WHEELS OF RAGE
A Freeware Novel Of Action & Adventure
By Kurt Saxon
Read ahead here, if you like.
LOGISTICS OF A RUN AND A BIKER'S RODEO
A run is a great event in the biker's life.
It is one of his biggest reasons for owning a bike.
On the run he gets the chance to profile and perform for the citizens, demonstrating to the world what real class is.
The fear he inspires in uptight straight dudes is balm to his ego.
The destination of a run is usually three or four hundred miles away.
On the run the biker gets the chance to ride at breakneck speed through the countryside for up to a hundred miles at a stretch without stopping.
With a beer in his hand and a girl at his back and his comrades in front, behind and alongside, he is invincible and the world is his.
On the open stretch he also gets the fresh air he cannot get in the smoggy city.
Being primarily an urban animal he still enjoys the desert, forest and farmlands he rides through.
At the end of the run there is usually another city that promises some change from the city he has left.
He is certain of a weekend of rowdy partying and maybe even some trouble and excitement.
Then he will have the joy of barreling all the way back again to his home base.
Since he had a few hundred dollars ahead Big Mike decided to take a run to Las Vegas, Nevada.
He called around to all his troops and made up a roster of thirty positives for the trip that weekend.
Runs are often planned months ahead if it is a special occasion.
The night before a run is usually spent in feverish preparation.
Most bikers are lazy and let their bikes develop all sorts of bugs and defects.
Then at the last minute they are up all night getting their bikes ready for a run.
Indian's bike is an example of how a scooter can get rundown and loaded with jerry-rigged repairs that would not stand up on an extended run.
He used the wire from a string of Christmas tree lights for his wiring.
The linkage on his carburetor was held in place by a safety pin.
He rides an old eighty inch flathead which Big Mike pronounced a mess and said he could not go on the run unless it was overhauled.
The bike looked fine from a layman's point of view but it was still in horrible shape mechanically.
Indian, Big Mike and Pinocchio worked until the wee hours on Indian's bike.
Aside from the bad carburetor linkage and rotten wiring the timing was off and had to be reset.
When you are dealing with machines that are twenty or thirty years old, you can expect these things.
They will run forever but they need constant upkeep and there are parts that wear out.
A little jerry-rigging here and tightening there will suffice around town but a pre-run conscientious overhaul is often a must.
Before a run there are certain things that have to be checked and can be expected to need work.
The carburetor usually needs work as does various areas in the wiring.
The timing on the breaker points has to be adjusted.
The breaker points on a motorcycle compare to a distributor in a car.
Then the screws that go under the lifters that actuate the valves must be checked.
There is a screw right on the bottom of the lifter that goes into the hydraulic unit and these have a tendency to break off occasionally, from the pressure, especially if the machine is twenty years old or thereabouts.
Then all the nuts and bolts must be checked and tightened.
The axles and spacers are inspected to make sure they are where they belong.
There is often trouble because of wrongly placed spacers, which are parts on each side of the wheel on the axle.
These keep the wheel straight.
If put in backwards there is little trouble while running around town.
The problem shows up on the open road, however, and the wheel will begin to wobble dangerously at speed.
The wheel bearings must be checked to make sure they have plenty of grease.
Gas lines must be checked for leakage and oil leaks have to be looked for also.
The primary chain oiler usually has to be adjusted.
In town a little oil on the rear tire doesn't mean much because the street dirt usually sops it up.
But oil kicking out on the rear tire when the biker is barreling along on a clean freeway pavement is understandably dangerous.
After tightening all the gas and oil lines, the front end is checked for wobbles.
An important item is the chain check.
A chain in poor condition has a nasty habit of breaking.
It is most dangerous when the biker doesn't have a chain guard over the chain, and many outlaws do not.
If the chain snaps, it will leave scars on the rider's back and wrap itself around his neck like a snake if it breaks at speed.
A major consideration is the brake drum sprocket.
The Harley-Davidson company rivets the sprocket to the brake drum, which is on the left side of the rear wheel.
The function of the sprocket is to pull the brake drum around which in turn pulls the wheel.
If the rivets holding the sprocket to the brake drum snap then the sprocket keeps going around but the wheel is motionless.
Most bikers chrome their sprockets and brake drums and wheels.
When chroming the parts they usually decide they do not want to chance the chrome job being ruined by a detached sprocket so they have the sprocket
welded to the brake drum before it's chromed.
If the sprocket is not welded, the rivets are always closely inspected before a run.
To move thirty or more motorcycles from Glendale, California to Las Vegas, Nevada, a distance of three hundred miles, requires more equipment than most people would think.
First, one has to allow for breakdowns.
Even pre-run checks can't guarantee against hidden stresses and natural engine failings.
Three or four breakdowns, lasting up to an hour each, would really tie up a column.
What originally began as a six hour run to Vegas could easily stretch to twelve.
To avoid such hangups, along with the convoy of thirty or more motorcycles, it is a generally accepted practice to have a minimum of two crash trucks.
These are most often converted campers although some are merely pickups.
In case a scooter breaks down the rest of the pack moves on around it and it is loaded into the crash truck along with its rider.
The crash truck then catches up with the convoy and no time is lost.
Once inside the crash truck the rider goes to work fixing his scooter.
Unlike a motorist, a biker is usually an expert with the machine he operates.
He is certainly familiar with the eccentricities of his own scooter.
So with a good stock of tools and spare parts such as coils, batteries, nuts and bolts he is usually ready to ride by the time they reach the next rest stop.
Another reason chopper repairs are often simple is their small Sportster or "peanut" tanks.
The smaller tanks are not only for streamlining and style.
If one has a 74 that has a dresser, or regular size tank and something goes wrong with the carburetor, the tank has to be taken off in order to get at the trouble.
But the smaller tank allows the biker to get right in there with no obstruction.
This, alone, can save a whole lot of time on a run.
Ideally, it is good to have one crash truck for each ten bikes.
If two breakdowns occur at the same time, both machines cannot be loaded into the crash truck at once.
That means the single crash truck has to hang back until one bike is repaired and the other is loaded in.
For a while the club had two crash trucks.
One was donated by a member who had since fled the state.
Then some police came around and took the crash truck back to its owner.
Due to their small tanks, which only hold about a gallon, a convoy of choppers could not make it from some gas stations to others.
Even with a station every couple of miles the convoy would spend most of the time waiting for some individual to fill up if they did not have "inflight refueling."
This is usually done from a three wheeler with its bucket converted to a big gas tank.
These are often diddled from careless traffic cops.
At regular intervals, on command from the leader, the column spreads out single file.
Then the three wheeler pulls parallel to the leader.
The biker getting his scooter refueled keeps his right hand on the throttle and removes the gas tank cap with his left hand and puts it in his pocket.
Then he reaches over to the three wheeler for the gas hose and puts about a gallon in his tank.
When he is finished he hands back the hose and the three wheeler drops back to the next member, usually the vice-president.
He goes back from one to another until he has refueled even the prospects at the end of the line.
At the next rest stop the bikers fill their tanks from the station hose and the three wheeler's big tank is filled.
In this way no one runs out of gas between stations and individuals do not have to break out of the formation at every gas station.
On the morning of the run the bikers and their girls assembled at Big Mike's.
A squad car with siren screaming came tearing around the corner after Ape and his wife and got swallowed up in the middle of the pack.
The car had to stop because bikers were wandering all over the street but Ape and Sylvia barged on through and parked around in the alley.
Neighbors had called the police on general principal and soon there were eight squad cars there.
The bikers paid little attention to the police as they bustled about getting ready.
The police found where the club was going and radioed the highway patrol.
Finally they were all ready to go and Big Mike gave the order to start up and move out.
Windows rattled all over the neighborhood as the arrogant bikers kicked their engines to life and wheeled into formation.
Three of the squad cars took off around the corner so they could get in front of the column.
They escorted the group to the Glendale city limits where the highway patrol took over.
There were no incidents as the formation moved two-by-two down the San Bernardino Freeway.
When they turned off on Highway Fifteen toward Victorville, the highway patrol fell back and let them go on alone.
As always, when they first lost an escort, they broke formation and went weaving madly through traffic spooking all the motorists.
A few minutes of this exuberant foolishness was enough and then they reformed ranks and dug into their rucksacks for beer.
By the time they got to Barstow they were out of beer and almost out of gas.
They had left Glendale about seven-thirty and got to Barstow at about ten a. m.
Since few of them had eaten breakfast they all pulled into the parking lot of a little diner just outside of town.
The diner was run by an old man who could not begin to serve forty-five hungry motorcycle people as fast as they wanted to be served.
At first he thought he was going to be stomped.
Then he thought he would be robbed.
Finally he was shoved aside and told to take care of the cash register.
Three of the bikers had worked as fry cooks and five of the girls were occasional waitresses so they took over his whole operation.
Between them all they had everyone served in twenty minutes.
The bikers spilled out into the parking lot with platters of eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, toast, and cups of coffee and orange juice.
While the cooking was going on, the bikers gassed up at a nearby filling station and some others went to the liquor store and bought several cases of six-packs for the final leg of the run.
When the bikers left the diner the old man had a lot of cleaning to do but he was about a hundred dollars richer, which was a blessing to him for an hour's work.
The puny Barstow police force was just a few blocks past the diner waiting to escort the bikers to the other side of town.
They were cold eyed and terrified and the bikers just laughed at them as they roared past.
When they pulled up for one of Barstow's red lights the old buildings shook from their motors' reverberations and the citizens watching out of their windows were horrified at this insolent exhibition of a real, modern American private army.
Outside Barstow there was nothing but freeway and gas stations and wretched villages this side of Las Vegas.
The rest of the run was uneventful except for the thrill of flying over the pavement from mile after mile through the wild desert country.
About one o'clock that afternoon they came to the outskirts of Las Vegas and were stopped by a police road block.
The whole sheriff's department was there along with several police squad cars.
The convoy was directed to the side of the road and the sheriff approached Big Mike.
He was very businesslike and unfriendly.
Big Mike asked, "What's the trouble, Sheriff?
Have we done anything wrong?"
"Not yet you haven't and you're not going to," said the sheriff.
"If you people pass this point you're going to have to string out so there's only two motorcycles in any given block.
And I promise you we'll ticket you people for everything we can think of."
While the sheriff was talking there was a lot of yelling and screaming back at the camper.
Big Mike wheeled around and raced back to the scene.
Five policemen had shotguns leveled at Noah and Indian and two other cops were dragging all the rifles out of the camper and loading them into the back seat of a squad car.
Noah was jumping up and down and running back and forth from the officers with the rifles to the police chief, trying to get them to listen to reason.
He pointed to the bumper sticker on the back of the camper and raged,
"Why, it's as plain as can be and like that there bumper sticker says,
'WHEN GUNS ARE OUTLAWED ONLY OUTLAWS WILL HAVE GUNS.' "
Big Mike asked the chief, "Do you have a warrant to search our truck and take those guns?"
The chief replied, "No, we don't have a warrant but we have your guns.
We're sending them back to the police station in Jean.
You can pick them up on your way back.
"What were you going to do with them anyway, knock over a casino?"
Big Mike thought a moment and said,
"You really think we could?
Hey, Man!"
He turned to Indian and asked, "How much is in a casino?"
Indian shrugged and said, "Million, no sweat."
The idea of hitting a casino took their minds off the guns and soon the police and sheriff's departments left them alone.
Instead of going into town, they headed back about mile to a roadhouse and commenced to party and rest.
Behind the roadhouse was a corral with ten of the scroungiest mustangs imaginable.
Indian and Ape went back to look at the horses and they all herded to the other side.
There was a leather skinned young cowhand sitting on the corral fence drinking a Coke and staring into space.
After looking at the miserable horses for a few minutes Indian said to the cowhand,
"Those are sure beautiful animals, mister.
What do you use them for?"
The cowhand said, "Pet food."
"Pet food?" yelled Indian.
"Can't you use them for nothing better than that?"
The cowhand said, "Nope. They're wild, fella.
They was just rounded up out in the desert this morning.
Those horses are mustangs and they've been wild for generations.
Nowadays folks breed the horse for the job.
These here ain't good for nothing but pet food."
Indian was liking the mustangs more every minute.
He persisted with the cowhand,
"How much do you get for 'em for pet food?"
The cowhand replied, "I reckon to get thirty-five apiece for 'em.
You so sorry for these mustangs, you give me three-fifty and you can take all ten off my hands."
Indian told the cowhand he'd think it over and he and Ape went back to the roadhouse.
He told Big Mike and Noah about the mustangs and they and most of the other bikers went out to look at the horses.
Since they meant to rob a casino Big Mike and Noah chipped in and gave the cowhand the three hundred and fifty dollars for the herd.
Big Mike asked the cowhand, "Could you loan us a saddle and bridle?
We want to train these horses before dark."
The cowhand did sort of a double take and said,
"You're going to break them all today.
Before dark.
Just like that."
Big Mike said, "Sure, why not?
They're ours, aren't they?
We bought 'em.
Besides, it's only two o'clock.
We got time."
The cowhand said, "Well buddy, I'll sure loan you a bridle and saddle.
I'll even call an ambulance for you."
The cowhand went to the barn and brought back some lengths of rope and a saddle and bridle.
Like most ranch people, he liked to see smart-alecky dudes get shown up.
He chuckled to himself at the prospect of the bikers trying to break ten wild mustangs in an afternoon.
When he got back to the corral he said to Big Mike and Indian,
"Now, what we'll have to do, since I'm the only hand here, is this.
I'll rope the horse and some of you help me pull him away from the herd.
Then you'll have to gang up on him and hold him still while I put on the saddle and bridle."
He walked near the herd and roped one of the mustangs and the crowd of bikers with him dragged the beast out into the middle of the corral.
While they held the horse, the cowhand took another rope and roped off the corner in which the rest of the herd was huddled.
Had the horse being ridden gotten in with the rest of the herd it would have been too horrible for laughs.
When the other mustangs were roped off, the cowhand instructed the bikers to move down the rope and subdue the animal.
The mustangs were smaller than regular horses but it still took fifteen bikers to hold one in place.
The cowhand gave the rope to two other bikers and after a lot of jostling he got the saddle and bridle on.
Then Indian got into the saddle and the cowhand yelled for all the bikers to let loose and run for the fence.
They did and the second the horse was free Indian was launched twenty feet across the corral.
He landed flat on his back and out cold.
The bikers ran back and grabbed the horse's rope.
Two of them picked up Indian and carried him to the fence where others pulled him over.
They laid him on the ground and forgot him.
Then the bikers with the horse held it again while Noah mounted.
Noah had better luck.
The horse turned around a couple of times and then charged the crowded fence.
Then he stopped suddenly and Noah flew over his head and sailed into some of the bikers and girls and swept them off the fence.
By this time Indian had woke up and staggered back for another ride.
He climbed on again and held on around the horse's neck.
After about five seconds he slid off under the horse and was trampled.
The bikers put him over the fence and caught the horse again.
Ape took a turn and joined Indian and then Big Mike was thrown twice in a row.
All the bikers and even some of the girls were trying their luck and were drinking case after case of beer while the rodeo went on.
The cowhand had gone and gotten his movie camera and was filming it all.
Tourists attracted by the crowds at the corral were pushing in to look and take pictures.
As the tourists got into the spirit they put into the kitty for beer and some of them even took turns on the horses.
By seven o'clock all ten horses could be ridden by anyone.
They were not really broken; just exhausted.
All the bikers and about half the tourists were drunk.
They were all hoarse from laughing and yelling.
There was only one serious injury and that was to a tourist who broke is leg when he was thrown.
Everyone, both biker and tourist alike, agreed it was the best rodeo and beer party he had ever attended.
The cowhand was so pleased that he fed the mustangs all the hay and grain they could eat at no charge to the bikers.
Big Mike looked over his troops and decided they were too drunk to rob a casino so he called it off.
He had not thought of a way to do it anyhow.
During the rodeo a pile of six-packs was kept at a constant level and the beer was drank by both bikers and citizens.
Ape and Pinocchio had made regular passes through the crowds of generous tourists for beer contributions.
Some of the drunken citizens plied them with tens and twenties.
They had collected almost four hundred dollars over what they had spent for beer so the horse money was not lost.
A little while after the rodeo was over Ape left to visit his cousin Myrna who lived in Las Vegas.
In a couple of hours he brought her back to the roadhouse to introduce her to Big Mike.
Myrna and Ape bore a strong family resemblance.
She was desperately ugly and nearly six feet tall.
She weighed two hundred pounds without an ounce of fat.
Big Mike, Pinocchio and Indian were standing outside drinking beer and talking when Ape rode up with Myrna behind him on his bike.
He was as pleased as a little boy as he said,
"Hey guys, this here's my cousin, Myrna.
She wants to go back with us and be one of our club mamas."
Indian said, "Oh hell, Ape, she looks too much like you.
I'd feel queer."
Ape protested, "She don't look all that much like me."
Big Mike said, "Yeah, you're right. Your beard's fuller."
Myrna said, "Oh, cut you're kidding.
I'd be a good mama.
I'd spread for everybody.
I'm hot to trot."
Ape said, "She's a virgin, too."
Pinocchio looked her over and said,
"I can dig that about her being a virgin.
Couldn't be no other way."
Ape was getting angry and also feeling insulted.
He said, "We're the only club that don't have any mamas.
Sally was took with the clap and May run off with a Jehovah's Witness.
Polly hasn't been coming around lately.
She said something about joining a convent or a cathouse, I forget which.
"Anyway, we need a mama at least for appearances sake.
Besides, Myrna could be real useful.
She works in a garage and could help guys with their bikes.
What do you say?"
Big Mike replied, "Well, what's to say, Ape?
If you want to take her to Glendale, go ahead.
She's your cousin.
She can come to the clubhouse if she doesn't cause trouble.
"You know we all got old ladies or girl friends so I can't see anybody using her.
They'd have to be awful drunk before she looked good.
And if they got that drunk, they couldn't do nothing.
You know I don't allow dope around the place to dull the senses so we'll have the only virgin mama in the country.
Maybe that's class or something."
Myrna and Ape were satisfied with that and went back to the corral to party.
She met Ginch and for some reason he took to her.
He didn't intend to share her with anyone so she didn't get to be club mama after all.
The partying out in the corral was going strong at midnight.
They had gathered wood and built a bonfire and had bought several cases of beer to drink after the roadhouse closed for the night.
They all had sleeping bags and were prepared to sleep out under the stars.
The cowhand was partying with them.
He was feeling a little guilty about selling them the horses.
He knew the tired mustangs would be as unruly as ever the next day.
He offered to buy them back but Indian told him he had decided to run them back out into the desert in the morning.
Indian asked the cowhand to make a gentleman's agreement that he would not catch that bunch of horses again.
The cowhand agreed and they settled back to partying.
By eight the next morning the whole group was just about ready to go but first they had to get rid of the horses.
Mounting their bikes they kicked over their engines and the cowhand opened the corral and chased the horses out.
Then the bikers formed into a line and started out into the desert after the horses.
They herded them for about two miles until they had them headed safely into the hills.
Then they wheeled around and headed for the highway leaving a cloud of dust about a half mile wide.
When they got to the California border the camper was waiting for them.
All the guns had been returned at Jean and so the column poured back over the border into their home state.
Mostly true story of the Iron Cross motorcycle club of the seventies.
Nearly all ex-Nazi storm troopers, they outclassed every bike club in southern California.
Being borderline psychotics helped.
Their exploits got them headlines and jail time.
Big Mike Brown, formerly George Lincoln Rockwell's bodyguard, was club president.
The book, used as a character reference, helped get Mike four years in Federal prison for an attempted bombing of the U. N.
A psychiatrist, after reading "Wheels", pronounced it the best study of a sub-culture he had ever read.