Ridin' High, Livin' Free: Hell-Raising Motorcycle Stories by Ralph "Sonny" Barger

Author:Ralph "Sonny" Barger
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: ISBN-13: 9780060006037
Published: 2003-02-03T00:00:00+00:00

The Ghost of Yermo

When I’m riding long distances, I have my pipes and engine to keep me company. For me, it's not about being in a meditative state. I've had radios in my bikes for years, but I've never turned them on. I listen to my bike. I'm listening to what the belt, the exhaust, the chain, and the valves are saying. I want to know what the bike is doing. And it's talking to me. My advice? Listen to your bike when it talks to you.

Brenton had the Dago to Vegas ride down to a science. Four and a half hours, straight shot on Highway 15. In spite of his being a SoCal guy, the Strip was Brenton's favorite hang. There was always a hearty party in Las Vegas: strip clubs, peep shows, the casinos, fine food, and runs through the desert. Instead of flying or driving, Brenton preferred his 1993 Softail Custom ride.

Brenton hadn't been riding all that long, just about four years. Always fascinated by the biking lifestyle, he started out on a '77 FLH before the trade-up to the Softail. The guys at Moreland Choppers did most of his motor work, plus stretching and raking the front end. Adding a set of sixteen-inch ape hangers made for a stylish ride.

If Brenton chose to burn quick, Route 15 into Vegas served as perfect wind therapy. Like a lot of riders who cruised distances, Brenton used the time to reassess and speculate on life. How was he doing? Where was he going? What if he had taken a different path? Sometimes he dwelled on missed opportunities. These were the thoughts reserved exclusively for the long haul.

For a quick gas stop, Brenton usually pulled into the desert community of Barstow, basically a speed trap town right at the halfway point to Vegas. Next came a pit-stop town called Baker, home of the “world's biggest thermometer,” where the temperature usually read somewhere between the high eighties and just over a hundred.

After an intense weekend of partying in Las Vegas, Brenton decided to dress light for the trip home. It was a hundred degrees outside. Since he didn't have a decent saddlebag, he shipped his clothes back to San Diego via UPS. All he carried was what was on his back: leather pants, T-shirt, and a denim vest. There would be no need for a jacket, since he hadn't planned on any late-night riding. The clock struck four as he passed the hot Vegas Strip, homeward bound. He'd be home before nine.

About ten miles past Baker, fifty-five miles out of Vegas, Highway 15 turned into a parking lot. After about a mile or two of lane splitting, the traffic intensified. Cars were overheated. People were hanging out in the median. Kids were running around. Car doors opened and closed. Brenton kept his lane- splitting pace safe and slow, in case he needed to hit the brakes quick. Then a trucker gave him the lowdown: a rig was burning out of control, and the freeway was completely closed down.

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