November 8, 2012

All Posts, Features, The Rebel Rides

The last star was floating in the deep black above a thin orange line when I started the long fall back to the coast. Right away I had to climb more than a mile. The West Portal of the Eisenhower Tunnel is 11,158 feet above the Pacific. Technically, Frisco is a couple thousand feet lower than that but Frisco is where I found the road work and where I started to worry about my carburetor. The fat bitch between my legs coughed and choked as if I was shoving something down her throat. “Piece of shit!” That’s how I sound when I am worried, cold or afraid. “Fuck you!” I sound like that.

I cursed the road again and again. I was barely going seventy and I was shivering. I should have had the sense to stuff newspapers in my clothes.

I hate the Rocky Mountains. I hate Aspen trees. I hate tunnels. I hate cars. I hate riding under quarter mile high sheets of red granite scree. Back there a woman told me her head was messed up. It was kismet. I laughed and I told her, “Me too!”

Usually I hide my lifelong rage under a veneer of placid fatalism. Mostly I am blank. If I like you I might sneer. Mostly I keep my “issues” in my little mojo bag. I allow myself the luxury of rage only when I think rage might work. I don’t pour it out casually. But I threw it all at the crest of the Vail Pass. “Motherfucker, mother…fucker, you bitch, you bastard fucking whore.” I twisted up my face and cursed so hard I spit on myself. I scared the woman driving on my throttle side. I knew because she slowed down to get away from me. I almost felt bad about that. I wasn’t mad at her. But at that moment I just felt like I had to pull out all the stops and rage was all I had left. So that was what I used to punk the invisible atmosphere and force invisible gravity to my will. I flew into a rage. “Fuck anger management!” I have no doubt the damn motorcycle would have just rolled to a stop and left me stranded if I hadn’t started shouting back at all the invisible forces that I cannot see that dominate my life anyway. I have seen it a thousand times. I rolled the first 90 miles on gasoline but I crested that pass on rage.

I fueled up and composed myself. After Vail it was all downhill. I could have been on any interstate anywhere except for the Glenwood Canyon. The bottom of the Rockies is Grand Junction. The junction refers to the convergence of the Gunnison and the sleepy, ancient end of the Colorado. The grand part is just public relations. Grand Junction is a self important and overpriced little town. It is also about where the sage desert starts. I bought gas again and pushed on. The road straightened and smoothed and in no time I faced a choice.

I pulled over at a familiar spot – just after a road named 191 unravels off the interstate. I stood between the Book Cliffs and Arches National Park and considered this fork. I have passed here often. After I am dead I am sure my wandering ghost will haunt this barrenness from time to time. I knew that at that spot I was still three days on a motorcycle from the Pacific Coast Highway. Whether I turned south or continued west it was still three days. It shouldn’t take that long. In a car I could have driven straight through but I don’t own a car and this was August. And, I am basically an unemployed and unattached ne’er-do-well so I did not much care.

Down there to my left, past the herds of massive boulders, the white monsoon was boiling all over the Navajo Nation. I have issues sane men could never admit. I have issues with the kachinas down there in the San Francisco Peaks. I don’t know what I did. I never know. The invisible forces just hand me my punishment. A brown witch once told me that whatever it was I did that the kachinas noticed, it was a good thing and it was in another life. But, I am not convinced that witches are any smarter than psychiatrists or priests.

I do know that not everybody believes in the invisible forces like I do. I have to believe because otherwise the world would make no sense. For example, I can’t get on a motorcycle and ride more than five hundred miles before something I cannot see tries to push me backwards, then jolts me from my left, then runs into my right and throws buckets of water in my face. On the worst rides an invisible force sinks its invisible teeth into the bike. One time it was my petcock. Another time it was a sparkplug wire. I have slurred out my belief in spooks and gremlins and ghosts leaning on a half dozen bars. Most people are polite and ignore me. One time one guy told me, “I just follow the signs.”

To which I answered, “Exactly! Exactly!” And when I said that this was the exact spot I had in mind. This was the Moab cutoff and if you have ever been there you know that just past that there is a big yellow sign that warns of “Eagles On Hwy.” That sign has always bothered me because I know there is at least one eagle kachina. I saw his likeness in a souvenir store in Albuquerque.

I had come a long way since dawn so I stretched my legs. My boots threw up little puffs of dust. The desert is a good place to think about the big questions in life and I have always been very aware of my mortality.

My personal bucket list ends with my death in el lay. If I get a choice I want to die on the bike – whichever bike happens to be “the bike” at the time. I want what everybody wants now days, that my final moment will be captured on a cell phone camera and posted to YouTube where it will be viewed about a million times. An invisible narrator will pronounce my brief epitaph – “Sheee-it! You see that!?” If fate is kind my demise will involve eight or nine police heroes firing two or three hundred shots in self defense at my dangerously fleeing back. I have given this scenario some thought. I didn’t just start thinking about this at the grand junction of the 191 and the 70. If I have to get shot two or three hundred times in self defense I might as well get shot crashing into a fuel truck at the same time. With any luck, all that fuel will explode. God willing, there will be a Sheriff’s helicopter hovering over the gas truck and it will be engulfed in a jack-o-lantern carved out of flames.

I know. I know we all have our hopes and dreams. I hope to make the evening news when I go. Maybe my death will even inspire a new law – something like: “An Act to Protect Our Police and Keep Dangerous Lunatics on Motorcycles From Ruining America by Running Free.” It would be nice to be remembered like that.

Or maybe I’ll go out in a head on crash with a forty pound bird with claws like shark’s teeth. Who knows? I guess that would be okay. Except, this is rural Utah. This is not a big media market like Los Angeles. It is one thing to die from the mother of all bird strikes. It is another to pass from the visible to the invisible realm unnoticed. And, unless there just happens to be a camera crew from America’s Funniest Highway Fatalities driving by when that eagle kachina finally catches up with me, nobody is even going to miss me for probably three weeks. And, then everybody will say, “Oh well.” And the only law I am likely to inspire will probably be intended to protect big birds with sharp claws from motorcycles.

I thought about all that for a long time. See what I mean about issues? That is what loose women and high altitudes will do to you. I got a grip eventually. I knew that if I was going to die on that little adventure it was probably going to be in the Mojave.

What that fork in the road really forced me to decide was how I was going to sneak up on the meanest desert on the continent. If I turned back to the 191 I could ride home through the iconic American West: Through Arches and Canyonlands, over the hundred miles of tar snakes that lead to my favorite hoodoo, the one called Mexican Hat, and then through Monument Valley, the Painted Desert and Flagstaff to the Colorado and Laughlin. It is the prettiest ride I know. Everybody should take that ride at least once.

There are only two problems with that ride. The first is the damned kachinas. But they might not even be a problem for you. So don’t worry about that part. The second problem is that after you get through all that scenery you have to spend your last night before the west coast in Laughlin. Perhaps I should say, fucking Laughlin. CBS ran a television series about Laughlin in 2007. It featured Hugh Jackman, who is a pretty big star, and it was still cancelled after only two episodes. The New York Times called it “the worst show in the history of television.” And, I bet that reviewer never had to spend $150 for a $30 hotel room at the Aquarius during the River Run either.

I weighed my decision in my hands. One hand held the iconic wonders of the American Southwest. And Laughlin. The other held a long boring ride and the city Laughlin dreams it might be. I fired up the Dyna and headed west toward the killer eagles and the 15 and Las Vegas.

The ride was a chore. The sky turned mottled grey and began to seethe. The winds shook the bike from time to time. The engine droned. I put on my jacket just outside Green River when the invisible forces started to spit in my face. Mountains appeared and slowly grew until I passed them by. I disappeared into the deep cuts the engineers had blasted in the rocks. The sage became pinon and scrub. My shoulders were shaking when I pulled off at Salina. The only gas station I saw was on a bad road stripped down to gravel.

I wasn’t close to done. The road climbed and dove through the Pahvant Range. It was mountain man country and I started fretting about elk instead of eagles. When the annoying drizzle turned to rain I stopped, put on my plastic rain suit and continued. Two minutes later the rain stopped and the sun came out. Another bike pulled next to me. The wet rider stared at my space suit and seemed to laugh as he pulled away. My morale evaporated. Two minutes later I pulled over again and stripped off the stupid suit. Five minutes after that it started to rain again. “Fuck it.”

I was 450 miles into the day and I was ready for a shot and a beer. Then I remembered. “Oh yeah. I’m in Utah.”

When the rain stopped the winds got serious. I blew into a gas station in Beaver. I leaned on the bike while I filled it up because I was afraid the winds would blow it over. I swear one gust knocked me back and rocked the bike. I putted over to a Comfort Inn. They wanted $90 for a room. I wanted to get inside. We did not negotiate. The room had a working television. I had beef jerky, Peanut M&Ms and a Coors in my T-Bag.

I went out back and took a couple hits off a joint rolled with an organically grown, healing herb which my health care provider assured me was 25.6 percent THC. Two kids, a boy and a girl – and by kids I mean they were maybe 19 – were in the hall playing a guitar and singing when I went out. They looked like the Partridge family. I threw them a buck. They told me they were just practicing, not performing, and tried to give me back my money. When I came back in I threw them another dollar and they just looked mystified. Sometimes giving a little money away makes me happy.

The next morning the winds had died down but I was still about 500 miles and two days from home. I should have taken the scenic route but now it was too late. I slept in and rolled out about ten. I put on my “novelty helmet” with the homemade DOT sticker before I left because I knew I would probably forget when I crossed the Nevada state line. The weather had moved through in the night. The winds had tamed to a breeze. The road was a still river. The sky was a fade of cobalt blue with ruffles of clouds. I think there is a red and white lighthouse just south of Cedar City. I’m not sure. I think I have seen it a couple of times but I have never gone back to actually touch it so maybe I have been hallucinating.

The 15 south was practically deserted and I was in Dixie Utah in an hour. People call it Dixie because the Mormon pilgrims tried to grow cotton in the southwest corner of the state. But Dixie Utah was at a competitive disadvantage because the market price for cotton was set by plantation owners with slaves. The Mormons had a hard time getting their hands on slaves. So after the Civil War the Utah cotton business withered and now all that remains is that name – Dixie. I saw the first sage in almost a day just past Zion National Park. The hills became careless piles of rocks. The high clouds burned away and I began to descend into an oven. When I stopped in St. George I swapped my tee-shirt for a tank top. The inside of the helmet was soaked. It was over a hundred degrees by then and I began to wonder if I should have started earlier. I bought some water, drank some and decided to try to hurry.

The most remote spot in the lower 48 may be the outlaw corner of Arizona where the survivalists and the fundamentalist Mormons go to hide from modernity. I didn’t see any ATF Swat Teams as I passed through but I know it is only a matter of time. Just past the Arizona line is the startling Virgin River Gorge and the minute I was in it the winds picked up. The bike shivered and I slowed. It might have taken 15 minutes to get through that. Then I was in Nevada and the Mojave.

When I stopped in Mesquite I spotted a fellow traveler, a brother in the wind, on the far side of the parking lot under the only tree for miles. He was standing next to a Softail Heritage Classic drinking water and he was wearing a leather jacket. I pulled over by him after I paid. His bike was a lot prettier than mine and the guy looked like a male model in Easyriders Magazine.



“How come you’re wearing your jacket? No offense. Just out of curiosity.”

“The zipper’s stuck. I can’t get it off.” The jacket looked brand new.

I am the world’s worst mechanic but I did have a pair of pliers and some WD-40 in the bottom of one of my saddlebags so between us we managed to get that problem fixed. I didn’t ask where he was coming from. “Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles.”

Nobody ever asks for my advice but I am still inclined to give it away. “Don’t try to get past Vegas today. First time in the Mojave in August?” He nodded. “Big bad desert. Cross over tomorrow morning early. You got water.”


“Rubber side down. Shiny side up.” Then we parted ways.

Forty minutes later I caught my first glimpse of the yellow scum that hovers in the sky over America’s city of the future. That was just about where the old Mormon Trail heads north and the interstate begins its descent. By then it must have been 140 degrees in the saddle. I should keep my advice to myself. Anybody who is stupid enough to keep going on to the coast in this weather deserves to die. I pulled off at Speedway Boulevard where I always gas up when I come into Vegas this way. I didn’t need gas as much as I needed cold water and an air-conditioned convenience store. A thermometer in the shade near the front door was broken. It must have been broken. The thermometer claimed it was only 119. I poured some water on my gas tank and the water vanished. Some of it spilled onto the air cleaner and hissed and popped. I bent over and poured cold water over my head. I was close to heat exhaustion. I would have been better off if I hadn’t had to wear my special, Department of Transportation approved, plastic, safety hat.

I was headed for the Flamingo. I always stay at Bugsy Siegel’s dream. He named it after his girlfriend, Virginia Hill. She had such long and perfect legs that her friends called her The Flamingo. The hotel is cheap and I like to do things exactly the same way every time. I know which way to turn off the Flamingo Road exit. I know where the bike spaces are in the garage and I know the speed bumps in the driveway. This time the traffic was ridiculous so I got off an exit early at Spring Mountain Road and the next thing I knew I thought the bike was going to catch fire. The Vegas Strip has the slowest traffic lights in America. My average speed dropped to about a third of a mile an hour. My gas tank was too hot to touch. Heat rose off my engine in waves. I burned my finger when I touched my horn. “That can’t be good. Motherfucker. Son of a bitch.” I was so hot I could hardly get angry. Then I didn’t know what I was going to do. Nobody could hear me curse anyway. I was surrounded by air conditioned steel boxes. Vegas really is a town with no pity. I was on the wrong side of the street. I wound up going all the way down Las Vegas Boulevard past Planet Hollywood before I could get back to the Flamingo. By the time I got into the garage I thought I was going to throw up. It took me another 20 minutes to get the Tee-Bag unbuckled and pull my jacket out of my saddlebag. It took me another 45 minutes to check in. I kept right on sweating in the lobby.

But the woman who checked me in was amused by me apparently. “We’re sold out of standard rooms,” she said. “I can put you in a deluxe room on the 18th floor. Same price.”


It was a great room. I stripped down, took a cold shower then admired my view. The Flamingo is the old Vegas and Vegas is the new model for America. All of the Neon Metropolis lay at my feet. Vegas is what Wall Street hopes to be. Vegas is the model for the new American service economy. Vegas is the American fantasy. You can get anything in Vegas if you have enough money; anything you can dream. Vegas is where Americans go to pretend they live somebody else’s life. I took a nap for free.

It was a three digit night when I went out for a walk. Sex was all around. Whores and pimps and unappealing young men met and argued and negotiated. None of them got what they wanted but they all got something. A dancer on a sign as big as a ship strutted and teased. Fugitives from the Mexican drug wars tossed out thousands of calling cards and on one side of each card was a photo of a beautiful woman who would date you for only twenty-five dollars. Unimportant people say times are hard but the people who count insist that the corporate tax cuts must be given time to work.

Just call the number printed on the card. For a reasonable fee, say forty-five dollars, she will date a total stranger. Any stranger. She is new in town. She is very friendly. Don’t forget you get what you pay for.

Forget Paris. Forget Rome. This is the one city in the world everybody knows: The old fashioned sign that proclaims “Welcome to Las Vegas;” the Mandalay Bay; the Luxor pyramid and the sphinx; the sky scrapers of the hyper-real New York, the New York so real you have to say it twice; the grandness of the MGM; the glamour of Monte Carlo; the Bellagio fountains dancing in the middle of the desert like white whips, like tornados of light; the real Paris, the real Eiffel Tower and the new and improved Arc de Triomphe; Bill’s with its inimitable Elvis impersonators; the gravitas of Caesar’s; the swashbuckling pirates of Treasure Island; and off in the far distance the least of all these wonders, the Stratosphere, which is merely a thousand-foot-tall needle with a roller coaster balanced on top.

A Hunter Thompson impersonator in a Panama hat and aviator glasses languidly flicked the ash from a cigarette stuck in his long holder. You can do anything in Vegas. You can even smoke. An aging woman in a tight red dress pretended to be young and in the sparkling lights of the forbidden city she was young. A midget Elvis grabbed at a statuesque hawker wearing a cat suit. And when she jumped back her top hat fell off.

On the strip the lights do not change so the cars do not move. I see the world freeze in the desert heat. I got married here once, very long ago.

Music pulsed out of a thousand doors and slowly one golden oldie conquered the rest. It thumped menacingly. You pick the song. Almost anything by the Rolling Stones will do. I heard George Thorogood warn the world that I was on the loose. Bad to the Bone. Bad to the Bone. In my Vegas fantasy the pimps, whores, gamblers and hustlers, the street thugs and cops, the marginally depraved and the lost all see me coming and scuttle out of my way. I drifted easily back to the hotel and a restaurant called Margaritaville.

I lingered in the gift shop. I considered a tee-shirt that announced, “Yes I’m a pirate but I was born 200 years too late.” It costs thirty dollars which seemed like a small price to pay for a new identity. A pretty woman called my name and led me to a table in a big room that paid homage to the golden age of the drug trade. I was there. I did that. A twin engine amphibious plane hangs from the ceiling. I can see the stripped out interior in my mind’s eye. Beneath the plane are “fishing” boats.

I enter this moment. “Dos Equis.”

I chug the first beer. I check out the women at the next table. Two of them are sort of pretty, plump girls. Next to them is a woman who looks like what happens to a sort of pretty, plump girl if you put her in the back of your refrigerator and forget about her for forty years.

“Another Dos Equis and a scotch.” All roads lead here. This is where I was meant to be when I was born. Men on stilts invade the room. A girl frolics in a margarita glass. All the songs are thirty years old. I am no longer as old as I was this morning. I have wandered the west and now I have finally found where America has gone. I was crazy but now I’m not crazy anymore. I’m not angry anymore. I’m not worried anymore. I’m not hot or tired anymore. There is nothing invisible here. There are no invisible forces. Everything is obvious here. Here, I am the master of my fate.

“Jambalaya and another beer.” I am full of confidence as I glance around. “Buy you a drink,” I ask one of the pretty, plump girls. She looks away. The fat old one looks at me instead. “What about you, baby?” Maybe she didn’t hear me.

The loud, seventies sound track continues. I know this song well. It has never been about me before but it is now. I never liked it before but I like it now. I don’t understand the words. I don’t know what it is about. It has been a long day and I am finally drunk enough to forget who I am – just as everyone else has come here from Indianapolis and Waco to forget themselves. That’s what Vegas means. We are all doomed unless we can forget. America must forget and I must play my patriotic part. David Bowie sings to me and when he sings the hook I pump my fist in the air and sing back. No one seems to mind, not even the fat girls. I sing that the world might remember me. It will not. I pump my fist in the air and sing anyway. “Rebel, Rebel!”


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47 Responses to “August”

  1. sharon canales Says:

    awsome story….you have the gift of painting with words.. arare gift indeed….I will be reading more of yours i hope, if it is out there to be read.. will be looking as soon as i finish this. ……I met a 1% from Long Island a few years back, while i was living on the Russian River. We became friends. I lost contact with him in a sudden messy move that lost me his no. He has the misfortune to share the same name as a very famous actor, and a lifetimes worth of independance and personal privacy that has frustrated any attempts at regaining contact, but am not comfortable at giving any more of him up to any public space….except for this………no more affialiated, he still rides(and your words channel him in spots)… and is very tall-very! should this spark anything,…..I gave him a nickname that he would know is me….”Brooklyn” You need no explanation of why no more I am sure…. but should someone ever smile at that nick and claim it as an old woman’s silliness- give him my email addie without hesitation. And please I hope to find more of your work…. but if I don”t…WHY the hell not? Get busy with it!! I know a bit when it comes to writing……..and as to the other question, my name and email are both for real and are a pledge of my honor……I knmow the road well of which you wrote, though sadly, not on a bike… but solo.. and you have described my “dark desert highway” in the truest words inmany years….though I have been smat enough to always do it at night!! lolol Thank you again forthis story…….

  2. Shep Says:

    Rebel that was one of the best reads that I’ve ever read! The way you describe your journey puts anyone reading it right beside you in a sense.
    Did Jacket Man even offer to buy you a beer? shot? or both?
    Anyways from this Old Dogs mind It was told very well and very moving.
    Thanks Again Rebel

  3. fuckjeffgoldblum Says:

    Thanx again …great read..

  4. Rebel Says:

    Dear riflerider,

    Hi George.


  5. riflerider Says:

    Just found your blog. Love this piece. Aging rebel, meet George the painter…

  6. Road Whore Says:

    Fuckin’ great, Reb!

    Ride Free

  7. Tidesfalls Says:

    Like everyone else has commented above, this is really great work. I am a fan of Neil Peart, and I’d say your writing is on par if not better. This has got to be your calling.

    Your ability to engage and move your readers is impressive, and I’d guess that you are picking up fans exponentially.

    Please keep it coming.

    – Ron

  8. Quintus Sartorius Says:

    “The gravitas of Caesar’s…” You are a genius.

  9. Rebel Says:

    Dear Fix,

    Thank you for your kind words.


  10. Fix Says:

    Every now and then I read something that makes me stop, and say “wow.” Just recently came across your blog and site and read this piece. Fantastic. You’re amazingly talented and I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this story. You’re the real deal my man. A notch above.

    Huge respect.

  11. sleddog Says:


  12. TFP Says:

    I have lurked on your site for a long time and love it

    After reading this I finally had to say something, this is a great bit of writing and I felt like I was riding next to you with a mouth full of bugs coz I was smiling so much


  13. Rebel Says:

    Dear Squirts,

    Thanks for your kind words. I’m glad you liked the piece. No, I will never be mainstream. Got a story coming in a couple of days about an emerging biker author who is mainstream, though.

    May the wind be your friend,

  14. Squirts Says:

    Great writing, man… Really well done. As much as I enjoyed “Out Bad”, if you were to write a collection of road stories like the one above, I’ll bet you could go “mainstream”. Anybody who has ridden any amount of miles, yuppie, RUB, or outlaw, can appreciate your experiences. Smooth road ‘n sunny days to you. Respects

  15. thetroll Says:

    rebel thanx i was born in them there hills
    .just north of moab and greenriver brought back some memorys. i live in the big city of salt now,if your ride this way again i will buy you a beer or two.

  16. YYZ Skinhead Says:


    Something about this thread…whenever I load the index page for the site I get hit in the face. BOIIINGG!! lol.

    (Of course the guys all like it…uh, like them.)

    YYZ Skinhead

  17. stroker Says:

    Also…………I like that you didn’t even mention where you were coming from, which was most likely Sturgis. Yeah brother, it’s the ride!
    Not the destination.

  18. stroker Says:

    Ahh….the Rebel Rides Again!
    Thank You so much Rebel. I rode with you on that one. Been over every road you mentioned at one time or another. Hit Vegas in August one time on my pan. Engine seized in that traffic, and that was back in the early eighties! Had to cool off in the Flamingo til I could kick start her again!

    Rebel sez:
    “I check out the women at the next table. Two of them are sort of pretty, plump girls. Next to them is a woman who looks like what happens to a sort of pretty, plump girl if you put her in the back of your refrigerator and forget about her for forty years.”

    Laughed so hard my cheetos and iced tee came out my nose!
    That paragraph right there is priceless. Just priceless!

    Thank you for the “fix.”

    I love you angry/whimsical/road-weary/lavish/cynical descriptions of our great west, and the “tar snakes” I/we love to travel!


  19. SMFtwstdHICK Says:

    This piece just made my morning.

    Great writing Rebel. Really enjoyed it.

    Work isn’t going to be so bad this morning now. And, if it does get crappy. I will come back and read this again.

    Thanks for sharing.

  20. RLG Says:

    Good one dude!

  21. RVN69 Says:

    July 2003, 113 in the shade probably over 120 on the strip in Vegas. Got so hot the bikes began to knock so we hit the sidewalks to avoid traffic. Upset a few pedestrians but managed to find a side street and a shaded parking garage to hide in case anyone called the cops. Left a couple of hours later after an overpriced lousy lunch, crossed the Hoover Dam and skinny dipped in Lake Meade on the way to Arizona. I’d rather take a beating than go back to that tourist trap filled with foreigners.

    “I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not.”

  22. troyez Says:

    “…maybe I’ll go out in a head on crash with a forty pound bird with claws like shark’s teeth.”

    But seriously, nice tale.

  23. Snow Says:


  24. JD Says:

    Awesome read as always – thanks Rebel

  25. Bruce Cffc Says:

    That was awesome. I’ve been through those areas many times, and you fucking nailed it. I never thought too much about the kuchina dolls, but they do have power.

  26. Cap'n Bill Says:

    I’ve taken parts of the same ride before. Mex Hat, the road from 70 to Moab, & the corner where Az & Utah meet. We went to the north rim from the east this year. It’s one of those trips that you take because you REALLY want to, a rough way to go, I tell ya.
    Any ol’ way, it’s a hell of a story that brings to mind some old memories. Some of these new guys just don’t want to enjoy all those ‘precious moments…’
    Be Cool, Mon

  27. (btb) back to basics Says:

    Damn good article.

  28. Grumbler Says:

    @Pig – The best Monte Cristo that I’ve ever masticated was at the Blue Bayou Restaurant next to the Pirates of the Caribbean boat ride at Disneyland. That was maybe 15-years ago. Jackpot issa 3 hour drone from my humble adobe. A Monte Cristo washed down with a craft brew would hit the mark.

  29. Jenkx Says:

    Pure Gold!

  30. Pig Says:

    God damn you got a way with words Rebel. I’ve done a bit of riding in the Vegas area myself. Never liked that city though. There’s a sushi joint called Yama Sushi on Flamingo road that is worth the trip. Anytime I find myself in the Las Vegas area, I always make sure I have $50 in my wallet to get the people version of cut bait there. Makes the trip worth it. The heat is unbearable as you described but riding in to work this morning with snow stinging my face sure makes me look forward to next April/May when I can bitch about the heat again!

    @ Grumbler – The Desert Room Restaurant in Cactus Pete’s in Jackpot serves a great Monte Cristo if you like that sort of thing.
    Semper Fi

  31. Jim666 Says:

    ahaha, great read Rebel, I agree w/ Austin witches are smarter.

  32. Vikingtrotter Says:


  33. KK Says:

    Refreshing, greatly appreciated. Rebel pasties, nice!


  34. Rebel Says:

    Dear Ol’LadyRider,

    Hungry, thirsty and horny. About like usual. Thank yopu very much but don’t get carried away, now.


  35. puterindabasketchief Says:

    Fucking beautiful.

    Chew up the same roads on a regular basis. Makes me want to go for a ride. But, then most things do.

  36. YYZ Skinhead Says:

    That, Rebel, was some Good Shit.

    Vegas in August? Ouch. The last time I tried something similar I turned into a walking chunk of human jerky. Never, never again without a portable 50-gallon drum of lukewarm (not icy) Hetch Hetchy water.

    YYZ Skinhead

  37. Madd Says:

    Thank you Rebel, that is all.

  38. Grumbler Says:

    Excellent read! Never been to Las Vegas which is just as well given all those constipated lights and triple digit temperatures. Reno, yes. Around here bikers head over to Jackpot, an unincorporated casino town in Nevada’s Elko County, via US-93. Has one psuedo intersection with lights and two crosswalks.

  39. shovelNY Says:


    Well Fuckin’ Done

  40. Glenn S. Says:

    Big V said: “One of the saddest things is that I’ve read every book ever written about our culture, and the only two books that are really well written are “Out Bad” and “The Probate”. You and Roadblock nailed it, you both write beautifully, your work is compelling, and it speaks to something inside a person.”

    I received my signed copy of The Probate in the mail day before yesterday. I read four chapters last night and I’m impressed. Amazon didn’t give me the option to ask for a signed copy, so I e-mailed Roadblock, on the off chance that he processed his own orders, and asked for one to be signed “to Glenn”. He not only answered my e-mail, but saw to it that my copy was signed.

    The shame of it is that both Rebel and Roadblock had to self publish. They won’t see the big bucks that their writing talent deserves.

    Rebel, thanks for sharing your August ride. I felt like I was there.

  41. Ol'LadyRider Says:

    Thank you, Rebel. I know that ride well, but I never could have described it.

    I have permanent red skin patches on the bottom inside of my thighs from sitting at those Vegas lights that never, ever change.

    When you have finished a piece of art like this one, I wonder how you feel. Triumphant? Drained? Cleansed?

  42. Uncle Don Says:

    That is art Rebel. Pure talent.

    uncle don

  43. sled tramp Says:

    Absolute fuckin’ poetry.Outstanding.Thank you for lighting my dark little corner of the asylum.

  44. JMacK Says:

    Fuckin. Eh.

    Thanks again Rebel.

  45. BigV Says:


    If only Hollywood and America realized and appreciated real talent.

    Hunter Thompson once wrote as well as you do, Rebel. If he still had that ability, he’d have never killed himself.

    One of the saddest things is that I’ve read every book ever written about our culture, and the only two books that are really well written are “Out Bad” and “The Probate”. You and Roadblock nailed it, you both write beautifully, your work is compelling, and it speaks to something inside a person.

    It pisses me off you don’t receive the recognition you deserve, when Kurt Sutter, Billy Queen, and Jay Dobyns have had their jock straps optioned for a movie treatment. Too often real talent isn’t recognized until it is already way too late.

    I’ll be sure to click a few ads.

    O/T, but your post above elicited the following mental diarrhea:

    My old man worked for OMC during the hayday of the go-fast boat. Runners would come in with suitcases of cas and buy OMC Cobra, OMC Stern, and OMC Lighting Evinrude and Johnsons. Occasionally, you’d have a really serious old boy come in and special order Stern drives minus the engine and have them retrofitted with twin 454’s and rarely you’d see one where someone found some factory replacement 440’s or a pair of Keith Black 426 Hemi’s. The boys buying them would pay cash for them, and then run them up on the beach. The most common replaced item was the drive unit, because it got all fucked up leaving the water. Sal Magluta and Willy Falcon had open accounts at large dealership in South Florida to get theirs fixed.

    The boats would be seized and sold at auction, and be right out anywhere from the night of the sale to no more than 2 weeks after an auction. My dad was in materials at the plant that made the drive units and gearcases, and a HUGE order came in for several drive units and several propeller drives and gear cases- and by several I mean 15 replacement stern drives and 22 gear case and prop shafts with prop’s. This was an order placed by one guy. He was in such a hurry that he rented out an 18 wheeler and an owner operator to drive it, and not only that, he brought in rigging insurance so he could use his own fork lifts to load the units into the truck. And that wasn’t uncommon at Evinrude/Johnson or Mercury.

    Finally in the mid-late 80’s, the Stern drive became a slow seller and was sold to Volvo. A corporate geek was in Waukeegan and lamented to my father that it just didn’t make sense how Stern drives had fallen off in sales, and that the Lightnings day’s were numbered. My dad laughed and told him that the days of running the boats up on beaches and offloading were over- poor geek actually seemed like he didn’t know what my dad was talking about.

  46. Austin Says:

    Going east you get to hang over the river going through that canyon.

    “But, I am not convinced that witches are any smarter than psychiatrists or priests.”

    They are.

  47. Rom Zom Says:

    God damn man…that piece is on another level. Story from the heart. My father loves the kachinas, and that area of the country. Your story took me to my days in the southwest with him and the benders i’ve had in vegas. If only I could get him to see it with me on a motorcyle.

    Write on and ride till your last.

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