My friend Mark and I had planned to save up, put our bikes on a merchant marine ship, and work our way across to Europe — tour until the money ran out, then work our way back. When it came time to get serious, Mark hadn't saved a dime. So I decided to just ride my chopper up to the Pacific Northwest, where I was from, and look up as many old friends as I could.
I left Anaheim with no real route in mind. Once I crossed the San Gabriels and dropped onto the desert floor, the temperature climbed past a hundred. Back then there were these big orange-shaped roadside stands selling orange juice, among other things — I stopped for a large one at every single one I passed. It was so hot I never once had to pee.
I made it to Lake Mead, toured the dam — pretty cool, even in that heat — then found a spot to camp on the beach. I slept out under the open sky; too hot to get inside the bag, so I just laid on top of it. Checked the temperature at midnight: ninety-nine degrees. Woke at three a.m. to ninety. I needed to cool off, so I loaded the bike, set my wallet on the saddle, and walked fully dressed — leather coat, combat boots, everything — straight into the lake up to my neck.
By the time I reached Vegas, twenty miles up the road, I was a hundred percent dry.
You'd think all that leather would hold the water for days. Nope. Fortunately the temperatures dropped a lot the farther north I went.
By Boise, I was worn out and wanted a motel to freshen up. For some reason, the chopper made people react to me a lot differently than I was used to — three motels in a row turned me away, full. I guess all their other guests just hadn't shown up yet. I rode on until I found a farmer's alfalfa field, ready to cut and remote enough that I figured I could hide out until morning. Rode fifty yards in and set up camp. Nobody noticed me leave the next morning.
I made it to my grandfather's ranch that evening, just in time to rake, bale, and buck hay across all eighty-eight acres.
A few days later I rode over to my uncle's, fifteen miles away. He wanted a ride on the chopper, so I took him out on a real twisty road toward Merwin Reservoir. I'm normally a fairly spirited rider, but I didn't want him uncomfortable, so I figured I was riding like an old man.
Years later he confessed it was the most scared he'd been in his entire life — including his time in the service.
After our ride, I started heading back toward Anaheim.
About a hundred miles in, I passed a sign for the town where I was born. I'd only lived there two years before my folks moved us away, but my dad had made plenty of friends there, at work and at church. One of them, Ed, ran an insurance agency in town — and was a well-known practical joker. Dad had told me story after story of pranks Ed had pulled, and pranks pulled on him. Riding through, I spotted the sign for his agency and pulled over to say hi, chopper parked right out front, shades still on.
I walked in and took the shades off. The receptionist looked at me and said:
"Are you Lanny Badten?"
I said yes — but how did she know me?
She told me she used to hold me on her lap in church when I was just a baby, and that I hadn't changed a bit.
I asked her to page Ed and tell him there was a Hell's Angel here to see him. He told her he was on the phone, to make me wait. We visited for about five minutes before I decided that was enough waiting, and let myself into his office.
Sunglasses back on, I opened the door. Sure enough, he was on the phone, and clearly not thrilled that I'd just walked in and sat down. He kept talking, staring at me the whole time. He had a beautiful office — big cherry wood desk, inlaid leather. After a minute of him showing no sign of hanging up, I leaned back in my chair and set my combat boots, very carefully, right on top of that desk.
That was all it took.
He told the person on the phone he had to go.
After hanging up, he asked what he could do for me. I told him my gang was rolling into Lebanon to set up a commune on the south edge of town — he owned a fair bit of property out there — but that we'd all been pulled over by the local pigs, and the judge said we needed insurance. Ed told me he didn't know what the judge was playing at, since there's no law in Oregon requiring motorcycle insurance. I told him the judge sent me to get it from him personally, and not to come back without it.
He was getting a little frustrated, and I was about to lose it laughing, so I took off my sunglasses.
"You rascal!"