ON THE ROAD

You're sitting there in the bar's half-light, and slowly you become aware of a drone cutting through the music and conversation, a drone with more than a touch of growl in it, widening, getting richer, more complex, as it gets louder. Hum the bass note, go ahead, hum it to yourself, and listen to the other parts working together in harmony, the polyrhythms of machinery until they're right outside: ENGINE ENGINE ENGINE ENGINE ahhhh...

Now, and only now, is it cool to cock your head a bit towards the window to see the scoots starting their easy rest on the chromed kickstand, front forks extended lazily and arrogantly in a reluctant concession to the laws of physics.

And they don't hear how loud the door is when they slam it open because they've been atop those things for miles — a full run or just a putt, it makes no difference really. They walk into the bar, heavy boots on the floor, things clanking.. .

When you're riding one of these things, you see, the world is rushing at you in the most intimate way possible. A lifetime of riding in cars can in no way prepare you for the communion with that spherical-shaped space that is constantly with you, changing as you head down the highway. And there's wind — you're causing it. It's trying to pull your whole face back into your ears, your eyes want to open and close simultaneously and they're watering, stinging from little pieces of... And you can't help smiling — I won't even explain that.

And because you can't help smiling, the good Lord has provided something for you. In His infinite wisdom and concern for your body's welfare. He has provided a substance which not only thoroughly dissolves the black, gritty corpses of the hapless airborne insects that have died upon your teeth (toothpaste doesn't work, so don't bother), but also loosens up the cunthairs that have gotten caught between them. It is called beer.

(This is an excerpt from The American Chopped, a forthcoming book by Dennis Anderson. — Ed.)

Denny Loughlin, House of Cycles, Chicago: "I cherried out a 1970 frame, raked it 3/4 inches and did all the necessary moulding. Girder forks by EME co. put the front wheel out 15". That's a 2:75 x 17 Pirelli laced to a Radelli Wm. wheel and a Cheetah spool." Right.

This photo was taken at a carnival somewhere on Detroit's outskirts, and if the people who had taken their families there for an evening of fun were worried when the Vigilantes (pictured), and then the Detroit chapter of the Outlaws, and then another club called Hell's Our Home pulled ;up to the beer tent, there wasn't really any reason. The clubs are allies; or were when the pictures were taken, anyway. And not even Detroit's finest mess with the Vigilantes. In fact, the police and the Vigilantes have a kind of working non-aggression pact with each other.

We wouldn't dare suggest messing with the Vigilantes, of course, since they are well-armed, but they're still not your stereotype bikers. They're incorporated, and they bought a new clubhouse this year in the suburbs to get away from the mess that is downtown Detroit. When they go on runs, they are very likely to head for the back woods of Michigan's Upper Peninsula or the sunny hills of Tennessee. And when they aren't riding choppers, well, several of the boys have Cadillac Eldorados.

Jimmy Quinn is better than Evel Kneivel. Maybe Evel would dispute that statement, but nobody who rides bikes in Chicago would, jimbo's a1 hero to the patrons of Monk Chokak's East Side bar. Tricky Dick's, where he hangs out. Every Sunday, Monk brings in a side of roast Iamb, and serves beer on the house. After everybody's loose, they go outside and watch Jimmy do wheelies.

Jimmy doesn't just do wheelies you understand, he's the best there is, anywhere. He can go six blocks on one wheel, accelerating and decelerating, shifting gears, and getting it up as high as 80 mph. It's rough on his XriumpHs, true, and he usually takes only three months to wear one out so totally that it's only good for scrap. The front tire will look like new, and the back one'll be bald as a coot. For all this, and considering that Jimmy's been riding for twelve years, including the six months he spent scrambling in Joliet (and winning every single purse there, by the way), he's never once dropped a bike.

"Chopper" John Zelek is his name, and he's a probationary with the famed Vigilantes. That's Chopper you see racing down the Chicago streets at 135 miles per hour just because he doesn't like to go slow. And that's Chopper's 1959 Harley XLCH sitting on hzis kitchen floor just because he likes to know where it is at night. In the morning, Chopper jumps on the back of the bike and zooms out of the kitchen and onto the streets. They don't call him Chopper for nothing.