day

Do not be offended by the terms homos, queers, dykes, sexist language, and all the rest. I do it on purpose because that is how people spoke back in the day.

Forward

On police wiretaps, I had said I did not like snitches. This was proof of my bad intents; my being outside the law.

The prosecutor was all over me.

Not so, said I.

Would you rat on a fellow prosecutor? I asked rhetorically.

Police officers hate those that snitch on their own. Doctors protect doctors. Priests do back flips not reporting their own sexual predators. Did not Jesus himself recoil when turned in by Judas for mere pieces of silver! Nobody in our society likes snitches.

I continued, If one of the ‘Good People’, it is okay, even honorable to protect your own. If one of the bad guys, it becomes proof of your criminality.

I had him trapped.

The judge, who was against me bristled in anger.

Did it do our cause any good? Nope.

Donny Petersen.

CHAPTER I

Winding up on a Motorcycle

If I had not been friends with Rod the Hat, I would have never owned nor rode a motorcycle; never been in a 1% bike club, never have owned my bike shop, and I would never have had the expertise to write all of my technical books, nor this one.

Furthermore, I would have never gone through my Horrific Bike Crash, been arrested, or almost murdered numerous times.

I could have also wound up splitting hairs in postgraduate university programs in a sea of mediocrity and boredom.

I am grateful that Rod the Hat got me drunk and conned me into buying a motorcycle. The people I have met and the times I have experienced because of this have been mostly wonderful.

Me and Rod the Hat: 1968 ¹

Every weekend, we would ride our bikes up to cottage country north of Toronto. We drank a whole lotta warm wine and beer. I prided myself in stacking four 24’s (4 cases of 24 bottled beers each) on the gas tank of my bike at the beer store and riding back to where we were partying. I had to angle my head out to see the road in front of me. I am twenty-one in this picture. Rod the Hat is about four years older. How we did not die that summer is beyond me. Riding our bikes as fast as they would go constantly playing chicken with each other and the traffic was the order of the day.

The ignorant are blessed, sayeth The Don.

Rod rented a house when most of us were still living at home. He lived there with his old lady and his rescued dog, Max. He rented out the surplus rooms to a cast of changing characters. His furniture was unique. Rod did not like to take his empties back to the beer store. Instead, he used the twenty-four bottle cases with the empty bottles as furniture stanchions. He simply put a piece of plywood or cushions on them to make tables or seats.

We drank all day at the kitchen table. Those who smoked dope, smoked their dope.

Dakin was ex-military. He had acquired brain damage along the way; or maybe he was a little tetched (mentally ill). No matter, we were very accepting. Dakin would get drunk, start puling out guns, and tell the nearest person to blindfold him. His ritual had begun. He then dismantled the guns, scrambled all the parts, and then invited someone to re-scramble them. We did it to appease him. He then expertly, found each part by feel and proudly reassembled the weapons. We watched this almost every day, sometimes more than once a day. We ignored his antics as he could not see our disinterest. We continued talking about whatever we talked about.

One day, we had been drinking most of the afternoon. Dakin was sitting there in a stupor. All of a sudden, he jumped up, swearing at Rod.

You’re pissing on my leg, you fucker!

No, I am not.

Yes, you are, you bastard.

By now, they were both standing, accusing and denying, seemingly ready to start swinging. Rod did something to get Dakin riled up every day. It was part of the entertainment. They never hit each other.

Everyone started laughing as usual. Rod and Dakin cooled a bit, sat down and spent the next hour arguing whether Rod had relieved himself on Dakin’s leg. However, it was Dakin’s left leg that was soaked. Furthermore, Rod was sitting to Dakin’s immediate right. All I have to say, is that Dakin’s leg was indeed, soaked.

I am not sure why, but decades later, I asked Rod if he did indeed piss on Dakin’s leg?

That fucker pissed himself and tried to blame it on me, Don.

Never ask a solid, street person to rat himself out. A confession will never happen.

So, who knows? Would Rod piss on his leg? If bored, and wanting to get Dakin going, to liven things up, I think so.

Would Dakin piss himself and try to hide this by blaming someone else? Again, I think so.

So who knows … and who cares? It was good for a laugh no matter what happened.

In those days, The Beer Store would pick up empties and give refunds.

Rod says, When I moved, I called the beer store. They came and picked up the empties. Not only that but the return refund had doubled in the meantime, so I doubled my refund money. They then delivered beer to my new place so I could start my furniture replacements.

Rod the Hat

The Hat, as he was known by all, wore a fedora 24/7. No one knew why. No one had ever seen Rod without his hat on. We accepted this and made jokes about it but Rod would never take the hat off. If you were looking for a fight, trying to sneak a look at Rod without his hat would certainly start one.

I knew Rod for about 40 years before I saw what he really looked like with his hat removed. The reason he wore a hat became immediately evident. The curse, he was covering became a blessing later on.

He was, and still is a charmer and a talker. The Hat could talk anyone into anything especially after a few beers were consumed. He had an English motorcycle. In those days, there were not many Japanese bikes, not that we would ride one. Why not? Looking back, there was no reason. It was just an unspoken rule. People mostly rode Triumphs, Snortin’ Nortons, Indians, and Harley-Davidson. The Hat wanted others to get bikes. We had no money and less desire. A bike was a foreign object. The Hat decided I should get one. I said no and that was that. The Hat persisted. I dug my heels in.

One Saturday, Rod wanted to go drinking, which is what we did every Saturday. We went downtown to a tough beer joint that would serve me and another friend Noel, underage. As always, after a few beers, Rod began talking about how much fun a motorcycle was. He said he would teach me to ride. The more I said no, the more persistent he became. I had zero money. Rod the Hat knew of a dealership that would sell to us without parental consent. Once we were drunk all things became possible.

The next thing I knew, we were at the dealership. I was drunk with no money and no credit. A contract was drawn up, I signed it and I became a proud owner of a bike.

I required financing. I was still in school, living at home. I had my part time jobs but that would not pay for a motorcycle. My friend Noel had an idea. We went together to a bank. Noel presented some IBM stocks that he had as collateral. I still needed a cosigner for my loan. Noel cosigned for me. A while later, Noel saw how much fun we were having and bought one also. I cosigned his loan for him.

We became the proud owners of a 650cc Triumph single carburetor Trophy (me) and Noel, a 650cc Triumph dual carburetor Bonneville.

I went with Rod to pick up my new bike.

Another first time rider was picking up his bike just before me. The salesman asked if he knew how to ride. The new rider got angry and mounted his bike. It was not cool to admit you did not know anything back then. We charged blindly forth.

Even I knew, this tough guy couldn’t ride. He got on the bike, gave the throttle a handful, popped the clutch, and up the front end went as he did a perfect but unintentional wheelie across the parking lot and through a hedge.

After a while of laughing, the salesman pulled my bike out front. He asked if I could ride. What the fuck’s your problem, Rod belligerently interjected. Of course, Don can ride!

So, there I was. No one cared if you were too drunk to ride back then. No license was required and helmet laws were nonexistent. Rod rode the bike to his house. My lessons started the next day in a parking lot.

After a week or three, I proudly rode my bike home. My mother almost fainted. She was beside herself. There was no way she wanted her son on a motorcycle. They were too dangerous.

My father disallowed me to have a bike, Next thing you know, you will be wearing a black leather jacket! The dominant local club, The Black Diamond Riders was in the news on a regular basis, fighting all who dared. Already, bikes and bikers had a bad reputation.

I walked to a closet in the basement and pulled out my dad’s black leather bomber jacket from World War II. Put that back! The war was different. He kicked me out of the house. This was the first and only time I got kicked out. A few days later, my mother cajoled him into letting me back in. The bike stayed. If I had realized how much worry I caused them, I probably would have given the bike up.

Three years later, I was in a 1% bike club. My father was right. I had my black leather jacket.

Rod the Hat was always around the club but he never joined. Almost thirty years later, Rod approached me one day and asked if I would sponsor him. I almost fell over.

What the fuck you talking about Rod? You are too old and you want to become a One Percenter? No man, it is too hard. You are too used to getting your own way. You cannot charm and manipulate the membership. They will eat you alive when you try. There is no game you can play that they haven’t seen a hundred times.

Don, I have decided I want to try. You guys are my family.

Why didn’t you figure that out before?

I knew how to talk him out of it. I said, Rod, you will have to take the hat off.

So, Rod took his hat off. It is the first time I or anyone else had seen what he really looked like. He looked twenty years younger. This was his blessing. The curse was looking super young when he was a teenager. We all wanted to look older.

I thought the joining process would kill Rod. He worked like a dog. I had never seen this side of Rod. Slowly, but surely he gained the membership’s respect, which was no easy task.

However, old habits die slowly. Whenever I caught Rod charming and manipulating his way through a day at the clubhouse, I would pull him aside and tell him to stop.

The members would laugh and tell me to let him be. They saw through every move. Normally, they would not think this funny. Usually, someone conning them would bring swift and stiff retribution.

One week, Rod was not around.

In the club, there are only two excuses, jail or the hospital.

Rod finally showed up. A member asked where he had been. Rod replied that he hadn’t been feeling well. Not feeling well is not a good excuse.

Rod never lies. However, he will let your mind interpret his truthful words into a mistruth. He was the master of manipulation; everywhere except here.

Rod shuffled around, cleaning and tidying up. Finally, a member noticed a wristband on Rod’s wrist and asked what it was. Rod replied that it was nothing. Another member walked over and looked at the wristband. It was a patient’s hospital wristband.

Why didn’t you tell us?

Rod nonchalantly said, I did tell you; I wasn’t feeling well.

Rod was temporarily forgiven for not being around.

I was smiling.

A suspicious member, Joey saw this. He went and looked at the date on the wristband. It was three years old. I was laughing. This was pure Rod.

The members got angry, then smiled, then everyone started laughing. Rod had gotten away with it again.

That day Rod the Hat was renamed to Rod the Fraud.

I loved the new name but it hurt Rod’s feelings. He asked me on the side not to call him that anymore.

I have not since. I did not know Rod had feelings.

His antics never stopped, once Rod became a member. His dry humor had us laughing when least expecting it.

One meeting night, Rod was called up to pay some late dues. He had done this on purpose. For some reason, he did not want to pay in full. All the members were now watching. He peeled off three fifties and laid them on the table. The treasurer reached out; Rod, deftly pulled two of the fifties back. The president asked why he did not pay all the money? Rod slid the two fifties into a waiting pocket as he glibly replied, You don’t want three fifties with the same serial number do you? There is always a lag time for the laughter, Rod’s delivery is so perfect.

Another time, Rod was pulled over in his car by two undercovers. They knew who Rod was and Rod knew who they were. The dance began.

May I have your paperwork sir?

Why are you pulling me over officer? I was not doing anything.

There was a holdup down the street. You fit the description of the robber as does your car. This is typical of the bullshit reasons, cops sometimes give when they have no right to stop you.

I do not rob banks; that is not my profession.

What do you do then?

I am a drug dealer!

Do you have any drugs in the car?

Do you have any money, officer?

Here is your paperwork. Get the fuck out of here Rod

Only Rod can pull this stuff off. Anyone else would be lying face down on the pavement and getting his vehicle torn apart.

Hatred for Jap Bikes

Why did we hate Japanese bikes and their riders so? No good reason, I can think of today. It was just the way it was. The hatred was not one way. Japanese and Euro bike riders hated us also. They eschewed our lifestyle. They were the good guys and we were the bad guys.

Today, I respect all on two wheels. Back then, we only respected guys like us; even then, we easily found reasons to dislike someone. We were locked into a mind set that I view as unreasonable in the extreme today.

Japanese bikes were superior quality, faster, better handling, and less expensive. Maybe hatred was our only defense.

As I said, they were faster but if one passed any of us on the highway, it was an all out one-sided war. Members would ride up beside them and try to side kick the rider off their bike or both rider and bike off the roadway at speed.

We ignored these people in gas stations. I am sure they were happy to be ignored.

If a Japanese rider was foolish enough to show up at one of our field parties, his bike invariable wound up fueling the campfire to our howls of derision and laughter.

One time, we were hanging out on the grass beside the public lift lock on a canal joining two lakes, in a town called Fenelon Falls. The afternoon sun was hot as we drank our ever present bottles of beer. A Japanese bike rider rode up and started conversation with some of the guys. Most of us, including me just ignored this foolish fellow.

Paul, nicknamed Sun God was talking to him about bikes. Paul asked if could take the guy’s bike for a short ride to try it out. In our subculture, one never lent his bike nor asked someone to ride their bike. Your bike was worth more than human life.

The Japanese rider agreed. He showed Paul how to start his bike and the transmission shift pattern. Little did the guy know that Paul could ride like the wind.

Sun God was sitting on the idling bike. He slowly took off, getting a feel for the bike. He gradually and nonchalantly turned the bike towards the water. We all watched with great interest. The entertainment had started. We did not know what Sun God was going to do but we knew he was gonna do something.

With the front wheel and aligned motorcycle now pointed towards the water, Paul gave it a handful and popped the clutch. He popped a perfect wheelie. The bike gained speed on its rear wheel. Paul jumped off the back just as the bike wheelied into the deep canal (lock).

Sun God looked at the hapless rider and murmured, Sorry, man. Our gales of laughter drowned him out.

From a Slob to a Hard Body

At age thirty-three, I was fat at 275 pounds and a chain smoker (two large packs a day) so, I decided to get fit. I quit smoking, cold turkey. I began to walk and then lift weights. Big and strong was the mantra back then. Now, I know a fighting skill and the severe exercise that these skills base on is the way to go. I can be a slow learner. Big muscles make one feel tough; they also make most people think you are tough. The truth is that you have no wind and no skill; big muscles get in the way of coordinated movement. When I started boxing at age 61, I had to lose fifty pounds so I could touch my elbows in front of my body to block punches.

At my peak, weightlifting, I weighed 250 pounds. Was it good for me? If I had have done juice like most of my gym friends, I would not be writing this book. Because I did not fall into the steroid trap, yes weightlifting was good in the sense, I was exercising instead of laying on a couch like some of my other friends.

Boxing or what is more important, the boxercise that goes with it is a panacea for so many ills. Aerobic (breathing) health, coordination, flexibility, balance, and yes useable strength through resistance training (pushups etcetera) helps fend off old age and many of the diseases that develop over time. Blood pressure and cholesterol controls through natural means … and on it goes.

I have lost fifty pounds, transitioning from a heavy weightlifter to boxing, where big muscles just get in the way. I am age sixty-four in the picture on page 56.

My current boxing coach says he wishes he had me to teach when I was fifteen years old. I coulda been a somebody.

No, I replied, I would have hurt or killed someone, wound up in jail for long stretches, or been killed myself.

Killed?

Yeah, when too tough, there is only one way for others to beat you.

Why Did I Change to a Victory Motorcycle?

Uh, oh! Here I go. Please excuse the vitriol.

I have never disliked Harley the motorcycle, even though I should have with the multitude of breakdowns even brand new Harleys suffered in the old days.

However, I have never liked H-D, the business because of the way they look down their noses at the 1% clubs that made their brand famous. Does anyone doubt that if the 1% clubs had chosen Indian as their brand of choice, if Harley would still be in business? The original Indian Motorcycle Manufacturing Company would never have gone out of business.

The bike designs, the marketing, H.O.G. all feed off the outlaw lifestyle.

I believe that H-D, the business, stole the outlaw lifestyle, rebranded it into a safe walk on the mild side; copied the patches, the clothing, copyrighted the language, and on it goes. Think I am kidding? Where did the terms Wide Glide, Fatbob, Ape Hangers, etcetera come from? If you have ever been to a H.O.G. Rally, compare their bike events with the original Field Days I describe in this book. The only difference is that their events are safe.

The other side of my personality understands all of the above. If I were in their position and not a 1%er, Don the businessperson, would have done the same things, more or less.

I am always buying my last bike. This time was no different. I thought I would buy a 2015 CVO, 110 cubic inch, top of the line Harley. So, I went to a huge bike show in Toronto to make my last purchase. I did not like the paint schemes but I knew that would be the case before I went. I picked one out and looked at the price tag. The price was obscene. The salesperson was breathing gleefully down my neck. He knew I could write the check. I turned on him.

Are you fucking kidding me, this is a motorcycle not an exotic sports car.

I spewed a few insults, then caught myself.

Sorry man, I know you just work here. I didn’t mean to go off on you.

Just then, a beautifully painted translucent, green Bagger in the distance caught my eye. I walked over. It was a Ness Victory Magnum. I asked if I could sit on the bike. A 1%er will always ask as we have respect for machines we do not own. The answer was affirmative. The center of gravity was lower. I could move it easily back-and-forth with my knees. It was comfortable. The seat was low. The obvious design was by Arlen Ness, the top Harley customizer of all time. The bike was slightly bigger than the biggest Harley but it was 70 pounds lighter. The other Harley riders started to pick it apart because it was not clunky looking like what they were used to.

Everyone likes a deal, especially me. The bike was reasonably priced almost 40% cheaper than the overpriced Harley I had just looked at. Wow!

Could it be that this staunch Harley loyalist was going to ride another American made bike. I decided to sleep on it. I went to the dealership a few days later. I liked the bike even more. I decided to sleep on a pending decision again. The more I looked and learned the more I talked myself into buying it. This is from a guy that has owned and ridden hundreds of Harleys from Thailand, to South Africa, to the Middle East, to Russia, to all parts Europe, many times, across North America, and finally South America. Oh yeah, never mind the times I have ridden across Canada, always on a Harley, that is until 2015.

After I bought and started riding the Victory Magnum, I realized that I had a superior handling, better braking, and slightly faster motorcycle for an okay price.

I won’t even talk about the nine speaker, 200 watt audio system.

Do I still ride Harleys? Sure I do, I love them. I ride a Harley on every riding trip I go on outside of North America. The brand has made huge leaps forward with handling and braking. Harley is still a pleasure for me to ride.

Me, with my Current Motorcycle, a Victory Magnum ²

Pack Riding

Death is omnipresent for the true 1%er. Brothers and supporters die all the time. Even if reaching old age, death will usually come as a result of the lifestyle.

I stopped tattooing the names of fallen brothers on my arm. After a few years, it became apparent that I would run out of space.

Aggressive bike riding takes its toll. However, I am truly amazed that with the thousands of pack rides in the fast lane I have participated in that I have never been a victim of a mass collision. This is not to say they do not happen but they are rare … why? I have no idea.

One year’s Graveyard Run was fraught with close calls. At the time, the run was about 200 miles long but most of it was through the city. Today’s Graveyard Runs can be more dangerous because there is so many new people of varying rider experience and skill. Before the popularity of Harley and the new influx of membership, club members were generally lifers.

We were suspicious of new people. One time, we decided that we had too many friends. We went six years without accepting a new striker on our membership program.

We rode a lot and we did this together much of the time. We became expert at riding two abreast, in tight formation, at high