by Scooter Tramp Scotty Kerekes

Palm Springs, California.

October of 2003

It was late fall in the Southern California desert as the three motorcycles sat parked in a semi-circle. Beside each lay a bedroll particular to the rider of that bike and, on each bed, a man sat beside, or leaned against, his bike to face the others as they talked. Between them lay no campfire as the crystal clear night was so warm none was needed.

Each was a gypsy rider and each had been on the road for a very long time.

These were the men who owned the highway’s true freedoms—completely and in their entirety. None laid claim to the virtues, or burdens of a home, wife, child (of rearing age anyway), dog, steady job, time clock, car, payment or bill of any kind. Of roots each had none. Even the concept of a day-to-day grind, hence the term “same shit different day”, held no meaning to these men. Although this concept may remain in the far reaches of their memories, its color was much too faded to recall the feelings that accompany such a life.

Each roamed freely to the places of his choosing and spent his nights sleeping beneath the heavens. With the Highway and the God who governs the Wanderer, he had made terms long ago. And the things that may startle or even frighten an occasional vacationer—rain, hail, wind, heat, sand-storms, rough camps, canned foods, mechanical breakdowns, etc.—were now only normal day-to-day things and seldom raised cause for much concern anymore. Instead, when faced with such oppositions, each only took the appropriate action…as he had so many times before. But all sought to minimize these inconveniences by riding south by winter (as they had now), and north in the summer.

The immediate desert was abandoned as the Indian land on which we stayed—on which we always stayed when visiting Palm Springs—had not yet been developed. Behind my Electra Glide the rocky land of sagebrush and cactus angled steadily upward for ¼-mile before colliding with the side of a mountain that abruptly rose 3,000-feet as its hulking presence was brightly illuminated in the moonlight.

Billy’s Panhead sat parallel to my own and, as he faced me, I could see the lights of Palm Springs as they twinkled in the distance beyond his bearded face. The Palm Springs motorcycle rally was over now and the small city was quickly returning to its usual state of reserve.

He and Fuzzy (who now sat to my left) had teamed up back in Sturgis (the last place I’d seen ether of them) and had been traveling together for well over a month. This seemed an unusual team as I’ve noted that most men of such natures are stubbornly independent and one will seldom forgo his own plans for the destinations of another. Therefore, teams such as this are uncommon and, although most (there are others) run across one another at various events across the country, the gypsy almost invariably travels alone.

I knew that Billy had been on the road since 1976, using one mode of transportation or another, but as of this night in Palm Springs, had been with the old pan for 15-years. Fuzzy, on the other hand, had traveled with the carnivals in his youth, and as far as I knew, had been on the road for the entirety of his life. As for myself, the new kid on the block, I’d been living off the old FLHT for only nine years.

Although we all work at times for the vendors who sell motorcycle stuff at various rallies across the country, I also pull in an extra buck by roofing an occasional house or taking pen in hand to freelance a gypsy tale destined hopefully for magazine publication. But in truth, if a man is unburdened with bills and the like he seldom has need to work. After all, aside from the maintenance of his beloved steed (for when she is sick or down life as he knows it will come to an abrupt halt) the remainder of his cash is simply spending money. For him life is usually easy—almost excruciatingly so in fact.

When gathered together men generally talk of the things they know. And as such, I listened as the two told of recent events. After Sturgis the temporary team had ridden high into the Rocky Mountains to attend the Cripple Creek Rally in Colorado. Afterwards, and with the cancellation of the Four Corners Rally this year, they had attended Street Vibrations in Reno Nevada. When Reno had ended the two had set out for a new event in Lake Tahoe California. When that was over they rode south for the Palm Springs motorcycle rally that had ended only the day before this night in the desert. Although my comrades had made little money at this event (spending most of the time partying instead of working) the two would leave for Las Vegas, Nevada in the morning as a drag race that was scheduled to take place there the following weekend now held their interest. After Vegas they would ride to New Orleans to “winter” as Fuzzy had put it. But I doubted if the two would stay in Louisiana much past Mardi Gras as the sound of itchy feet would surely call them on to greener pastures by then.

As for myself, I would ride into the nearby mountains where a roofing job of exceptional pay awaited. A month later, and with a fat wallet, I’d cross the border of Mexico and eventually travel east for Florida and the Daytona Rally.

And so, under cover of the brilliant star laden sky, we talked for hours into the night. Behind each man was the vision of his trusty steed as it sat illuminated in the soft moonlight. Although each was of a different model and its character varied much with the personal maintenance ideas and equipment preferences of its owner (being individualists, I have yet to meet two of these men who use exactly the same methods) all three bikes shared one thing in common. They did not shine.

But the beauty of each bike was not imbedded into the polish of its finish but rather into the heart of the man who loved it and the years of devout service, adventure and travel the two had shared together. Each bike proudly displayed the many battle scars of its gypsy life and for almost every scar there was a story of adventure to be told. For in truth the only way to keep a bike in perfect condition is simply to not use it—and hard use was all these bikes had ever known. Of these truths I was familiar and for each piece of bailing wire, hose clamp, duct tape, re-weld job, bungee cord fix and other roadside repair I admired them all the more.

But the hour grew late and eventually each man slid into his respective sleeping bag and laid his head against a rolled up jacket. Thankfully no one snored.

I have personally always loved the mornings—just not enough to get up for them—and when I finally came awake at 8, it was to the sound of my amigo’s warming up their bikes. I soon said a sleepy goodbye and they returned my gesture before saddling up to ride out. I flopped back into bed.

 Sturgis, South Dakota

August of 2004

The motorcycle rally was in full swing. In the basement of one prominent local dentist office is an old gym. Beyond the ancient exercise machines and weight piles sets a single shower stall. Each year I come to this place, and each year I pay the monthly membership allowing access to this facility for the duration of my three-week stay in the area. And so it was that, feeling clean and refreshed now, I made my way up the short flight of concrete steps that led to the sunny day now warming the large parking lot at the building’s rear entrance. Crowded around my own, the lot lay packed with the many beautiful motorcycles left by the men and woman who rented space to park their bikes for the day. Sitting on the steps that led to the second story dentistry sat three girls who ranged in age from 12 to 14. They were the caretakers of the lot, and for their efforts, received a percentage of the money they brought in.

Being an annual visitor to this place I had known these girls for many years. To them mine was a familiar face. And so with towel and shaving kit in one hand I pointed to my road-worn bike with the other, and as I had many times before, said to them, “This is the nicest bike here.” As usual they only laughed at my stupid joke, but when the giggling and eye rolling finally subsided the oldest girl said, “You always say that Scotty. How do you figure that’s the nicest bike here? Look at all these beautiful motorcycles. You’re just silly, that’s what I think.”

“Well Michelle,” I said pointing to the old Electra Glide, “if this motorcycle could talk what would it tell you?”

“How would I know?” she answered, a slight edge of teenage indigence crackling in her voice.

“Well,” I continued, “it would tell of cross country trips…every year. Of rides through Canada, the Yukon, the Alaskan Highway and Alaska itself. It would talk of places like La Paz, Mazatlan, Acapulco, and other places in the deep jungles of Mexico where mango trees grow and banana groves line the tiny roads. It would tell of the bridges under which we’d taken refuge from the many rainstorms. Of mechanical breakdowns in far off lands and the contortions I’ve endured to get the bike fixed. Of the people we’ve met and unusual circumstances in which many of them lived (the Amish, mountain men, and many others). Of the women who’ve accompanied me in a sleeping bag on the ground beside the bike. Of sandstorms, of deserts, of mountains—some as high as 14,000 feet. Of intense heat, and bitter cold. It would tell of great parties like the Marti Gras in New Orleans, the Jazz Fest in Toronto, Canada, the Daytona rally, Laconia, Laughlin, Four Corners and Cripple Creek in Colorado, Mazatlan Bike Week, etc., and of course, the many years of Sturgis…where we are now. It would tell of the cargo holds of all the great vessels it’s been tied into then shipped across great bodies of water. It could tell stories for days…even weeks!

“Now what do you think that bike would tell you?” I pointed to a shiny new ground pounder that sat nearby.

“I don’t know,” said the girl.

“Well my dear, it would most likely tell of the inside of the garage, the trailer, and maybe this here parking lot. That’s probably all it knows.”

“Wow,” she said in a quiet yet enlightened tone, “I never thought of that.”

“Sure,” I went on, “and just as you might appreciate the magnificence of a show bike for the luster of its fine finish, so then must you also appreciate the virtues of a working bike for the beauty of its service.” And with that I mounted up, and after waving a goodbye to all the girls, rode out.

 Anchorage, Alaska

June of 2002

Beside the Harley Davidson dealership, and within walking distance of McDonalds, sets a small campground of green grass and picnic tables. These grounds belong to the shop and anyone passing through Anchorage on a motorcycle is welcomed to camp there for as long as they like—free of charge. Barry (the dealership’s owner) and his staff are simply nice people. For two weeks I stayed in this friendly place and bided my time exploring the city.

It was Saturday afternoon as I resting atop my old steed as it sat parked among the others that littered the dealership’s large parking lot. The lot, and shop itself, bustled with a modest crowd as riders came and went. In my hand was a bowl of the exceptionally crafted chili that Barry makes himself, then offers for his customer’s to enjoy on the weekends, and I sat content in my indulgence of this simple meal.

Before long, the shop’s salesman spotted the Electra Glide’s rough edges and started his way across the lot. Once he’d arrived, the man stood to admire my bike for a spell. When the moment had passed he looked me in the eye and said, “Maybe you deserve to get yourself a new motorcycle.”

Pulling my attention from the bowl I thought to myself, this guy don’t know what he just stepped into does he? So, after swallowing my mouthful of chili, I put my face closer to his and said, “Maybe I deserve to not work my ass off for the next five fucking years to pay you, and just keep riding the bike I’ve got!”

“Well,” he replied, “you’ve got a point there.”

“I do,” I said, “’cause if I got what you think I deserve, I wouldn’t be here in Anchorage talkin’ to you now would I? No sir, I’d be back at the grind for sure.” The man politely agreed (he really was a nice guy—just trying to do his job). Then, with a more thoughtful approach, he began to ask questions of the FL’s year, mileage, and so on. After a time I took notice of his wedding ring. “How long have you been married?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Has it been good?”

“I’ve got a great wife.”

“And when she gets older are you gonna trade her in on a newer model?”

“Probably not.”

“Of course, because she’s something you love. Now don’t get me wrong, I do know the difference between a woman and a machine, but…well sir, that’s kinda the way it is with my bike.”

Maybe the man thought I was nuts and maybe, as he claimed, the guy understood. Ether way he only hung around to talk for a while before wandering off to the showroom floor.

I went back to my chili.

To Sum It Up

As well as the love of beautiful new machinery, many old timers have a true appreciation for the beauty of a working machine and will often become enthralled as they ask questions concerning mileage and places the bike has been. And always those of the highway appreciate the insightful-ness of these men rather than the ignorance of those who only knock a man’s ride because it is not “highly polished” or expensively “accessorized”. For be they new or old, big or small, custom or stock, shiny or rough, cross country touring machines or simply a man’s every day ride, all motorcycles have their place in the world and the hearts of the men who love them. And it is only through ignorance that one will come to discredit the virtues of The Working Motorcycle.

Scooter Tramp Scotty Kerekes

http://www.facebook.com/ScooterTrampScotty

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