Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Good morning, Madtown Mob! Hope y'all survived the holiday without hangovers!

The Sporty chopper is about ready to go back together! Just about finished with paint, and then it's the final assembly!

Monday, May 28, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Well, I dumped my Shovelhead today...

I dropped it into gear, and the clutch was locked up solid. I was barely rolling, but it broke the clutch lever and the gravel punched a hole in the outer primary. I'm just thankful that it didn't hurt the paint or do any major damage. I pulled the clutch apart and all the discs and steels were stuck together so tight I had to pry them apart with a screwdriver! I think the discs are so slick that pressure vacuum locked them all together. Why ME allatime??

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Well, it's a bit late for an old dog like me to be up an' about!

Had a fun ride in the hills and a good ol' overstuffed all-American hamburger with BACON for lunch, then on to Jim & Allie's for a fun evening of food, games, and great friends!! What a day! Thanks, everybody!

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Thanks for all the birthday wishes! I sure wish I could fly to Hawaii for my birthday... Maybe I'll run for President!

Last year (2011) Obama flew in Air Force One 172 times, almost every other day. White House officials have been telling reporters in recent days that the Democrat doesn't intend to hang around the White House quite so much in 2012.They explain he wants to get out more around the country because, as everyone knows, that midterm election shellacking had nothing to do with his health care bill, over-spending or other policies, and everything to do with Obama's not adequately explaining himself to his countrymen and women.

And with only 288 days remaining in Obama's never ending presidential campaign, the incumbent's travel pace will not likely slacken. At an Air Force-estimated cost of $181,757 per flight HOUR (not to mention the additional travel costs of Marine One, Secret Service, logistics and local police overtime), that's a lot of frequent flier dollars going into Obama's carbon footprint.

$8 Million every time it lands & takes off.

We are privy to some of these numbers thanks to CBS' Mark Knoller, a bearded national treasure trove of presidential stats. According to Knoller's copious notes, during the last year, Obama made 65 domestic trips over 104 days, and six trips to eight countries over 22 days. Not counting six vacation trips over 32 days. He took 196 helicopter trips, signed 203 pieces of legislation and squeezed in 29 rounds of left-handed golf.

Obama last year gave 491 speeches, remarks or statements. That's more talking than goes on in some entire families, at least from fatherly mouths. In fact, even including the 24 days of 2010 that we never saw Obama in public, his speaking works out to about one official utterance every 11 waking hours. Aides indicate the "Real Good Talker" believes we need more.

Related: Obama spends nearly half his presidency outside Washington , plans to travel more.

Related: Vacationer-in-Chief Spends $1.75 Million to Visit Hawaiian Chums.

Obama has spent over $100 million taxpayer dollars flying around in Air Force One, and probably another $100 million on his entourage.

Obama is just another tin-pot dictator living lavishly at the expense of his subjects.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Good evening, Madtown Mobbers! Check out this SIK chopper!

Just log on to www.bikernet.com. The story's right there on the front page!

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Well, it looks like someone finally remembered how things were back in the day! This is how it was, and how it SHOULD be!

Today, when someone does something stupid and hurts someone else they just shrug and walk away. These guys know how to handle the situation the way we did "back in the day". Stupid SHOULD hurt!

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Hey, does anybody out there want something DIFFERENT to set their bike, hotrod, or kitchen sink apart from the rest???

My amigo, Keith, the owner, slave, and H.M.F.I.C. at Tamarack Machine Works is an artist with billet! If you can dream it up, he can make it! From personalized derby covers, belt drive covers, shift linkage and forward controls to triple trees, lowering kits and more, he can put your own personal mark on whatever accessory you want instead of those cookie cutter "Live to Ride" things that everybody else has! He does club logos and military logos too... You name it! If you want to see his work in person, he has a booth at the Valley Rendezvous in Madera this weekend, so go by and check him out, or click on his website at http://www.tamarackmw.com/.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Howdy Madtown Mob! Hope you're havin' a great weekend!

I went to the Screamin' Demon's annual Shovelhead Run today. Always a great time with The Demons! I ran across this GORGEOUS Shovel / Knucklehead (Shovel lowers, Knuck uppers) and had to share a few shots with ya! Check out the chain drive generator! More one-off parts on this bike than you can shake a stick at! You could spend hours looking at this bike and still not see everything! It was built by Dalton at Split Image Kustoms in Hanford, Ca. Enjoy the pix!

Friday, May 11, 2012

R.I.P. (Racing In Paradise) Carroll Shelby.

The father of the Cobra and many more world class race cars passed away at age 89. He will truly be missed by not only the racing community, but anyone who loves fast cars. He has been an icon since the 1960s, but always a humble and friendly man. He truly was one of the good guys!

Good Friday morning, Madtown Mob! Here's a story to start yer weekend!


By Buckshot

            The desert night dropped a velvet blanket over the Mojave, the outline of the surrounding mountains slowly surrendering to the inevitable darkness.
          Bart drew in a deep breath, tasting the scent of sage on the cool air that blew in through the open window of his pickup as he sped down the road. The beams of his headlights seemed to dance along the straight, black ribbon of asphalt, the seemingly endless expanse of the desert disappearing just past their reach.
          He glanced in his mirror, making sure the product of more than a year of his sweat, blood, and money still rode safely, strapped down tight in the battered bed of his old pickup.
          Bart smiled with satisfaction as the mirror reflected the light of a quarter moon on the chrome and billet, throwing errant sparks of light that reminded him of the tracer bullets from the M-60 machine gun he’d carried in ‘Nam.
          “Long damn drive,” he mumbled, his voice carried away by the force of the wind that swept through the cab.
He looked down at the speedometer. The needle jerked spastically between eighty and eighty-five miles per hour, the expanse of the desert making even this speed seem like he was crawling.
The Rat’s Hole show at Daytona. All the big names would be there, proudly showing off their newest creations. Machines that looked to Bart like they came from outer space. He admired the craftsmanship and care that went into their construction, but he always felt out of place among them, like a mutt at a dog show. This time, though, he knew his labor of love could be pitted against the best the big boys could throw at him.
The custom motorcycle had nearly come full circle now, with rigid frames, long front ends, and straight pipes drawing the young and the nostalgic back in time like a candle in the window.
This was Bart’s time. This was a homecoming; a return to the era that had spawned the chrome and candy goddess that rode just inches behind him.
Bart yawned, wiping a calloused hand over his face, the flesh feeling stiff and tight, his eyelids heavy. Damn, I’m tired, he thought, pushing himself straighter in the seat. Guess I should’ve waited ‘till tomorrow to head out.
Another yawn seized him, and he allowed his eyelids to flicker shut for just an instant…
The vibration in the steering wheel as the tires left the pavement woke Bart with a soundless scream, his hands whipping the wheel, his eyes searching for the edge of the road, but finding only stunted brush and gray bushes in the headlight beams. With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bart felt the front tires drop into a gully cut across the sand by eons of runoff from the torrential spring rains.
He felt the impact of the steering wheel in his chest as the breath left him in a rush; his last vision through the shattered windshield was his Goddess; his creation, cart wheeling across the sand, the remnants of red nylon straps trailing behind like obscene streamers, before the fingers of merciful blackness reached out to claim him.

Glare penetrated Bart’s eyelids, feeding the flames of excruciating pain that squirmed deeper into his skull.
“When I spoke to him a minute ago, I saw a flicker of recognition, Doctor.”
The soft feminine voice penetrated the fog that seemed to insulate Bart from the world around him. He lay still, for the slightest movement sent pain radiating to every point in his battered body.
“I think he’ll be coming around soon.”
Bart heard the squeak of the Doctor’s shoe soles on the floor as he walked toward the door. “Let me know when he wakes up, Nina.”
I AM awake, Bart thought, but the effort of speaking seemed overwhelming, and he slipped back into sleep without opening his eyes.

“How do ya’ get some food around here?” he croaked, the sound of his voice causing the white clad figure looking out the window to jump.
“OH! You’re awake!”
She smiled as she moved across the room toward him, the sunshine through the window behind her turning her auburn hair into a copper halo.
“My name’s Nina,” she said. “I guess it’s a silly question, but how do you feel?
Bart closed his eyes against the glare as she moved around his bed, the sunlight her body had blocked shining full into his eyes. “Been a hell of a lot better,” he rasped.
She laid a soft hand on his forehead. “You’re lucky to be alive at all. A trucker spotted the wreckage just after dawn, and stopped to investigate. He called 911, and they barely got you here in time. Do you remember the helicopter ride into Vegas?”
Bart slowly moved his head from side to side. “Last thing I remember was my bike tumblin’ across the damn desert… Hey… Where’s my bike?”
A feeling of panic seized Bart’s mind, and he tried to sit up, only to fall sideways, nearly toppling off the bed. “What the…”
He reached down, running his fingers tentatively down his left thigh until they dropped off onto the sheet.
“No!” He looked toward Nina, his eyes wide with fear. “My leg…”
She pressed her hand gently against his chest, forcing him down onto the pillow. “They had to take it off above the knee, Bart. It was crushed, and trapped in the wreckage without circulation for too long. They couldn’t save it.”
Bart lay back, gasping for breath, his chest heaving.
“Your Harley’s safe, though.”
She sat down in the chair beside the bed. “It’s beautiful, despite the damage.”
“You’ve seen it?” he rasped.
“Yes. I had Evan, the tow truck driver take it to my place. It’s safer in my garage than at the tow yard.”
Bart looked up into her angelic face, the green eyes seeming to penetrate his soul. “That was nice of you, Nina. I appreciate it.”
She smiled, but not the radiant smile he’d seen when he first opened his eyes. “It’s good to have a Harley in that garage again. We… My husband and I used to ride.”
“Quit ridin’, huh?” he asked. He felt somehow let down at the mention of her husband, although he had no logical reason to.
Her eyes started to glisten with a trace of moisture. “He… Was killed two years ago. An old woman turned left in front of him, and he couldn’t avoid her.”
“I’m sorry, Nina…” The words seemed inadequate somehow, but Bart couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She gave a half-hearted shrug and stood. “I’d better let Doctor Walters know you’re awake.”
Bart felt a bit guilty for bringing back her hurtful memories, but couldn’t stop himself from staring at her backside as she walked toward the door. What’s the use of lookin’?, he asked himself, running a hand down his left thigh. What would she want with a damn cripple?

The past week had seen Bart’s strength return in limited measure, and he stood in front of the window, the padded top of an aluminum crutch wedged under his left arm.
He watched a construction crew at work building an industrial complex in the next block. He didn’t turn when he heard Nina’s footsteps approaching.
She held out several photos, and he flipped through them as he leaned on the crutch. He shook his head. “Over a year of work gone because of one stupid mistake.”
“I… I had a biker friend look at it,” she told him, her jade eyes turned up to meet his. “I didn’t think you’d mind. He says the forks and handlebars are bent, and the carb’s knocked off… The wheels are probably bent too, but the frame’s okay, and so are the engine and transmission. It could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah,” he growled, holding out the stump of his leg. “Everything could’a been worse. How come I don’t feel so damn lucky, Huh?”
“Are you ready to start therapy yet?” She changed the subject, still standing beside him at the window.
“What’s the use?” he spat.
She turned to face him, hands on her hips. “They can fit you with a prosthetic leg. Even the knee and ankle work. Then you can get on with your life.”
“Yeah,” he snarled. “The life of a cripple!”
She poked a slender finger against his chest. “You’re no cripple unless you want to be!”
She turned and pointed out the window at the afternoon traffic. “You’re going to stop whining, get back on your feet, fix that beautiful damned motorcycle, and take me for a ride down that street out there!”
“What do you know about how I feel?” he muttered. “And who’d want ta ride with a cr…” He stopped in mid sentence as she reached down and pulled the hem of her skirt up, exposing creamy flesh and white lace. She bent and rapped on the plastic flesh of her right lower leg with her knuckles.
Bart stared, shocked speechless, not only by the sight of her knee protruding from the padded collar of the plastic calf, but the beauty of what had been hidden by the nurse’s uniform.
“That’s how I know, Bart. I was with my husband when he was killed.” She looked at him defiantly, a challenge in her eyes. “Am I a cripple, Bart..? Am I?”
“N… No! Lord, no!” he stammered. “I didn’t know…”
“Damn right, you didn’t, Buster!” She dropped her skirt and smoothed it with her hands. “Now let’s get to work on you.”
Bart hobbled closer to the window with the help of the unfamiliar crutch, and stared out silently at the city, and the half-finished industrial park below.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Nina asked, looking up at him.
He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “Just thinkin’,” he said, “that a growin’ city like Vegas can use another custom motorcycle shop.”

The next few weeks passed slowly for Bart. Pain from where his stump was healing, and the rigors of therapy to build up damaged muscle tissue almost caused him to give up, but Nina always seemed to be there at the right time to keep him going.
When he was finally released from the hospital, Nina drove him straight to her house. The garage door swung up smoothly at the touch of a button, and the morning sunshine caressed the chrome below a canvas cover she’d thrown over Bart’s bike. The twisted metal still glistened like the jeweled tiara of a mythical goddess.
She parked her van in the driveway and stepped out, helping Bart from the passenger seat. He stood, leaning on his crutch as she entered the garage and swept the cover off the battered Harley.
Bart turned at the sound of an engine idling behind them; an old gray Ford pickup creeping slowly past. The truck stopped and the driver shouted “Hey… You know where 4783 is?”  Nina pointed down the street, and the driver waved, and drove on.
Using the crutch for balance, Bart walked slowly forward to stand above his creation.
“She’s hurt, alright,” he shook his head sadly. “But we’ll make her right, won’t we Lady?” he asked, his eyes on Nina.
She smiled, folding the tarp to lay it on the floor beside the Harley. “Bet your ass we will!” she said. “But first, we’d better get you inside. You need to rest, and I have to feed the dog, pull the van in here, then make dinner.”
She led him inside, and settled him in a recliner with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass.

“Wha…” Bart was awakened by Nina’s dog barking under the bedroom window. He rolled over and awakened Nina. “Does the dog always carry on like that?” 
“No,” she answered. “Something’s wrong out there!”
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she fumbled with her fiberglass prosthetic leg, while Bart grabbed his crutch from the floor and hobbled toward the door in his underwear. “You own a gun?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No, I never needed one.”
“You do now,” he said, his head out the open window. “Somebody’s in the garage!”
Bart stumbled outside. Nearly falling when the tip of his crutch caught on the flagstone walkway, he reached out, catching to corner of the garage wall to regain his balance.
Backed into the driveway was the old gray Ford pickup he’d seen earlier. Two men ran for the cab, and Bart could see his Harley… His Goddess, thrown carelessly into the bed of the old truck.
Stumbling forward, he swung his crutch at the windshield as the truck’s tires screamed on the flagstones. As the crutch completed its arc, Bart lost his balance and toppled forward into the path of the fleeing thieves, the pickup’s left front fender knocking him to the ground.
Bart lay on the cold stones of the driveway and watched the old truck disappear down the street, his Harley flopping wildly around in the bed.
From somewhere far away, he could hear Nina screaming. By the time his head quit spinning, she knelt at his side, his head cradled in her lap.
Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as her trained hands felt along his ribs and shoulders, checking for injuries.
“Ow… Easy, Lady!”  Bart struggled upright and sat with his head cradled in his hands. “I’m okay,” he rasped. “But they got The Goddess. They’ll have her stripped and sold within hours.”
Nina smiled through her tears, wiping the salty drops from her cheeks with the back of a shaking hand. “Maybe it was meant to be, Bart. Maybe it’s time to let go of our old lives, and start over.”
With Nina’s help, Bart struggled to stand, the bent crutch propped under his arm. “Maybe you’re right, Nina,” he said. “We’ll start on another bike as soon as I can get my shop equipment out here. Besides,” he chuckled, slapping Nina on her shapely backside, “There’s only room enough in my life for one Goddess at a time.”

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Good morning, Madtown Mob! Have you ever been told not to bring a knife to a gun fight?

This military toy called The Switchblade" is great for taking out insurgents in combat zones, but it's now slated to go to the Federal Police... Not so good. Can anyone say Ruby Ridge, or Waco??? Cut and paste this link to You Tube if you have to, but do watch it! Ain't technology great?


Monday, May 7, 2012

Well, it's Monday afternoon... Did anybody get anything accomplished? How 'bout it, Madtown Mob??

Today, I got the color shot on the sheet metal for a friend's bike, but it was too windy to shoot the clear. Candy Tangerine is really picky about dirt and yard trash... I'll finish it up tomorrow. Reggie and I bought a 24 foot toy hauler today. With her paralysis and my torn hip cartilage and banged up knee, we can't ride all the way to Sturgis, but we can take turns driving while the other one rides. 

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Good Sunday afternoon, Madtown Mob! Went on a GREAT ride today!

Reggie & I went on a great ride with North Fresno Hog today! Rode up Highway 49 to Mariposa for breakfast, then on into Yosemite, where we rode around Yosemite Valley, stopped at Bridal Veil Falls and Curry Village before heading home down Highway 41! The weather was perfect, traffic was courteous, and Bruce and Sherry Garlock did a fantastic job setting everything up, and leading us on the ride! Thanks, guys, it was really fun!!

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Nearly had a Sinko- De- Mayo mishap!

Went for a ride to the Blessing of the Bikes this morning with North Fresno H.O.G.. Met for a great breakfast at Yosemite Falls, then across town to the dealership. From there, a pack of about 30 to 40 bikes headed to the church for the blessing ceremony. On our way, a Fresno County Sheriff's deputy made a left turn right in front of the pack, and nearly put the front half dozen bikes down! Barely enough reaction time to avoid broad-siding the idiot! Brakes were locked, tires were slid, nerves were frazzled, but thankfully, no injuries and no riders down! Mute testimony to the riding skills of Bruce and the others in the lead!! I've never flipped a cop off before, but I sure as Hell did this morning! With all the bikers the cops see killed by blind-ass cagers turning left, you'd think they'd open their own damned eyes. I thought about calling the sheriff, or at least the offending moron's watch commander, but that would just be pissin' in the wind. Just goes to show ya that you can't trust ANYBODY, not even a cop who's damned well supposed to know better!

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Check this link out! Now, THIS is a well travelled Harley!