English Don "New autobiography snippet"

From the up coming autobiography by English Don and the chapter, "Bayonet Brothers Ride".

Text originally appeared in CC Magazine and In the Wind. Video clips available on youtube http://www.youtube.com/user/TheEnglishdon

"GO west young men", was the calling and after four solid years without any vacation so to

speak - five days desert riding sounded real good. The prospect of having to ride stock factory bikes seemed alien to say the least, but with only five spare days, the option of trucking our own rides to and from Cali didn't exist.

Timothy White,(photographer and SD Cycles customer) regularly does the fly and ride thing and he turned me and Larry on to Glen Bartel,s route 66 Riders bike rentals in Marina Del Ray. We contacted Glenn to reserve some scoots for us and after perusing our choices opted for three Road Kings (other choices being Fat Boys and Springers both solid mounts the only hot rod FXR's were already booked). The whole trip promised to be an experience for all concerned. White, who was used to bi-coastal business travel, handled the arrangements. The flight from Newark was predictably boring although Larry did charm the flight attendants into some extra grub and free bears.

In LA we stayed at the Sunset Marquis, in our own villa, complete with four poster beds, jacuzzi, pool and all the rest of the accouterments. We spent a few hours at the ultra-chic hotel bar and managed to scare most of the patrons away.

"Hi, are you guys rock stars?" (silence) "Hi, are you guys bikers?" (silence) "Two beers and two tequilas. That'll be $22 please.

(Whaddafuck!! You're shittin' me - fuck this - fuck LA blah blah - okay give us two more).

"Hi, my name is Greta - in from Germany". "Cool", says Larry "would you like to come to my villa for some gratuitous sex?" (silence) Larry proceeded to lick the muscular thigh of a nervous Neuvo Trendo chick in the hotel lobby.

8am, we were picked up and taken to Bartel's to get our rides. After eyeing Larry and I, and after a short nervous discussion they decided we could indeed rent the three Road Kings, and after getting some breakfast stop recommendations we headed out.

Breakfast was a nightmare. Seat yourself, wait, wait some more, then we're told to line up inside, school cafeteria style, get your own cutlery, coffee, wait, wait some more and finally pick on some inedible tasteless yup fodder.

Fuck this! Lets hit the road. Yeah right. Hours on the LA freeway log jam, assholes with nowhere to go and all day to get there. Then finally some open road. We turned back into the leather clad, bare-chested, tattooed, big city maniacs we really are winding the road barges up to warp speed. We played New York City space invaders with the slower moving, laid back civilian motorists. We hammered relentlessly on the bikes to relieve the pent up stress of the last sixteen hours and thoughts of airline red tape, lack of waitress service and granola crunching LA beach faggots were quickly replaced with visions of hot straight highway desert mountains and the prospect of total freedom.

Larry and Tim were riding '96' model bikes, Larry's being the later edition with Fuel Injection and floating brakes. I opted for the '97' stock, which proved to be the slowest of the three, with no acceleration and a top speed of 98mph. Tim's would reach the same but with carburettor and windshield. Larry's bike made it to a straining 110mph, so when we first stopped for gas the factory got a major thumbs down from all of us. This evaluation was a little unfair since we are all accustomed to riding stripped down loony scoots. We hung out at the gas station for half an hour witnessing a drunken domestic squabble (some poor asshole was being dumped by his shitfaced ol' lady with the CHP trying to patch it up) until a procession of Hog Riders arrived and proceeded to act like hard stuff with the non-descript dot head at the cash register. (I think this store bought bravado was laid on to impress us, it didn't, we left!!)

Back on the highway we played hogs of the road, whipping past anyone and anything-- seeing hampster bikes putting along enraged us more and they were gobbled up and dissed with typical downtown indifference. The need to get to where you're goin was so strong, it took another two tanks of gas and a savage thirst for a cold beer to chill us enough to take a break from the Hellride. We pulled up to a truck stop in Baker. Tim produced the 16millimeter camera and from then on Larry and I realised we were going to be filmed. In the store window stood a tremendous wooden Indian. Larry mugged and shook his hand like some long lost relative. Three or four busloads of weary deadbeat gamblers on their way back from Vegas watched us as we switched into film star mode Three brothers wheeled into the parking lot on Gold wings, their radios all tuned to the same soul station. They watched us rubbing down with sun block, swiggin' chilly brews and corralling a sister behind the coke machine. The scene seemed to deter them from dismounting and they split, at this time the temperature was a mere 100'F in the shade and us in full NYC leathers...............so what!!

Twenty miles up the Interstate we finally came to our turn off and within 5 minutes we were the only moving things visible. We stopped and took advantage of the views and shoot some scenery for the film. Larry and I spotted a perfect windblown amphitheater complete with banked turns and we contemplated racing each other around the desert rink but thoughts of chipped paint and other potential damages (all of which would be charged to the White's credit card) deterred us. So we opted for some road stunts. With Tim laying on the white line we burned out the Road Kings and laid rubber down the red top highway, blowing by him in clouds of smoke for full movie effect.

At this time Larry performed the first Crucifix, an awesome sight with the sun glowing red on the desert. He set the throttle then stood bolt upright on the passenger seat with his arms nailed to an invisible cross. The scene loked like some satanic carnival float returning to Hell. We began to discover the potential of the Road King as a steady stunt bike, the self- governing F/1 system allowed us to set throttle speeds without worrying about the engine reving of stalling. Always compensating for uphill/downhill grades, the computer driven flywheel timing took over so no need for hands...Cool!!

We rode to Nipton CA, population 8, crossing the tracks seconds before a mile long Santa Fe Freight train shut us out. The trading post offered cold beers and good beef jerky to fill the hole. The peaceful atmosphere and ambient background and tribal music felt relaxing after the intense riding and wanton hot dogging that had been our staple for most of the day.

It was time to move on. Indian Larry, also a member of the Coney Island Polar Bear Club is always looking for a place to strip off and take a swim, however, our arid surroundings seemed to nix that idea. We asked at the store if there was a motel with a pool close by and found out that the mighty Colorado River was less than forty miles away. The sun was sinking low as we crossed the California-Nevada state line and headed towards Searchlight. The Joshua tree lined highway took on an eerie personality in the failing sunlight. They looked like a silent army of naked glove puppets. I felt like we were on the Mars interstate. We crossed the highway in Searchlight and took the fourteen mile dead end to the river, rolling down a steady grade. The heat in the dusty canyon wafted up from the coiling blacktop and the need for water intensified. Wheeling through a trailer park we stopped and dismounted at the beach. Yea, sand and water, far out. We peeled off our crusty leathers and the water felt cool and refreshing.

We still had fifty miles to go to our first sleep stop so the swim was cut short. Also two naked tattooed bikers leaping around in the park lot drew many frowning stares and quickly drawn curtains from the family RV's and rather than a confrontation with the park ranger, we dressed and beat a hasty retreat up the mountain to the highway.

The road between Searchlight and Laughlin is straight as an arrow and dead flat so no intense concentration is needed. The mind wanders in the dark and the moonless nightfall intensified the black void. I was imagining mail boxes and driveways to houses in close proximity to the road, complete with trees and phone poles, and although unable to see them they were still there. In reality, as daylight would later confirm, there was only shin high scrub vegetation, rocks and sand. Coming over the crest and again rolling down to the Colorado, the lights of Laughlin burst out of the desert night. It looked like a junkyard for unwanted christmas decorations but after the mind numbing boredom of the dark highway it was pure retinal candy.

The Riverside Hotel casino provided three adjoining suites for us and after checking in we took the elevator to the 11th floor to see the digs; massive beds in big sprawling squeaky clean rooms, gold plated bathrooms and triple terrace river views.

Back to back with the previous night's "plush" Villa experience y'all might think we have sold out for the good life. Whereas Larry and I are street raised, down to earth, hard-core guys, quite content to bed down under a bush, and fight for that spot with any bum or critter that laid claim to it, some great people hooked us up big time and we were very grateful.

We sat down to another buffet style meal. My frustration with the lack of a waitress now re-ignited, being spoiled in New York with great food and service makes me a little impatient especially when I'm tired, starvin' and the food ain't that good anyway. Now I've got to work for it....Fuck that!!

After eating we strolled around the casino. The plush decor and dazzling lights together with the antique cars and other artifices were impressive in a look don't touch sort of way, but after watching the herds of Zombies shuffling about with their pathetic little buckets of quarters reality bites. Truth is these castles in the sand are built from the exploitation of sick addicts who would bet their last dollar much like lab rats banging the button for another shot of cocaine. I would rather ride straight to hell than have my soul slowly drained by a grinning metal bandit....not to mention my pockets. It saddened me, I slept.

Next morning we packed the bikes and split. When we had left the Bartells parking lot back in LA, Larry noticed a slight noise in the crankcase of his ride. The grinding slap was now rel loud and we concurred a broken chain adjuster as the probable culprit. This demanded immediate attention. We crossed the Laughlin bridge to Bullhead City, Arizona and went in search of a bike shop. The first place was not yet open and after waiting in the parking lot for fifteen minutes we decided to press on to the next one listed in the yellow pages. After riding up and down the highway we found the joint and it was out of business so we rode back to the first stop which was open by this time. We explained our problem but the mechanic was off duty. Therefor no tools available and all in all they seemed more interested in their jet ski's, however, we did pry the name Arizona Performance Cycle out of them, with right address fifteen minutes later we were being taken care of.

Larry explained what we needed to the mechanic and he jumped right to it. The lovely Monica entertained us in the bright air conditioned show room while the work was done. It seems that AZ Performance pumps out two custom builds per month and the examples we saw were really impressive. After exchanging shop tee shirts and making some purchases we said our thank-yous and rode out. Two blocks and the bike sprung a leak so we returned for a gasket. "What is this? Groundhog Day?" It seemed like we couldn't get out of town. However, our next try for the bridge, we made it.

We backtracked to Searchlight and then to Nipton, stopping at the trading post again. I sold some shirts to help pay for gas. We met an ol' fireman dude from upstate NY named Fred who told us stories of buying war surplus flatheads for sixty seven dollars each. The woman behind the counter told us that six chicks on bikes had just passed through and asked where we were headed. The following conversation revealed to us that the population of Nipton were all swingers and always on the lookout for new meat. We told her that we were headed for Amboy. "Amboy, there ain't nothin' there 'cept UFO's" She invited us to stay for a jacuzzi party. We gratefully declined the offer and headed back into the desert. Fuckin' weirdos.

The trail between Nipton and Amboy runs through the most beautiful scenery I've ever seen. Our attitude to riding had mellowed considerably from the first day out and we took time to drink in the beauty and relax. I set the throttle at 45mph took off my shirt and lay back on the bike, resting my boots on the bars. The road barge chugged along and I discovered a slight pressure on the rear crash bars with my hands enabled me to steer very comfortably. Aahh bliss, the sun was hot and the road seemed to float by. I was lost. After about twenty minutes I got the feeling that something was missing. I sat up, checked the mirrors and Larry was not in sight.I pulled over and stared back down the infinite road. Nothing. I lit up a butt and waited. After some time a car came by and the driver told me of a roadside party at the crossroads some five miles back. I made it back to the intersection that I had failed to notice the first time, in minutes flat.

Larry had dismounted and was grabbing frosty beers from a cooler perched on the tailgate of a blue Ford truck. As I pulled up he tossed me one. A leather-faced cowboy, maybe sixty years of age, standing tall with a slight paunch, wearing a grimy white hat and gold rimmed Raybans offered his hand.

" Where the hell have you been?" he said. "I saw these boys sittin' here in the sun lookin' like they needed a cold one so I stopped."

His old lady explained that they were miners and dug for cinders in their glory hole north of Cima but on friday nights would travel to a watering hole some hundred miles away and get blotto.

"I sing for my beers and sometimes gas money to get home."

So the old dude agreed to perform a number. He made excuses for his guitar being so out of tune as it was baking in the back of the truck for most of the day. We didn't care, he sang a wild comic spoof about "John Wayne Bobbit" set to the tune of the Beverley Hillbillies while we hooted and hollered and danced in the dust. They followed us to Cima, a small town consisting of one building, the post office/store and a couple of trailers. This mining team offered to buy us more beer, but a note on the store door said "Gone to New York," how ironic.

We exchanged addresses and we begged him to send us a tape of his music then we tore off down the road to beat another eternally long, slow moving freight train.

Laying down on the bikes had become the only way to ride. We chugged and dawdled along, stopping occasionally to shoot some film and bleed the lizard. In the distance, the awesome Devils Playground split the surrounding volcanic rock and brown dirt, the sun reflecting on the bleach white dunes. We almost visited the site, but the prospect of getting the bikes bogged down in loose sand, or worse, walking three-four miles in the blistering heat bade us otherwise and so we just looked on in silence.

We reached Kelso, the tiny railroad stop town seemed deserted. We stopped in the middle of the train tracks and shut the bikes down. We had thoughts of playing chicken with the oncoming locomotive but it was moving so slow we got bored of waiting so took off down the road to Amboy.

On a previous trip, Tim White had met Walt and Don. After running low on gas he woke them up and was nearly shot for his effort. These two great guys had bought the entire town of Amboy from some old geezer named Buster some years back and set about breathing life back into the desolate rest stop. Set on the sidewalk of Old Route 66 is Roy's Cafe/Motel, built in the thirties to accommodate the then brisk Chicago/LA traffic. The Roy's sign stands some fifty feet tall, the atomic lettering matches the fifties gift shop facade which has odd George Jetson- like triangular lines. There is a diner and the inside is clean and brightly furnished with stainless steel and formica, round counter stools, shiny napkin dispensers and checkered table cloths. The front of the diner is shaded from the brutal sun by a fifty foot square awning supported by four columns anchored to the gas islands. Atop this structure rests a simple two sided sign that reads "Cafe" with one broken letter.

A row of some six or seven bungalows face the gravel parking lot, behind them a fenced in compound with twenty, or more, rooms housed in a long building. Stair towers at each end, climb to second story corner suites. The scene inside the top room suggested some long forgotten slaughter, ragged curtains flapped lazily, fluttering the light over the disheveled bed. A dusty bible teetered on the end-table, threatening to fall. Beneath it lay a rusted chain saw, too fuckin' creepy. Larry reveled in the atmosphere, so Walt and Don said it would forever be his room and promised a commemoration plaque on the door to confirm this.

After unpacking we took the bikes across town past the post office to visit the church. Entering the white block building from the side door, the air in the hall was thick and dry, dust covered the empty pews and stacks of furniture. But the room had class and I suggested to Larry that it would make a great titty bar. He concurred. We pictured lithe, raven haired beauties gyrating in the organ loft and supple blondes squatting on the bar reaping crops of dollar bills from a sea of outstretched arms.

Then we stopped at the graveyard and took advantage of the fading sunlight to shoot more film. The graves looked freshly dug although nobody had been buried for fifty years. Sometimes it's fifteen years between downpours so there's not much chance for the dirt mounds to compress. We rode past the telephone pole stockpiles and spent some time climbing around on the water tankers and freight cars resting in the Amboy Rail yard. Henry, the cook, who bears a remarkable resemblance to Charles Bronson, prepared a feast for us and we ate heartily on homemade salsa guacamole, baked potatoes and thick juicy Porterhouse steaks, the meal was sweetened with piles of fresh fruit and lashings of ice cold beer. Great riding, great food, the Bayonet Brothers had found their long lost desert cousins.

Falling asleep had been easy being so fucking tired, but staying unconscious was impossible with the constant drone of the swamp cooler in the bungalow, kind of like sleeping under a misfiring jet engine. I got out of bed and stepped outside. The sky was amazing, vast and electric, millions of shiny lights at varying depths of dimension, shooting stars skittering in all directions around a tiny neon fingernail moon. I reached inside and grabbed a smoke off the dresser, closed the door and lit up. I felt exhilerated to be outside and broke wind to celebrate. I watched two trains come together like giant one-eyed nightcrawlers, the moment of incept punctuated by their bellowing whistles. The night air was chilly and I was only wearing shorts... time to go back inside. I tugged at the door and Fuck! I'd locked myself out. I knocked on the door and again on the side window next to Larry's bed but he was out cold, and with the noise of the fan he wouldn't hear me anyway. Shit! The prospect of stumbling across the stony parking lot with no shoes and meeting Bigfoot, the compound's guard dog was not appealing. So I dug through the side bags of my bike and found my leather jacket. I tried sleeping on the saddle with my feet on the bars, but after dozing and falling off, I decided the foetal position on the doorstep was my best bet. Well, I got what I wished for, sleeping under the stars (It wasn't until the next night I found out that Amboy crawls with Scorpions after dark).

I woke to a whirring noise. Tim's movie camera was hard at work and Larry was standing over me in the doorway, freshly showered, wrapped in a dripping towel.

"what's up brother?" Larry asked with a smirking expression on his face, "Nice impression of a doormat." I explained what happened and we fell about laughing. Larry said that in his dreams he envisioned the fat postmistress's nubile teenage daughter disembarking from a train and standing outside pecking at the door.

"That was me you asshole", We fell about again.

The five fingered dawn was creeping over the distant mountain casting our 70 foot shadows down the highway. White again captured the exquisite light, this time with his portrait camera. We joined Walt and Don in the cafe for breakfast and some wickedly strong coffee. I was out of smokes so we rode to Ludlow some thirty miles west of Amboy. The air was brisk as we rode, again I set the throttle, this time climbing back and sitting on the passenger seat, leaning back into the sissy bar. I folded my arms behind my head. This is the only way to travel. Larry did much the same and we rode side by side keeping a steady pace while White buzzed around us his camera perched backwards on his shoulder or held low in his hand almost scraping the road.

Ludlow is situated within spitting distance of Highway 40 and although it is still on Route 66 it lacks the ambiance and class of Amboy. the town has recently sold out to the big gas companies and a spanking new Chevron station adjoined with a food mart now soils the view. I bought my cigs, some very overpriced jerky and a map. Larry inquired about the availability of cold beer and the portly ruddy-cheeked clerk wrinkled her nose, and, with glowering eyes barked a curt reply. "We dont sell beeeeer." she seemed disgusted by our very presence.

"Hey lady, I wasn't the one who pissed on your cornflakes, so back off!!"

We exited the conglomo-mart and walked to the diner. I received the same hateful attitude even though I was only ordering an almond muffin and a chocolate malt.

"Fuck these people."

We split back to Amboy and I told Walt what happened. He laughed "Oh by the way, Ludlow is a dry town. They're all Mormons." It all became crystal clear. As with all religious zealots, their sheep like devotion, lack of individuality inhibits any rational thought, promoting their seething hatred for everything they can't be. Inbreeding and lack of vision confirms the ticket to Hell on Earth, so sad. Truth is they are fearful of our freedom and good will so they roll like spiny hedgehogs, defensive and afraid of our touch.Spirituality is self taught and there is no bigger church than the open road.

We hung at Roy's sitting under the shade of the awning contemplating what to do with the remainder of the day. As temperatures rose our prospects for riding thinned, every excursion from the cool shade of the Roy's cafe awning proved uncomfortable to say the least. Around 1pm a sleek RV pulled into the parking lot. The side door opened and a bevy of Belgian beauties spewed forth from the portal. Who rang the dinner bell? Turns out the Winnebago was home to a traveling catalogue photo team. The whole entourage disembarked and swarmed into the dinner; two photogs, three hair and make-up girls and one bulemic model who proceeded to gorge herself on greasy fried fodder. She ate two or three man-size meals and spent the next four hours heaving in the camper. So glamorous! So we entertained the remainder of the flock.

My first thought was to sell some shirts and hats for gas money. This went over quite well, although the folks seemed more than a little nervous with our presence that was until the interpreter chick discovered that Indian Larry is of Belgian descent. DeSmedt-DeSmedt they all revelled in his name sighing and giggling with shy relief content with the fact that although this half drunk half naked, tattooed, wild eyed maniac looked real scary, because he was somewhat Belgian, rape and robbery were out of the question. As the afternoon progressed more travelers stopped and soon we had a good size gathering. Larry and I looked at each other. "Stupid Biker Tricks"... Time for more movie stunts.

We started with some nasty tire shredding burnouts and a couple of hole shots to warm up the crowd then into a full 1/8 mile double crucifix. White got on the back of my bike sitting backwards and filmed Larry's scooter surfing number. Then switching to Larry's bike he captured my world famous horizontal high speed, laying on the couch while reading the menu maneuver. What? YOU NEVER HEARD OF THE INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED BAYONET BROTHERS TRAVELLING MOTORCYCLE STUNT SHOW?

After the spectacle, the girls begged us to take them for a ride, so we headed out to the salt flats just outside of town. After about twenty minutes the heat was so unbearable we turned back. The valves on my bike were rattling like a diesel and my nose had been replaced by a red hot coal. We ripped back to Roy's clocking high nineties. While I went inside to get a cold one, Larry herded the women up near Walts trailer. In the yard a hose hung from a tree which became the site of Indian Larry's All- star Bathing Beauties Scene.

After the hosing the girls split to catch the evening light at Kelso Dunes. Everybody has to work sometime. That applied to us aswell. We decided to go out and stage a fight scene in the dusty parking lot. Larry and I went at it and after three takes we were both bruised, cut and bleeding. I also suffered a cracked rib.

Next, using the crowd as extras, we robbed the gas station. I held a 357 to Walt's head, frog-marched him inside and jumped on the counter while Larry covered the room with nickel plated pump gun. It was all very Natural Born Killers, we grabbed the cash and rode off into the sunset. ( This would later be edited into the now infamous Harley davidson commercial, "Perfect for those weekend getaways", fiercly rejected by the new corporate factory suits.)

After eating we crashed hard that night, exhausted from the day's activities. The next day we thanked Walt, Don and Henry for their hospitality. In our two days there they had refused to accept payment for anything, even gas. We headed back west, picking up Route 40 at Ludlow. Back on the interstate our speeds slowly crept up to very illegal again. We blew by a skulking CHP cruiser hiding behind an overpass. He wheeled out and tucked in behind us but after we slowed down, in recognition of his presence, he turned off and let us be. We cranked them up again. The miles flew and after a couple of gas stops reached Santa Monica Beach. Larry went for a swim while I snoozed on my bike. We returned the bikes to Bartel's and Larry was reimbursed for the broken chain shoe. Then to the airport and home.

Of note: The Laughlin River Run, a four day motorcycle tour taking participants around much of the same country happens annually in the month of April. Some 35,000 bikes participate and most of them all roll through Amboy. The Bayonet Brothers, in conjunction with the town of Amboy, will be throwing a party at this time so come on by. Attractions will include cold beer, home cooked firepit barbecue, live music, fireworks and possibly the ultimate jap smash, dropping a Honda from a plane onto the Mojave Desert, followed by Indian Larry...the skydiver. Other events may include dirt dragging on the Amboy Airstrip and a volcano hill climb, all depending on the amount of alcohol consumed. For more information call the Bayonet Brothers office at 1-800-**** *** or visit the brother's web site at http://www.*******.com

Edited by English Don. June 2010.