I think in one of my earlier missives, I might have mentioned that I like adventures, and as such, my wanderings on motorcycles became just that, a ride to another adventure, or even the bridge from adventure to adventure. One of my many faults is that I became a creature of habit and as such, do certain things not out of any sense of need, but rather because that’s what I’ve always done.

One of the three things I was gifted, mechanical aptitude, for lack of a better way to say it, always kept me in work when I wanted it. And so when I needed to gather a mound of traveling cash, with my rep as a Harley mechanic, I could just about guarantee myself a job. Well, with my references and abilities, the problem wasn’t procuring the job, it was convincing the proprietor of the Harley Shop that I would be there long enough to make it worth his while, or at least long enough to clean up his backlog of motorcycles to be repaired. After the references and whatever discussion my qualifications required, the conversation usually went something like this:

“So Mr….Puppy??? When can you start?”

“Oh…tomorrow morning early enough?”

“Good! Good. So then I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, Sir, there’s only one thing I’d like to kind of discuss, say, before I commit.”

“Oh? And…?”

“Well, you going to let me off for Sturgis next year, or do I have to…you know… quit?”

“Isn’t that…where you just came from?”

“Well, sure. Haha.”

“That’s a whole year away. Why don’t we come back to this later on in the year?”

“Nah. I’d rather get it out of the way now. That way I can concentrate on my work and not worry about it, ’cause I’m going. I’ve been going for blank amount of years.”

“Well, ok. Um…how long would you be gone for?”

“Let me see…about a week to get there, a week there and say…about four weeks, and maybe I could you know, trim it to three if I absolutely had to, but I’d say four.”

“Damn.” I can see exasperation setting in. From there on it became either an argument or resignation, but I usually got the job. Nobody wanted me working for their competition, and for your info, I only work on HD oriented motorcycles or Indian, old or new.

One of the best letters of recommendation I ever got, I carried around on the road with me till it nearly turned to dust. It said; “Robert ‘Puppy’ DeGroat is well versed in all aspects of Harley Davidson sales and service, works well with customers and while he was under our employ, he developed quite a following.”. Couldn’t lose with that one.

I worked there for a couple of Sturgis’s, I mean years. Every year, the pressure built till I was throwing things and yelling at the top of my lungs; “DAMN! AIN’T IT STURGIS YET!?” The problem with that was, sometimes that was about two weeks after I started work and that was usually within a month of just beginning to wind down from Sturgis, or simply put, not even the new year yet. Everybody got used to it and by the time June of the next year arrived I had a whole group of people wanting to go to Sturgis with me.

Anyway, back to the adventures. As some of you out there are aware, out of a group of twenty people, only some will follow through, and about one out of every four or five would show up, and some of those even wimped out when the road took over. The road has a whole new set of requirements and they aren’t particularly the same as around town riding. When you bring a bike up to cruising speed, the vibration isn’t the same as when it is up and down, through the gears, hit the brakes, turn, up and down, through the gears, hit the brakes, stop and park. The bikes of most round-towners, hardly ever get properly warmed up, and believe you me, bikes on the road do. I’m not saying that these fellows who build their bikes and ride them around town don’t build some fine machines. They do! They are basically the backbone of the custom bike shows, and their wild radical bikes are usually the top winners, but those bikes are not built for the road and here’s a simple example.

My favorite style of motorcycle is the modified chopper/bobber with fat bob gas tanks, Ape-hangers, springer, up-sweep pipes with fish-tails or reverse cone megaphones, both sound bad to the bone, or six foot stacks, and a tall sissy-bar with a taillight at the top. It’s important to be as close to the ground as possible. I like the bobbed back fender with a little flip up in the back, and HD copied that from us, not the other way around, as they did every other good thing you see out there, including the eternal race for more power and inches. Whatever, I like the front wheel to be a 19, so that I got some meat on the ground, but there is a trend now to bigger tires for twenty-one inch wheels and that is acceptable, and of course, to show off the wheel and the springer, no front fender. BUT, that only works for a little while on the road. First thing is, you’re eating everything the road has to offer right off the front tire. In the rain it’s a constant high pressure shower even if you took one already before you hit the road. On the other hand, a little shower every now and then never hurt anybody, but fighting that constant high pressure blast for hours or days gets old real fast, and you can try all kinds of tricks, but eventually you’ll usually get a front fender of some type.

Next thing is the pipes. Now what do they have to do with anything? Well, let me tell you. I have to admit I’ve seen people, even knew a few that tied, bungied, or even duct taped crap all over their motorcycles just to get it home. One of the plagues of road riding is carrying crap. If you’re going to spend any time out there, you need certain things. Those things take up space. Space, on a chopper is at a minimum. You, and maybe the girl on the p-pad on the back fender take up the space on a chopper. Can you imagine building a one-off custom bike with lots of nice goodies and chrome and a nice paint job…with road grime all over it, or heaven forbid, with crap taped all over it? I can’t, but I’ve seen it done a few times. But the fact is, those awesome sounding pipes are in the way of a set of saddlebags. Oh yeah, you could run one on the other side. Right. Okey-dokey. Whatever blows your skirt up. Ultimately, what is a bike with a front fender and saddlebags, but a dresser.

Oh no! My bike is not a chopper/bobber any more! It’s a dresser, but at least I’m not eating road crap and I have someplace to put my stuff. And when I’m at Sturgis, or Daytona, or Laconia, and I’m envious of all those choppers and my bike’s a dresser, or as close as you can get.

So now, with the first requirements out of the way, the shape, generally of the bike, the next phase is the condition of the bike. And as tragic and gut-wrenching as that is sometimes, it takes a leap into the unknown to find out what is required, and that is the adventure. The only other option is to load it into a trailer and race from home to out there, wherever there is, in the comfort and security of your four or six wheeled vehicle, unload and ride into the rally as if you just arrived from a long trip, sans adventures. Some of the finest friends I have in my life were made at road stops where my bike was not cooperating with me or the road, and sometimes, that’s how I got a job, because my bike needed work. Now that’s an adventure. I remember putting over the hills of western New York one year…Oh well, that’s another story, for another time.

John “Puppy” DeGroat

http://www.facebook.com/ulflat

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Along the road every once in a while you meet some people that are just amazing. I have been extremely lucky to have met some of these awesome people. The owners of  The Open Road Bar and Grill in Arcadia are just that.

I kept seeing bikes riding in the opposite direction I was going, so curious as to where everyone was headed I stopped into a bar that had some bikes parked out front to see what was going on. I walked up and asked “ Where’s everyone headed?” The reply wasn’t what I had expected “Nowhere, we are sitting right here.”

I introduced myself to the guys and we sat and talked about traveling, and as it turned out a couple of the guys knew Michelle and Scottie. Wow, they are either slowly becoming celebrities or the world is really small. Personally I think it’s the latter of the two… HAHA.

Russ invited me to join the guys to hang out and ride to another bar. He also offered a shower and to camp at his house.  I had nowhere I had to be… pretty much anymore I don’t… so I joined them.

The race was on as we hit speeds of 100mph on some really great back roads.  Racing to the next turn to slow down and speed up again. I wasn’t all that ready to be speeding through the beautiful scenery as my bike was fully packed and I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep up, but with the twist of my throttle and the rpm’s up in the 7000-8000 range I was able to keep them in my sights. “Good girl” I told my little Magna 700 as we pulled into the bar parking lot, with a pat on the tank.

I had no Idea what I was about to experience as we rode up to the bar. This bar is painted bright orange with black trim. Like the famous Harley orange and black that was adopted in 1913 to tell the difference between the racers. There were about 5 bikes parked out front already and a few cars as well. I walked into the bar and the atmosphere was very relaxed, the walls covered with Harley Davidson parts, primary covers, forks, handlebars, valve covers, even a pair of chaps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. The foot rests at the bar were made of mufflers welded together. Some of the tables had hooks to hang your jackets and a few seats at the bar had them as well.

Russ and the guys introduced me to the bartender as a traveling biker in need of a campsite for the night. I was accepted without any qualm. Rick, one of the owners at the bar, said I could camp out back, which was awesome because it was getting late and I hadn’t searched for a campsite yet, and because I don’t drink more than a beer if I am riding. So I had a beer and met some of the locals at the bar. Russell was ready to head home and I was ready to shower, so being it had been about 3 days, I would say I was in need of one. I followed him to this amazing 1900s house that he had completely rebuilt. Being a connoisseur of fine antique architecture, I could really appreciate the work he had done on the house.

After my shower Russ decided to feed me some great Xmas dinner leftovers and make sure I was good and fed before heading off to the Open Road Bar and Grill. We talked more about what he had put into his house and my mom and my travels. It was almost an instant friendship. Having good conversation with Russ and eating a great dinner, I was ready to head out to the bar to meet more of the locals.

As I pulled up this time there were quite a few more and the ones that were there already were having a great time, having gotten a good buzz going on. I was introduced to a man with a long scraggly gray beard, longer gray hair and a weathered face. Rex was his name and having fun seemed to be the name of his game. He was to say at least the highlight of my night. I sat next to him for the remainder of the night listening to his stories, watching his facial expressions, and laughing my ass literally off the bar stool a couple times. I don’t think I had ever had so much fun.

Rick and fire also put on some really awesome parties. I was able to make it to their anniversary/ birthday party, and man what a great party. I guess when you are such great people you attract more great people.  Their anniversary/ birthday party brought in roughly 500 bikes and others that enjoyed being there even though they don’t ride.

If ever you are passing through Arcadia, Florida be sure to stop in and say hi to the wonderful, nice, and happy group inside the bar. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up with some life long friends as well. Their address is 4319 NW highway 70. You can also follow them on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/openroadbar They hope to open a campsite for bikes only out back in the next year or so. I don’t think you can get any better than that; A good place to drink and if you have the need, a place to camp.

James is a regular contributor to HD Open Road, and a Gypsy Biker. Catch his stories here and follow him on facebook at /jimi.dean.images

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The morning sun warmed the back of his neck as he rode slowly along the small and mostly forgotten highway of some barely known town. Enjoying the wind and the scenery around him, the Gypsy cared not where the road would lead. Nor did he worry over such details as where he would lay his head this night. For when evening came—and as it had been a thousand times before—he would simply seek a secluded place to lay out the basic accommodations of a drifter’s simple needs; all of which now lay comfortably attached to the flanks of his trusty steed. No rent would be collected; for the road was his kingdom, the path his own choice, and done in his own time

As I ponder these facts, there are a lot of my brothers and sisters in America that are truly hurting. Unemployment is climbing as more of our jobs are ushered overseas. Home foreclosures are now greater than in the last depression. And energy and food prices are shooting through the roof as an out of touch political class tries in vain to print their way out of the economic morass that they have created.

I too have been hurt by the economic realities that have been bestowed upon us and our children. My clients have struggled, as have my friends and family. And it is from this that I seek not blame, but a new understanding of the world in which we live. And I question the paradigm that has been bestowed upon us by greedy corporations and corrupt political officials.

In recent months I have had the privilege to spend time with a small group of individuals that freely roam our country without many of the concerns and fears that hamper our daily lives. These nomadic bikers live by a few simple truths that enable them to enjoy those things that God granted us, rather than the things that corporations sell to us.

Scooter Tramp Scotty Kerekes has been on the road since 1994. An accomplished writer of many magazine articles about his adventures on the road, he was originally a roofing contractor in Southern California. What follows is a piece of his story as he tells it.

“There was a time when I believed that my spirit existed mainly to make possible the journey of the stuff. My weekdays revolved around the earning of money to make the payments on said stuff, while weekends were often reserved for the general maintenance of that same stuff. And although these daily toils offered a great measure of satisfaction to many of my friends, for me they seemed only as slow poison. It felt as if I had no life.

“Depression became a familiar friend. Then, through a series of events, I came to suspect that just maybe I had things backwards. Perhaps it was the stuff that existed only to make possible the journey of my spirit. For the commodities of food, shelter, clothing, wheels, and such, are all fundamentally necessary to make the human experience possible.

“In a single day I liquidated almost all of my possessions, keeping only those things that I actually use. No longer would I do one sided relationships. If an item did not serve me, then I would not serve it either. If a thing was not performing an outright and useful service to me, then I’d let that thing go quickly and without reserve or regret—usually to make its final debut at the trash can. This new action brought an unprecedented sense of freedom. It was a thing I had not known before. I wondered then why the decision had been such a hard one…and taken so long. The big house I no longer had; for now I lived in a small Airstream trailer set beside a friend’s house and on his property. It was something my mother used to do when we were kids. The rent was only $150 a month. The big truck was gone too, replaced by a smaller economy model. The bike of course, did not change. But I was working too much now. For, rather than earning money to stuff into someone else’s pocket, I was simply putting it into my own. Although still in the roofing business, I began to cut back my work load. Now I only worked two to three weeks, and then took two months off. It seemed strange to work less yet have more money.

“With this new freedom I began to indulge in far more recreation and leisure; for alarm clocks were a thing of the past and no longer did I have need to be home and in bed by a certain time. This system worked well, and it was for five years that I lived the easy life of Riley.

“But it was sometime during those years that I began to grow bored. Boredom slowly turned to pain and pain eventually brought desperation. The search for answers began. I attended many events and started to comb the city at night as well as day. Very soon I had friends everywhere. At the invitation of some of them, I began to take motorcycle trips. This experience was most wonderful and, with a yen to travel more often than many of their jobs would allow, I began to travel alone.

“It was while on one of those early solo forays that I crested the mountains then rode slow and out into the vast stretch of desert warmth on a sunny day. Then it happened: Freedom enveloped my being like nothing I’d felt before. Adventure loomed ahead and the passion for it seemed to ooze from my every pore. And I knew. Just like that I knew that this was the true call of my heart’s desire. Would I follow such passion? Of course I would, for no longer was there even a choice. It seemed then that it would have been a sad affair had I spent a lifetime working a passionless job only as a tool to maintaining the needs of a few common possessions.

“A deal was worked out with my friend and landlord whereupon where I would pay only $30 for each month that my truck and trailer sat vacant on his property. The trips became longer then, and life’s adventures continued to grow larger. In time I began returning to San Diego to work for the winter only that I might again set out for a summer of travel in the spring. But I was beginning to hate coming home. Then I began to hate being home.

“Next came a season that marked the epoch of a great change. For business had been bad that year and even my meager possessions had plagued me with uncommon demands for attention and money. By springtime I was left with only $500 available for the season’s travel.

“There was a time in the not so distant past when I endured a life that offered to me a constant twist of emotional pain. But it was a dull pain, a familiar pain and, of course, a safe and, I believed, responsible pain. Eventually this pain intensified, and although I am not a religious man, I turned to God. It was then that a quiet inspiration came and whispered something like this: “That’s okay Scotty, you can stay inside the little prison you’ve built of fear for the rest of your life if you so choose. For like any other you have freedom of will. I am no puppet master who would see you dance at the end of a string. I am no slave keeper who would insist that you venture on to someplace you do not wish to go. But your heart calls you to more, doesn’t it my friend? And if you ever decide to follow the small voice inside—the place from which I call—then know that I will stay with you for the journey’s duration. And although the road may become bumpy at times, as life often does, as we travel you will come to know and love your true self such as never before. And I won’t leave you man. After all, is it not my job to be your guide in this life?”

“It was time to put this philosophy to the test. So, much inspired by the book “The Peace Pilgrim”, I looked to the sky and said, “Okay. You know my situation. I’m going to take this $500, step out into blind faith, and see if it’s really possible for you to keep a man and motorcycle going across this great country.

“I left with the $500, traveled the U.S. and Canada for nine months, and then returned to San Diego in the fall with $550 in my pocket.

“Something changed in me that year.

“In the spring of 1994 I set out to see if it was possible to stay gone for an entire year; and in the spring of 1995 returned to liquidate the remainder of my possessions, save those that would fit aboard the motorcycle.

“But it was not a life of hardship and sleeping under a tarp on picnic tables in the rain that I sought, but rather a life that was, dare I say, comfortable enough to work well as an everyday lifestyle. That objective was long ago realized and this crazy life still remains the greatest I’ve ever known.

“In reality I am only a humble homeless guy with a sleeping-bag and an old motorcycle. But if this seems like a lame and useless existence to you, then think again. So excited was I with all the wondrous adventures that were now becoming almost commonplace, that I began to tell stories to those who were interested. Some said that I should try to get these stories printed. So I did. Almost immediately this work began selling to some of the largest magazines of their kind in the world, and over time, I was paid very well for these articles.

“I do not advise that anyone without the twisted mentality to wish such a thing should attempt to live from the back of a motorcycle; for the following of one’s heart is truly an individual matter. Yet I have seen so many men and women who’ve achieved the deepest fulfillment of their own individual desire. For in this world it often seems that there are those who would follow their hearts… and those who choose instead to follow their fears.

“The choice is a personal one.”

Michelle Hope has been traveling the road as a Gypsy Biker for 6 years now. Many people are astonished to hear of a woman traveling the roads alone on a motorcycle. But Michelle has found her home on the highways and by-ways of America. Michelle tells her story here:

“I worked for a global corporation; at first supporting a highly technical website, its executive partner, and its developers; then as a freelance graphic designer as the corporation graciously paid for my education.  In fact, I was working in Manhattan on 9-11.  Still I didn’t belong in the corporate grind and the structure was killing my soul, as was my addiction to consume. I had grown empty and dependent on the paycheck; shopping became my answer to the misery.

“And so it was that when I got laid off, I was actually relieved. At some point I pushed all of the antique furniture and shopping spree treasures I had been accumulating, onto the sidewalk outside of my New Jersey Flat with a sign that read “Free”. It went quickly. It was some nice stuff, too.

“I loaded up my little Honda car with what would fit and was most important to me and hit the road; traveling first to stay in South Carolina for a few months, then on to the west coast. After the layoff I had gotten a gig illustrating six children’s books, yet my well-meaning friends and family knew I needed to settle down and get a regular job. But the life that was given me by default no longer functioned for me and I needed something new and different. There was no way in hell I could ever live that way again. What was I to do?

“I was patiently searching for something else. And then, just in the nick of time, I met this interesting dude, Scotty, who offered a glimpse of a lifestyle that may just work for me. A lifestyle that was built on a foundation of freedom, removed from the corporate paradigm of the house, fancy car and all the bills that go with it. I was no longer working my life away for no other reason than profits of corporations; this to me offered purpose, meaning and a cure for my consumerist need to fill the emptiness I had created within myself by not honoring the voice of my muse, the beat of my heart, or the breath of my spirit.

There is nothing like being out in a storm, in my tent, tarp over bike and tent, dry, warm and secure. I have been into self-development for decades now, but in these past few years I have experienced a tremendous amount of growth, partly through some of the wonderful people I have met along the way. Life is good, my needs are met, and I am looking forward to what tomorrow may bring. I am no longer seemingly stuck on that proverbial hamster wheel going round and round, questioning my purpose, direction and thoughts of life. I am closer to me then I have ever been.

“I will end with a reminder to us all, this piece of personal truth ‘Freedom is an inside job, follow the path that leads there’.

In this last year, Michelle’s son, James Bagwell (AKA Jimi Dean) has joined the cadre of Motorcycle Drifters. Mentored both by Scotty and Michelle, Jimi Dean offers a new perspective into this lifestyle. His approach has been one of an adventure to be had each and every day. And he has learned the tools of the Gypsy Biker well. A few years ago Jimi Dean met his ex fiancé and decided that he wanted to be a dad and husband. Being stationary for the last five years Jimi collected all kinds of “The Good Stuff” you could say. Jimi was the facilities maintenance manager at an international hunting organization.

“The politics were to the point that every employee was afraid for their job. The work was everything I could have ever dreamt for, and the people I worked with were amazing. I truly loved what I was doing. I just couldn’t take watching my fellow employees fear the possibility of loosing their jobs for no apparent reason, getting blamed for things they were not responsible for and treated like they were children, so after 5 years I left.”

 Jimi signed the house over to his ex, sold his good stuff and filled a small storage unit half full with his tools, a dresser, and some electronics. With a couple thousand dollars from liquidating the majority of his assets he set off on the road to join his mother and Scotty. He says that it was going to be just a few months to get the feel, and to get to know his mom on her leve, yet his restlessness to see this new view of the world started to take hold of him.

“I think that this is what I am supposed to be doing. The more I travel, and the more I learn about the road, the more I am intrigued with the lifestyle myself. I have always loved to be in nature, whether it was hunting, hiking, mountain climbing, off-roading, or simply watching the sunset. Now I feel as if I am part of this nature.”

James sold off the majority of his stuff and now has his tools and a car in California “just in case” he says.

“I think that over the past hundred years people have been given this false sense of need. To live, all someone “NEEDS” is food, water, and sunlight. Everything else is a gift that we have been able to acquire, tools if you will, to make life a little easier. Where do you draw the line? I draw the line at the point where I become my stuff.  What do I mean by becoming my stuff? Well, like any other young man, I like to impress the ladies. And like a lot of other young men, I was under the impression that the more nice things I had, the more I would impress them. Believing this I bought a Jeep Cherokee that looked nice. I bought another one that was lifted 6 inches and I bought a nice little street race car. I had stuff, and lots of it. I ended up with nice furniture, and everything started looking up as far as my having things. That meant I was doing good, right? Not really. I was, for the most part, miserable. My things were nice but they didn’t make me happy. I had to wake up at five in the morning and work till the end of the day, come home to my stuff and be so tired I would just sit back and watch TV., only to go to bed and do it again. “Weekends I spent cleaning, maintaining and fixing my stuff. I was working to afford my stuff and spending my weekends taking care of my stuff. My stuff owned me. If I wanted to take a few days off and do nothing, I still had to worry about getting my stuff paid for and keep it cleaned and maintained.”

“What is my life like without all the stuff now? Since I now have a smaller amount of stuff, I have been so much happier. I have been able to give up worry for the most part. I play all day and maintain my stuff maybe once every couple months. I work maybe a week every couple of months, too. And I get to sleep in a new place whenever I feel its time for a change, or I’m done exploring my new surroundings.

“How does it feel to be a vagabond? At times it feels a little lonely. When I say it’s a little lonely, what I mean is I would like to share some of these great moments with another person. I don’t always travel with my mom, and there isn’t always someone there with me. Sometimes I’ll be camping and amazing things will happen. So surreal that it could be a dream. Like once I had coyote’s drinking the rain runoff that had accumulated on my tarp while I was camping. Or I was out following a deer and it seemed he was playing with me. Or the time a snake dropped out of a tree right next to my tent. All amazing experiences that I never thought may happen.

“And as far as living out of a tent, all I can say is it feels great.  I have been able to camp in the beautifully unmanaged pine forest’s in California, where the trees towered over me and I was an insignificant speck in a world that had little human traffic. I have camped in the hot arid deserts of Arizona, where the sunset’s and sunrise’s light dances along the clouds in a perfect menagerie of brilliant reds, oranges, and sometimes greens. I have been in the glorious and spiritual Black Hills of South Dakota, where the forests would come to life and turkeys, deer, blackbirds, bluebirds, and other small animals appeared to live in harmony. I have slept in the wet, sticky swamps of Louisiana, where moss grows on the ends of the tree branches creating a beautiful canopy around the edges as the light filters through to project a beautiful array of sun beams that gently touch the ground. And of course there is the occasional abandoned house, where it looks as if Mother Nature has forced some people to give up their American dream. I get to experience nature in a new and exciting way by making it my home for the night, week or even month if I choose. Life is good, life is free, life is beautiful.”  

Living on the road has its own challenges, and there are many methods that the Drifter uses to make his road more pleasant, comfortable, and enjoyable.  One of the key ideas that Scotty has impressed upon me is “Slow down!” He said that on those occasions when Michelle rides with him, she has perfected the art of the quick U-turn. Scotty frequently will turn around to inspect something of interest. An old building or barn, an unusual bridge, a roadside rally, party, car show, Indian Pow Wow, National Monument, historical marker, point of interest…the list goes on.

Once, Scotty called from Rapid City, on his way to Kansas. “How far do you need to go,” I asked? “Oh, about 700 miles” he replied. “Hmm, that should take you what, a day or a day and a half?” “No,” he said, “it’ll take around three.”

The Gypsies carry their homes on their bikes. When I last saw Michelle, she commented in fun that Scotty had bought her a new home awhile back. She was referring to a new tent.

While you or I may seek out a reasonably priced motel (good luck if near a rally), or a campground where we can pay for the privilege of laying our head on the ground, the Gypsy Biker seeks out the odd turnoff or unused drive.

They make their homes in a stand of trees, valley, forest, against a mountain, or any other piece of land that offers good coverage from the elements, and  just as important, all but complete privacy. Sometimes, especially when traveling through the plains or open deserts, they’ll take advantage of an abandoned shed or barn. Almost invariably these riders stay in beautiful places. Although it might seem an unlikely oddity, they generally live very, very well.

Upon observing a homeless man carrying a wet sleeping-bag after a night’s rain, Scotty once remarked to me that “These guys ain’t too good at being homeless, are they.”  That says volumes to the level that the Gypsy Biker lives comfortably.

Scotty has  also remarked, “There are three kinds of homeless, 1): the drunks and crack-heads, 2): the outright mental defectives, and 3): a class of folks pretty much normal in every way except that they don’t care to be caught up in the race anymore, and don’t really mind staying on the land to achieve this certain measure of relaxed living. These men and women often occupy vans, trucks, campers and RVs; some of these have been nicely crafted with their own hands. This third class is undeniably the minority.”

“I myself can come to your town, and in no time find a nice place to make camp. Once a home is established, I’ll simply hook up with a local gym for access to daily showers, hot tubs, and any other facilities they might offer. Often times I locate an inexpensive movie theater for an occasional evening of TV, and always a place of social gathering at which to hang out and make a few friends. I call this ‘wiring the town up’ and it generally takes less than three days. Once these few ‘accommodations’ are established the town is mine. I can stay as long as I like and live uncommonly well while doing it. These visits may last only a few days but have yet to exceed two months.

Recently there was an ongoing question regarding how the Gypsy Biker funds his lifestyle. You and I know how much just riding to our favorite rally costs, not to mention room, food, beverages and entertainment. Well, take a good look at that rally, because the Gypsy Biker is probably working there.

I have known Scotty to work as skilled labor installing tires on motorcycles at the Sturgis Rally. He’s also a roofer by trade, makes a little money writing, and has been known to wash windows of homes and businesses in the past and still carries an extension pole securely fastened below his left saddlebag.

Michelle works for various vendors at the rallies, selling items such as sunglasses, and has a couple of web and administrative clients across the country, as well as another illustration gig.

Their daily needs are small in comparison, spending little and conserving without effort. “When you do not have the car payment, rent, utilities, satellite TV, and all the other expenses that go with suburban America, you would be surprised how inexpensively you can live” says Michelle.

Although few who read this would ever consider selling all of their “worldly possessions” and taking to the road (though I am sure many would like to), we can all learn from some of the lessons of the Gypsy Biker. Lessons regarding our possessions, and how much is enough. Lessons about the trade-offs between those things that we own, and those things that own us.

Scotty once told me, “It’s like a scale: on one side is stuff while the other holds freedom. And the more one puts in one, the more he gives up of the other. There’s no real gain; it’s only a trade, pure and simple. Fortunately however, there’s plenty of grey area, and although I may lean a little heavily toward the freedom side these days, this scale is adjustable for the individual. But only a blind man will believe he’s going to possess both of these commodities simultaneously. Even the rich tell me that their stuff owns them.”

This is the reevaluation of the corporate society, and just exactly what it is that we need to live comfortably. And of course the knowledge that if we hit hard times and lost everything, as many of our brothers and sisters have done, we could still live exceptionally well.

So when you come across that heavily laden motorcycle, buy the rider a drink. Spend some time with them, and talk to them about their travels and experiences. And listen to how they manage their own challenges, and make sure that you read their stories in magazines and on http://www.hdopenroad.com. Those stories and the challenges that they meet are about freedom and the open road.

I finally made it to Austin. It’s been lightly drizzling, but my need to stay moving is outweighing my need for comfort at the moment. I decided to explore downtown and search out an urban camping spot while I still had plenty of daylight to work with, but after a very minor fender bender (I don’t wanna talk about it), and then bending my front fender back away from the tire (I said I didn’t wanna talk about it!), and a quick weather check revealing four more days to come of this bullshit cold drizzle, I decide to at least drive by a local hostel and check it out. Being stuck in a tent for the next four days alone doesn’t sound too appealing right now, and I could use a warm shower, dry bed and a place to wash my clothes. I smell like the inside of a fake leg.

Pulling into the hostel I see two other bikes loaded with gear, and decided to check it out. I eagerly booked a $16 night after hearing there was free food that night.

I soon met my fellow road warriors Scott and Bloss. Bloss has his own bike shop in Los Angeles. This dread-headed hooligan has been riding since he could walk. I watched him surf his bike going 40 in the rain while smoking a cigarette with his hands in his pockets… fucking psychopath after my own heart. He’s on a short pilgrimage just to get out and smell an adventure before heading back to the grind. Scott is from Canada and, like me, has no solid plan or schedule. They’re both near my age and disposition, and soon we’re chugging rum and telling pussy fart jokes on a nearby pier. I ended up waiting out the shit weather for the next two nights here with these guys, and we became fast friends while perusing local dive bars and rock shows.

I ran into the Austin roller derby chicks on one such night, and long story short, I rode a mechanical bull doubled up with one of these chicks and ended up dancing/stripping on a pole… on stage in some lesbian dive bar no less… yeah, I’ll miss that shirt.

Bloss tells us that a nearby bike shop has a kit for electric grip warmers for twenty bucks, and we made a rainy afternoon of installing them on each of our bikes. Fucking game changer.

The weather starts to break and Bloss has to jet back to the west coast. By now Scott and I have decided to ride together, and I’ve got him in on the construction job I have lined up south of Houston. But right now we have itchy feet and need to kill time for the next week before we start that gig, so we decided to ride out. Scott notices a fellow Canook plate on a car in the parking lot, and we picked up one more travel mate on the way out. We found a park an hour west that was like $5 a person split three ways, and it wasn’t until we had set up camp that I got a chance to even introduce myself to our new Canadian sidekick. His name is Hart, not “heart”, so he’s cool.

My dirt bike riding, assault rifle toting, bad ass land having, side of road ass saving buddy Matt called me to let me know that he is nearby. He came out to hang around our illegal camp fire (fuck a burn ban after three days of solid rain) and brings a case of beer and an old clip-on windshield he ripped off of one of his choppers and doesn’t want anymore! Fucking score!

The next morning we head south to a camp spot where we won’t get shit for having a fire, but after a cold night there we decided to head even further south to the beaches of Mustang Island, just outside of Corpus Christi. Mona (my bike) didn’t seem to like this idea.

Forty-five minutes into the ride Mona starts misfiring like crazy. I pulled over and peeked up her skirt but I couldn’t see anything wrong and I had no choice but to continue limping along. Then, almost to the beach, I break one of my highway pegs off on the interstate, which almost killed Scott behind me as the peg bounced down the highway. The worse part of this is that the peg is attached to an engine mount bolt which is now trying to slide out while I ride. So now I’m hunched over my tank holding this bolt in place with my hand and going 70 to keep the pace of traffic. Once again, the whole caravan pulled over so I could Jerry-rig my shit well enough to make it through to the last of the day.

Hidden amongst the dunes, pissing distance from the gulf, we found a sweet camping spot where we wouldn’t have to pay anyone for the privilege of sleeping in their dirt. We stayed there for the next five days, which gave me the opportunity for some much needed motorcycle maintenance.

I scammed a local YMCA for a free days pass, telling them I was thinking of joining but not before I check it out. This little ploy allowed me to catch a free shower.

I changed my oil, replaced the engine mount with a piece of all-thread, replaced and tightened the stripped bolt holding the front pipe on, and threw the remaining highway peg (the one that didn’t break off at 80 mph and almost tore my friends face off) into the ocean… then I peed in that ocean. It was the only way I could think to travel over seas with Mona.

But I still haven’t fixed the misfiring issue. Some days are just better than others. I changed the plugs, adjusted the fuel/air ratio, cleaned the clogged crank case breather system, changed the fuel filter, patched a small crack I found in the air intake hose, and cleaned the air filter. And yet she was still being a bitch, but I learned a lot about her in the process of trying to cure her of her cold.

Motorcycle maintenance is a lot like making love. You undress her, explore her, listen and learn what she likes and dislikes, what makes her purr. And when your finished, your sweaty, filthy, sometimes bleeding, hungry, and tired…. and she’s still not done talking.

Anyway, the local bars and bands weren’t very impressive, but our campsite was rad and the sunsets/sunrises were beautiful. We ate, drank, relaxed, and were merry. Although by day five I think we were all a little tired of sand being in and on everything we owned. You know how we all eat too much salt? Well I ate way more sand than salt that week. I ate almost as much sand as food, so we all decide to bail in the morning. Hart was headed… somewhere? And Scott and I were going to out-run a storm front by jetting up north to Houston for a final night of debauchery with a friend I know from Nashville before we start working. Too late.

We woke up to a sand storm. I’ve never been through one before. They suck. In fact, I had to put my helmet on with the visor down to pack my gear. In the process of packing I found a way to drop everything into the ocean, so by the time we got on the road I had almost as much sand and sticky, drying saltwater packed as I had gear. Then it started to rain… and it was cold. We might have made it an hour north, when we finally pulled over at a gas station to try to warm up with some coffee. I dug out all the hand warmer packets I brought and we opened them all and split them between us, Even Stevens.

Scott had a great idea: Gooch warmer! Warm your balls and the rest will follow, right? Twenty minutes later I was really starting to think this was a bad idea. This shit is hot! The only reason I hadn’t already pulled over is that I thought there was a chance that this is sterilizing me, and I’m too poor to afford a vasectomy. Then Scott pulled up next to me looking frantic and hiking his thumb, signaling to pull over. So there we are, a couple of filthy bikers on the side of the interstate, in the rain, digging in our pants with the crazed fury of a mother bear protecting her cubs.

Balls safe, we leaned back on our bikes, smoked a dart, and laughed. For a minute that’s all there was. It wasn’t pouring rain. Traffic wasn’t roaring by. My balls and gooch didn’t have second degree burns on them. I wasn’t soaked and freezing. There was just sweet relief, good company, and the overwhelming realization that everything was ok and always would be.. even if it wasn’t.

Twenty minutes after that it stopped raining, and by the time we made it to Houston everything had dried out. We cleaned up and partied for a night in Houston before heading to West Columbia, Texas, where cowboys won’t tell you where they got their spurs, historians are cool, construction workers are white, and the lawyers buy you breakfast……………

To be continued… probably…unless I die… or my laptop gets fucked…. or I break both of my hands…. which might happen when the laptop slams closed on them while I’m vigorously fucking with it, resulting in a lethal electrocution.

Zeke Wedgewood

facebook/zeke wedgeood

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I was recently in Denton Texas visiting my brother and his wife. Living this nomadic, gypsy lifestyle still requires me to work on occasion. The bills are not near as much as a stationary home yet they are still there.   I was down to my last few dollars so I went to the labor for hire place to see what I could do. They let me know that I would have to come in on a Wednesday or Thursday to fill out an application and then wait from 5 am till when ever to possibly get some work. This didn’t sound like a very good option to me.

I had a decision to make; stay and try to find some other work or move on and find some work at a rally somewhere. I had enough money to make it to Galveston, Texas for the last big motorcycle rally of the season, I could go to Austin Texas to meet up with Scooter Tramp Scotty, who told me he would teach me the art of washing windows, or I could go to The Halloween Biker Bash at Bikers Park in Magnolia Texas, in hope there would be a vender or two I could work for.

Another choice would be to buy some paint, number stencils and some tape to possibly paint addresses on people’s curbs for a few bucks. I had done this in California in the past and it was really lucrative. My only hesitation was the simple fact that it would take most of my money for the materials. Being in a state that I didn’t know enough about the laws on curb painting, it was a risk I was not willing to make at this time. That being the case I headed out to the Halloween Biker Bash.

I set off for Galveston a couple days early to set up camp and hopefully help the vendors set up. On my way I was stopped because I pulled off the road to allow a car to pass me by. I was riding slowly, it was late and I was looking for the right street to turn down. Besides, I didn’t want to be run over. The car I pulled over to allow to pass just so happened to be a sheriff and so he turned on his lights and asked if I had been drinking. I let him know I don’t drink and ride and told him I was just tired. He asked for my information. We went through the song and dance that so many of us have done. Where ya comin from, where ya headin, where do you live, why are you here, have you ever been arrested, blab la bla. After he saw I was not a threat, and ran my license, I was free to carry on. About a quarter mile down the road I found my turnout and pulled around to Bikers Park (a free biker campground sponsored by Bikers For Bikers).

That night while I was laying in my tent texting some people to let them know I was ok, I heard a loud thud just outside my tent. I unzipped the door to see what it was. Flashlight in hand I scanned the area to find a lump of something in the leaves. As I investigated closer, I saw what appeared to be a gopher snake wrapped around a black bird of some sort placed so perfectly about three feet away from my tent. Wow… now that is cool. I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple pictures.

After a little while a black cat came up and started to mess with the snake. I sat and watched as the cat scared the snake away from the bird. Huh, I guessed the cat wanted the bird. But apparently not as the cat chased the snake away and left the bird dead and lying there.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this was an omen. As I laid in my tent thinking of the symbolism of the bird, the snake and the cat, I felt I was where I was supposed to be. All the stress about needing money to continue to travel and not sure if there was going to be work at this rally dissipated and I was again ok and able to relax and enjoy this miraculous feat that just unfolded in front of me.

The next Morning I went to talk to Cap (the man in charge and the only guy there) about the rally that was supposed to start on Thursday. I found out that he is the founder of Bikers For Bikers, A non-profit organization that helps bikers that have been into bad accidents and need help. I talked with him for a few minutes about what they do for downed bikers and was really grateful to be in his presence. I asked him about some work around the campgrounds, it looked as if the camp grounds could use some help. He explained they couldn’t pay me, being they are a non profit. I asked if there would be venders that may need some help. From Cap’s response it seemed as if there was no money to be made at this rally, so I offered my help as a biker to get some things cleaned up. He refused so I let him know where I was camped and if he needed anything to let me know.

As I set out for my tent, the skies opened up and it started to rain. With my bike being under the tarp with my tent, I laid on it smoking my pipe watching the rainfall and thinking about what I should do next. The stress started to come back. I was down to my last 20 bucks and really wanted a pack of smokes as the pipe wasn’t cutting it. I could make it to Galveston and just wait for a week for the Lonestar Rally to start, or I could make it to Austin and learn to wash windows. Then a thought crossed my mind. I wonder if some of the vendors I’ve worked for in the past would be in Galveston?

I made a couple of calls to try to set up some work. The first to my mom for Frenchy’s number, a vender that I worked for in Sturgis selling sunglasses and boots. I think I made a pretty good impression on her and if she was to be there I’m sure I could get some work. I made another call to Scotty for Peter’s number, another vendor I helped set up and break down in Sturgis. After getting the numbers I made my calls to them and found work. Peter needed help setting up and selling his merchandise. His wife was sick and recovering, so I made the commitment to help. This put my mind at ease, so all I had to do was get Galveston and I would be able to make enough money to get me to Florida for the winter.

As the sun began to go down I decided I would join Scotty in Austin. I could wash a few windows and make enough to buy some smokes and make it to the Lonestar Rally, I was sure. If not I’m pretty sure Scotty would loan me a few bucks to get there. Besides I really haven’t hung out with The Scooter Tramp too much and would like to get to see how he travels a bit.

The next morning the rains had stopped so I was good to go. Packed up my bike and away I went.  The rest, as they say, is history.

James “Jimi Dean” Bagwell

http://www.facebook.com/Jimi.dean.images

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