The Moonshiner's Run

I had been talkin' about an easy getaway for a month or two. I had enough of the routine, the traffic, punchin' the clock. You know the rest. Only thing I had left to do was pull together a little scratch and talk to the fellas.

The King of Hearts needed a little attention before we left town. I wrenched on the sled before and after a 12 hour shift workin' for the boss. The day we split town it was cold and wet. We had a storm rollin' in, so it was time we put down the whiskey and the wrenches and cut out.

Of course these things always take longer than planned. It was already noon in Chicago which means plenty of traffic. To make up for lost time, lane splitting was in order, although Chicago PD  discourages it, we had little choice given our time table. Red lights flashin' and nowhere for them to go we waved and said farewell. Don't come lookin' for us, we'll already be 100 miles away.

Didn't make it all the way the first day; too many whiskey bars along the back roads of Indiana. The next day we awoke in Evansville, about two hours from all the honky tonks and live music bars of Nashville, Tennessee.

Todd's clutch threw a stud just as we made it across the border. Luckily he was able to limp it into town. We found a auto repair shop but their welder couldn't quite get the job done. It was the middle of the day on a Saturday. I called about two tree places till we got put in contact with Music City's Panhead Phil.

I buzzed him up on the telephone and asked if he had a 4 speed clutch hub. He wasn't sure but offered us to look all over his shop till we found one. Sure enough we did. Around the shop there was a nicely restored 68 FLH Shovel and multiple bins packed with old parts along with other rarities hanging everywhere your eyes wandered.

We got workin' on the clutch when Phil comes to check on our progress. He bent down taking his side arm out from his waist band placing it on the ground next to the bike. One of the girls with us hollered, "you almost done yet, this is taking for fucking ever?" Before we could say anything Phil fires off, " you got a dirty little mouth woman." We all started bustin' out laughin'.

Phil was an interesting guy. He lives in a little room off of the garage that he works out of. In the garage he has a collection of parts and wrenches on a few customer's bikes. However, his main gig is driving buses for bands and artists while on tour. He was leaving in a day or two when we met him. "I'm going on the road with Peter Frampton this Sunday."  Phil said.

Panhead Phil's shop

We tried to get him out with us that night but we warned him we had bad intentions of getting strung out on whiskey, women and cigarettes. He laughed and said, "not this time but thanks." The next couple days we fractured the occasional law and remained at large and on the run going from one honky tonk to another.

We had a couple of things to button up on the bikes before we could leave town when we were greeted by a couple locals after leaving a nearby establishment. Their names were Brian and Chris. Apparently they'd been checking out our scooters. They inquired about them for a bit then told us about the scene in the area.

Tyler and Brian

Before we left they told us to stop by their tattoo shop and say goodbye. So we dropped in and each got a small piece commemorating the ride. Their shop was on 2nd street in downtown Nashville. They were a couple of cool cats and very welcoming.

Over the next 15 hours the real fun would start. We finally set off to continue our journey heading back north to Chicago at about 5 o'clock in the evening. The temperature dropped suddenly and we knew we wouldn't make it far that night. If I recall correctly the ride would end after about 100 miles in a town called Paducah.

I will say it was one hell of a time. We stopped in at late night type of joint for a night cap and then retired at a nearby hotel. The next morning I received a phone call from Chicago. The condensed version is, we had wore out our welcome in Paducah or more accurately, we weren't welcome.

Once again we were on the run, this time from a rival element. We made it out in one piece and with another story to tell. The ride over the border into Illinois was sweet but would be plagued by one last breakdown. A compadre of mine Dano had a Clutch cable break in a small town in southern Illinois.

Trunks Up!

Illinois Kentucky border 

Crossing the Ohio River

Dano, makin' shit work again

As luck would have it a patron of the town came by and he had a friend down the street with old Harley parts. The name of this story could've been called, "Makin' Shit Look Easy." Thanks to Brad Hurt we were given parts, tools and even some cheese burgers his wife made us. This is probably a cliché but the rides are not only about the places you go and the things you see but the good people and friendships you make.

Somewhere along HWY 57 the boys split off and continued the rest of their way up to Milwaukee as I road on to Chicago. I looked over at the three of them and thought to myself, that was one hell of ride.

 

Chicago Toy's for Tots

Chicago Toy's for Tots '14

 

What the hell's the matter with these people? It's in the 30's not including wind chill? The answer is motorcycles are our lives. Rain wind or shine, we don't give a baker's fuck what the weathers like. If the bike's runnin', we're riding. Of course, there is always gonna be dripping noses and frozen fingertips, but if you can't roll with it keep your candy ass at home. It's the Toys for Tots ride.

 

 All jaw jockin' aside. Look at the mug on this guy (look up). Yeah, he may not look like your first choice amongst Chicago's top babysitters but believe me, he's here for the kids. That's exactly what got us all out last Sunday morning. The bourbon, beer and bikes didn't hurt the cause nor did the city allowing these exhaust suckin' freaks to rip through every red light on Western Avenue from one end of the city to the other.

 

 

For most of my brothers and I the morning started off at our clubhouse on the city's northwest side. At eight in the morning on a Sunday in December, we were a little chilly but even worse, thirsty. A couple of beers to warm the 50 weight runnin' through our veins and we were ready to hit it. Bungeed teddy bears with yo yo's and candy canes for stocking stuffers; we kicked over the sleds and headed down to the Water Hole Lounge on the city's south side. If you come here after dark without a second clip of rounds, you'll be sorry.

 

 

 This guy would have been photo worthy with the red baron's hat and goggles alone but he also had a nose that most lonely women would pay extra to have their male gigolo's possess. For that reason, we gave him a special place in the pages of Chopper Chronicles. 

 

Left to right- Tommy Pickles, Blind Adam, Jimmy Fangers, Jimmy Zee 

 

 

Gathering up the boys and disobeying all social norms, we broke off the pack to one of the club's local hangout spots, Lockdown Bar & Grill on Western and Cortez. The place has it's roots in the Ukrainian Village and also attracts some unique individuals just like ourselves, so of course we like to make an appearance on such an occasion.

 

 

 Walking through the front door of this bar filled with misfits and outcasts, you'll ordinarily be greeted by the sounds most commonly recognized from behind the bedroom door of an angry pimply faced teen in the 90's. Blasting everything from Cannibal Corpse to Sound Garden, while satisfying your hunger with the best burgers north of Madison Street and drinks stiff enough that'll put David Hasselhoff back on the front pages of the tabloids with his home shot YouTube videos. 

 

 

We split out of Lockdown and jammed our greasy clique of brothers a little further north to the Toys for Tots drop off point to give the little kiddies something rad to put under their Christmas trees. This club is an authentic union of bikers, beer drinkers and hell raisers but all the members believe in being involved with rides that are put on for a purpose beyond ourselves; helping out the less fortunate kids of Chicago.

 

 

Back at the clubhouse the boys get in on the normal shit talkin' and beer drinkin' followed by the occasional whiskey back. Around the clubhouse you'll see a collage of relics, previously purposed as Harley Davidson components, spread neatly about the space and stockpiled for upcoming builds or answers to future breakdowns.

 

 

 

 For now the brothers are out of the public eye and back into the motorcycle underworld of Chicago, keeping their ear to the grindstone for any trouble that is around the corner. Something tells me these guys can handle whatever this unforgiving city can throw at them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

GGFFGG