PACE AMERICAN read the letters on the back of the trailer we were following. For those who know and for those who don't know let me explain that Pace is probably the best known maker of motorcycle trailers in the USA. Sort of the Well's Cargo deluxe version of bike trailers. Well made and certainly needed by dealers, people who don't choose to, or cannot ride long distances on their bikes for one reason or another. Dealers use them to pick up and deliver a broken down motorcycle or ATV and they are great for racers whose machines are not streetable. Highly recommended for the purpose intended. Show quality bikes are normally not to be ridden. Pace is also probably the premium trailer manufacturer and they make them for about anything you could possibly do with a trailer. But then again what you do with one is your business anyway.

My friend Bear and I were riding north on US RT. 1 sort of heading towards Daytona, with no intention of joining the throngs of over 500,000 bikers who packed the streets of that small coastal community for ten days and left behind more than a quarter of a BILLION dollars in cash! Now that's a lot of money, really serious money if you think about. That's also a lot of freakin' people as well. The normal population of Volusia County, the entire county, not just the town is only 400,000 souls. But being the gracious hosts that they are, they take the money and smile, after all it's only ten days and this isn't Hollister, CA anyway. It's more Frankie and Annette meet the Munsters and well worth a look if you get the chance. I ride on thinking about all this and from what I gather it's been the biggest bike week ever. Also sadly the worst as for fatalities and I think the final count will be around 14 killed. Many more injured to be sure and that's a sad commentary. It's also a record for Bike Week, but then again it was the biggest Bike Week ever. Bike Week 2000 may give the city father's something to yak about at the next city council meeting. But I don't think any of these accidents were related to alcohol on the part of the motorcyclists either. The cage drivers are another story and it's one of those "turning left into the path of the bike with the right of way". But then again two bikes did manage to hit head on at some point. I tighten my grip a bit more, take a deep breath and try to relax and to think about the road and not the scorecards.

But the trailer finally pulls over into a Chevron gas station and Bear and I continue on up the road. It's one truly beautiful day for a ride and we are both enjoying it to the max.

Let me add that my friend Bear got the moniker not from any sinus disorder, but from his initials. Robert Euripides Reynolds. I know, his parents weren't thinking too straight when he was born but then again when you look at Bear it all seems to fit anyway. I strongly suspect he was conceived in the back of a Greek restaurant or between the stacks at the local library. He doesn't blame his parents so why should anyone else? But call him Bear and be damn certain of that when and if you ever meet him. He'll introduce himself and politely too. Then it's up to you to do the follow through. Bear will always call you by your given name if that's the name you tell him. He's always called me Richard and damned few people do that. It's usually Rich or even Richie, but the dreaded Dickie is by far the worst. I hate that! He's also ageless and I still don't know to this day how damned old he is. Older than I am? More than likely, but how much? More questions than answers and how important are they really?

But he was born looking a lot like Ed Asner and had body hair when he first slid into this world and hasn't looked back since. (Well he has really but then that's a tale for another time)

I might point out that he is also a die hard Harley Davidson fanatic! No, not that kind as his bike is an old 1949 Panhead and he rides the hell out of it almost everyday. That's why he moved to Florida back when there were still drive in theaters and carhops! Bear likes to ride and he's rebuilt that damn thing so many times he could probably do it in his sleep. Bear's ride is far from pretty, but it's not a rat either. Tastefully done and shows that it's a riders bike not a show machine. He also hates electric starters and his right leg is probably twice the size of his left one. To each his own. He's had that damn pan since the 1950's and he loves it!

"Why should I buy another bike? Hell! this one ain't finished yet?" is his reply to those foolish enough to question his choice of rides. I've also never known him to buy a part for the fool thing either. Well other than major things like new jugs and pistons, important items. The rest of the stuff he needs he finds on the road when he rides. "Hell! He'll say with a hint of a smile, every damn Harley made vibrates so damn much that all you have to do is follow one or more of them for a few miles and you'll probably pick up a spare rear footpeg, or a taillight and various other items, both chrome and painted." Bear isn't big on chrome, "It rusts!" he says. He once picked up a complete set of forward foot controls and still scratches his head in amazement that the dude didn't notice that they had fallen off. He doesn't use them but he keeps them in his garage along with his other "found" treasures. Trophies basically and he displays them like a hunter would a ten point buck or a blue marlin! He's got parts from damn near every model Harley made since the Second World War and a lot from before that. He draws the line at the point in time when Harley switched to not being family owned however. "No AMF crap!" Not too big on aluminum either but if it's in good shape he'll keep it to trade for something made of cast iron. Well cylinder heads aside anyway. Just a quirk of his and he hasn't got a thing against anyone no matter what they ride or what make it is. Sport bikes, off road or cruisers are all the same to Bear as long as the rider is sane and rides like he knows how.

He is also about the only person I know that has walked into bad assed biker bar wearing a T shirt that said "Kiss me, if you're a Lesbian" on the front and a picture of a guy bent over naked on the back with another ah, gentleman? Inserting his ...well you know into his ummmm? and it reads "One nation, Under" on the top. Even the bouncers backed off. He's a big guy and makes his bike look like a toy when it groans under his bulk of over 270 pounds. Bear once asked me if I knew why he always took me into these bars with him even though he knows I don't drink. My reply was a simple "No, Why?" and he replied "Well Richard, if you were a drunk looking for a fight and there was a choice of taking on either you or me, which one of us would you go for first?" I wasn't laughing at all because that was an obvious truth there. Bear looked at me and said, "Don't worry, I'd nail em' before they hurt you too bad, you know that." To be honest I hoped so anyway. I hate pain!

Bear also likes tassels. He's got fringe on everything on his scooter and I'm not one to question him but probably on his Fruit of the Looms as well. Sometimes it's just better not to know.

He's also a helmet fanatic. He hates the damn things but he always wears his. Well not the way that most of us do but rather he has the strap around his neck and the shorty helmet sort of follows along for the ride bouncing on the back of his head and down his back. When he spots any of the local or state constabulary he just gives the helmet a shove onto the top of his head. He's been pulled over a few times but he's never been ticketed. Me? I'd have been shot on sight for that and no questions asked.

But today is the last day of Bike Week 2000 and Bear wanted to see the crowds all heading south on US RT. 1 and had no desire to go back to Daytona. Hell, it's only a little over an hours ride and if we wanted to go join the circus we could have done so any time we felt the urge. But the fun is more in looking than in doing and as we are both older and sometimes even wiser, we avoid all the bull and the chance of a traffic ticket for what ever reason the cop that pulls us over has. He might not have gotten anything off his wife last night, or his girlfriend either so that would make him feel like screwing somebody and it wasn't going to be us. Nope, we were going to find a nice shady spot and watch the traffic leaving. Check out the bikes and the riders and have our annual Daytona Bike Week trailer count as well. Bear was also looking for parts for his Harley. He really needed a new left-hand mirror and those puppies are hard to find without being broken or scratched to beat all hell. But he's probably only going to polish it up and paint it black anyway so I keep an eye open for strays myself. Really, what are friends for after all? Then there is always the possibility of seeing some of the young hard bodies coming in to Daytona for Spring Break. Life has many blessings when you stop to think about it.

Traffic is really heavy heading south and being a divided highway it's anyone's call as to where in hell we turn around outside of town and find us a spot on the south bound lane and sit back and view the scenery. So at a point on the outskirts of Edgewater and we hit the median and turn south. Bear is not conventional when it comes to turning around and why wait for a light, "You're riding a bike fer God's sake!" is always his explanation for these odd turns. The back of his old leather bomber jacket is splattered with grass and mud stains from this habit.

We pull over into a nearby ubiquitous 7-11 and we park next to a few guys on Goldwings and Kaws and go inside for a cup of coffee. When we return we find the guys on the metrics are still sitting there, watching the parade. Well maybe sitting isn't the right word; a Goldwing is sort of like taking your entertainment center and your recliner along for a ride. The guy looks at Bear and I, nods and comments. "You know, if you sit here long enough you'll see one of everything". The guy next to him just nods and looks at Bear's bike and shudders.

So we sit there in the warm afternoon air, clear blue sky and watch as bikes come and go. Some for gas some for food and some for a quick trip to the rest rooms. One guy on a Harley comes in for gas, a Fat boy I'd say from the tires and wheels on the damn thing and he's wearing a helmet with steer horns sticking out of it. Now that's odd enough but there's an empty beer can impaled on one of the horns. Now that is different! He looks over at our little group and I think he was going to join us but then he takes a good hard look at old Bear and runs his credit card through the pump, hits the starter and off he goes. "Freakin' virgin" Bear mutters. I figure that discretion is the greater part of valor myself so I don't blame the guy. Beer can and horns or not, he somehow knows that he's just seen one very serious dude who has no time for any dumb crap. Sort of a been there, done that and it's stupid type of thing.

The guy on the Goldwing looks over at Bear and asks about his bike. "What year is that?" It's always the first question and Bear loves to talk about his bike. He can size up a guy pretty damn fast by the questions they ask and after three or four he knows if the guy is a biker or a virgin. " You still got that kick starter huh?" OOP's! Wrong thing to say. "Does it really work?" Double OOPS! Bear gives him a look that would drop a schoolyard Nun at thirty paces and then the guy on the Kaw says, "What happened to the tank shift and the foot clutch?" Saved by a higher wattage bulb! " Is that still a four speed or have you changed to a newer transmission?" Thank you Jesus! Thank you!

So that's the way it went for the next hour and a half and we counted 37 trailers most of which were covered and the best bet is that they all had very pretty Harleys inside. Bear snorted a bit as each SUV went by pulling a chrome bedecked bike trailer. If it was an open trailer and had a Harley on it that wasn't a show quality bike then he would let out one of his world famous, Bull Moose dropping, pig calling, hideous, non-diary creamer, Heineken farts! Those were to be feared and respected by anyone who had the misfortune to be in the immediate area. Once was enough and I always parked up wind of him whenever possible. I think the guy on the Goldwing passed out but I wouldn't swear to it. But the Kaw and the others started their bikes and rode off, fast! The dude on the wing looked like he'd barely survived a stroke! He was sort of slouched over in the saddle with drool trickling down his chin and his eyes had that far away look in them. Poor slob.

But we stayed on and more bikes would pull in for gas or whatever and some would come over and stay, watch the sights and after about the third cup of coffee Bear decides it time for a whiz! Now normal people use rest rooms for this but Bear has this thing about cleanliness and he believes that all gas station restrooms harbor the Ebola virus or at the very least are breeding grounds for e-coli and crab lice! So he just sort of casually gets off his bike and stands between two gas pumps and takes a whiz into the windshield-washing bucket that's sitting there. For once I'm damn glad I'm not driving an SUV and it's not love bug season. If it were he would have used the restroom just to steal the toilet paper to clean his goggles. He likes toilet paper for that, as the paper towels are scratchy and stiff.

Bear wanders back over and asks me in his own easygoing fashion, "Wonder how many bikes we've missed that are heading south on the interstate?" That would be RT I-95 and I give him my best deer in the headlights look and he goes back and sits on his Harley.

Now I first met Bear about ten years ago. I was shopping for a new car and so was he. He drives an old beat up Dodge pick up of questionable vintage as well as parentage. Found items you know? He was talking to the salesman in the showroom when I came in and asked about the engine. The salesman popped the hood and old Bear took one look inside and yelled out "God ALL freakin' mighty! What the hell is that?" He then grabbed the hood and slammed it shut with both hands and with such force that the rear mounted retractable radio antenna shot up and out of it's hole and stuck in the ceiling! It's probably still there to this day. You just have to admire a guy like that. The salesman didn't know what to say or do and he just kept looking at Bear, the car's somewhat bent hood and the antenna dangling from the ceiling, the wires were sort of swinging back and forth threatening to get caught in a ceiling fan at any moment. He had a semi terrified look in his eyes and he quickly excused himself and walked over to talk to me. Of course Bear followed. Bear asked him what the hell that all crap under the hood was for and why did you have to be a computer scientist to work on the damn things. The salesman didn't have a clue as to what to say and looked pleadingly at me as if I was sent from Mount Olympus to intercede with Zeus on his behalf. So what the hell, I did and I told Bear that ALL new cars were that way and if you tried to wrench any of them the damn computer kicked in and reset everything you tried to do anyway. That's just the way it was nothing is simple anymore.

Well neither of us bought anything that day and he still drives his old faithful Dodge truck. I on the other hand drive something newer and no, I can't do anything other than change the oil on it and as to the spark plugs? I haven't a clue how to get at them. I know where they are because I followed the wires once, but that's as far as I got. Screw it! Let a mechanic make a living and take life easy. But at what mechanics get by the hour I'd have to guess that most of them own waterfront property and on the good side of the tracks at that. $50.00 per hour is the normal rate and anything less than a half-hour gets charged for a full half-hour anyway. Changing a thermostat in a Fiero, the easiest thing in the world to do, cost me $47.00 just a few days ago. Unscrew a radiator cap, pull the handle on the old thermostat and pop it out, push the new one in and put the cap back on. 60 seconds work if you're fast but if you count taking off the shrink wrap that the new one comes in, opening the hood and closing it again also, I can see where it might take two minutes. Jeeez! Hookers work harder.

But I did get to meet Bear again and we met again at a car show a few months later. Bear is not one of those people you can quickly forget. He was digging around in a table full of Mopar stuff when I found him and I asked him if he had found a new car? "Not yet" was the reply and "I don't even care if I ever do find one." He tossed an old distributor on the ground and picked through some more stuff. The vendor frowned but thought better of saying anything.

We started talking about various cars and things and as usual bikes entered the conversation. Well that was the start of a long friendship that continues to this day. We don't really socialize all that much but we do ride together from time to time. He's married and has two grown kids, I'm married and have a mother in law. That's about all we have in common. He teaches English Literature at the local campus of the community college and has a masters degree in something I can't even pronounce. The doctorate I won't even begin to try to explain. Me? I'm a guy who works in wood basically and all I do is sell toys to people with way too much disposable income. But it works for both of us. You see we both ride bikes and that doesn't mean we are bikers either. We just like to ride and we happen to like to ride on two wheels. Simple enough really.

Now the sun is starting to get a little lower and we figure we've about seen it all when a guy covered in what looks like yellow and green plaster of Paris comes riding in on a BMW. Man what a mess! Bear goes over to the guy and asks, "What the hell happened to you?" Plaster man explains that as the coleslaw wrestling was done they had to throw it all out and he sort of was lying on the ground behind the place and well, they dropped the buckets and pails on him when they tripped over his drunken carcass. So how long he was passed out in that glop is anyone's guess but damn! Try and get that off will you? The guy was peeling off a pair of hundred dollar gloves, a leather jacket that must have cost five times that amount and chaps that looked brand new as well. Well new other than that they were now sort of yellow and green. But the damnedest thing was that underneath all that expensive gear he was just as covered in goo as he was on the outside. How the hell did that happen? I figure that somebody hosed the crap into him like inflating a balloon only with coleslaw and eggs and not helium thank god. He smelled like one of the Bear's famous farts but not quite as strong. Lord don't let him use the windshield pail to wash off in!

"Hmmmph! Bear muttered and he went back to his bike and said again, "Freakin' virgins! Green eggs and ham Sam I am. That guy couldn't find a boob in a titty bar!" I sensed another non-dairy creamer, Heineken fart coming and checked the wind direction. "Hey Richard! That dickweed had a damn USMC tattoo on his arm and I bet the sucker washes off!" Lots of laughter all around and sort of sad as well. "Check out the guys helmet will ya? It's one of those fancy Jap jobs that will probably protect you from radioactive fallout as well as road rash and only $500.00 bucks"! Good god Bear, Only in America.

Bear kicked his bike over and took off south down US Route one. I thumbed my starter button and followed him. Just like I always do. I looked back and plaster man was indeed washing off with a hose and with the coleslaw and eggs removed I'll be damned if could see any sign of a tattoo. I pulled out onto Route one and followed Bear and his old Panhead on down the road towards home.

I think maybe the poor guy on the Goldwing was right, You sit and watch long enough and you'll see just about everything. Green eggs and ham from a guy who can quote Shakespeare word for word. Go figure? Cole slaw and eggs inside your leathers? Horns on a helmet, Perfectly good riding bikes on trailers. The list is seemingly endless and it's all just another part of the joy of riding.

We finally reached the point where we would each go our separate ways and Bear pulled into another 7-11 and we talked a bit more. "Hey Richard! How about next year we have a look see at Black Bike Week?" All I could think of was a bunch of signs saying black bikes only and didn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. My response was simply "Say what?"

Bear just shook his head and said, "Well it seems that if you're of a different color you still have to have a place to go where you feel welcome, Daytona is getting better, but they aren't there quite yet. Just a little farther north and there's Black Bike Week and I think you and I should take it in next year. Think about it OK?" and with that he was off heading for home and to this day I still don't know where that is.

The old Panhead thundered off into the distance and I just sat there thinking for a few minutes. Black Bike Week? Yeah Bear, next year we'll definitely have to visit that. I can't imagine what the hell it was all about and here we are, the year 2000 and we still have so far to go. A long way to go if you ask me anyway. I guess Bear thinks so as well. Once again I thumbed the starter and headed off the short distance to home.

Well it took damn near fifty years to get anything other than Harley Davidson bikes welcome at the damn event. I only hope it's not another fifty years before we all can ride and enjoy our hobby as brothers and sisters, no matter what we ride or what our background.

You can learn a lot from an old dude like Bear. Well I do all the time anyway and I bet his students do damn well also. "To be or not to be" I think I'd rather "be" myself have a good time at it, yeah, a damn good time. Next year, Black Bike Week for certain. Will I see you there? You can't miss Bear and I'll be the other old guy on the metric riding next to him. Oh yes, Bring a roll of toilet paper, Bear would like that I'm sure. I'll make the introductions.

Rich Redfern, March 13, 2000