The B.S.* Report 3
(British Standard)
I-75. All the way from Sault Ste Marie, Michigan to Naples, Florida. 1600 miles or more. I-75 acts as a great funnel, collecting bikers from all over the mid-west and sending them south towards Florida. I know that while I'm loading up, there's thousands more doing the same thing at exactly the same time. I'm not really on my way till I get to I-75. After I pass the airport, take that long looping ramp and merge into that sixteen hundred mile long parade, then . . . By God, don't get in my way, 'cause I'm headed for Daytona!!
I've been doing this for sixteen years but every time the start is just as exciting. Only four hundred miles south are fifty thousand other motorcycle fools whose hearts beat as one and whose souls hunger for four things - warmer weather, younger woman, faster motorcycles, and more beer!
What I really like about Daytona (besides the afore mentioned warmer, younger, faster and more) is that everywhere you go, you meet people who speak motorcycle. They know a Norton from a Triumph, a Harley from a Vincent. If you mention road rash or sissy bar or suicide clutch, you don't have to explain yourself.
I went into HoJo's one morning for breakfast. The place was full and I was seated at a table with a overweight, Italian looking guy. He was about sixty, wearing what looked like golfing clothes. To make conversation, I asked if he was down on business or for Bike Week.
"Bike Week," he said. "I've been down every year since 1957. I used to ride my Sportster from Philly but I've had some heart problems, so now I bring it in the van."
You can never tell. The scruffy looking guy in the cutoff Levi jacket might be a doctor or lawyer, an airline pilot or the chairman of the board.
On the other hand...
The day I met Knucklehead, he was sitting on the wall in front of the Boot Hill Saloon. All he was wearing was a pair of Levi's with the knees gone and what looked like battery acid holes down both legs. He had jail house tattoos on the knuckles of both hands -"LOVE" on the right and "HATE" on the left. In between, up one arm, across his back, and down the other arm, was solid tattoos. Once colorful, they had faded into a patchwork of gray like a tight dirty tee shirt. He had three or four earrings in each ear and a Harley Davidson emblem tattooed on his shaved head.
When I commented on how much that one must have hurt, he said, "Not as much as this one," and pulled down his lower lip to reveal brown, tobacco stained teeth and "FUCK YOU" tattooed on the inside of his lip.
If you see Knucklehead a month after Daytona, he won't be convening a board meeting or piloting a 727.
If you see him in court, he won't be the one in the three piece suit saying to the judge,"I object, your Honor!" That's the beauty of it - you can be who you want to be or you can be just exactly who you are.
Daytona is eating at the Lighthouse after the Vintage Races and kidding the guy who ran out of gas on the third lap. It's waiting for Glen Bewley while he gets his annual speeding ticket. (Glen's motto: If you don't get at least one ticket, you aren't really having fun.)
It's turn 6 on Friday, Nortona, and everyone's favorite sleaze bar, the Shark Lounge.
Yes, Daytona/ is a celebration of bikes and bikers that you don't want to miss.
Like they used to say in the Rock and Roll ads, "Be there or be Square!"