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As some of you know, I am an editor at a newspaper here in Ludington, Mich., and I also write an Op/Ed column, "Peregrinations." As its title suggests, I write about whatever wanderings my mind has taken me. Sometimes I write about politics and public affairs, sometimes I reflect on important historical events. Other times I write angry screeds against the injustices that occasionally crop up in society, while at other times I write personal little essays commenting on the living of a life. I suppose this column, which incorporates some (unfortunately, only some) of my experiences while attending InZane, is an example of the latter. A few VRCC members have voiced an interest in my sharing the column with other Valkers. With technical help from LaMonster -- for which I am grateful and thank him -- I am more than happy to do so. The following was published in the Ludington Daily News on Tuesday, Aug. 7, 2001, on page A4.

ron

aka professor #7627

Escape to a weekend of biker bonding

By

Ron Nutter

I find myself turning my motorcycle off U.S. 30 in Mansfield, Ohio, to catch state route 13. It is a reconnection of sorts with my past, as I had worked for several years for The Ohio State University on its Mansfield campus. But following route 13 through downtown Mansfield I realize there is a whole side of Mansfield I had never experienced.

Along one stretch a series of dilapidated rooming houses and bars loom. Good little boy that I was, I never made it to this part of town when I lived here.

There is a group of bikes, though, Harleys, lined up along the side of a bar. I can’t help but wonder who they are and what they are like. Brando-esqe images arise of beer-swilling bikers holed up drunkenly unconscious in the arms of some of Mansfield’s nameless "convenience women." I am a creature of my own culture, after all. And there is that stereotype of the bad-boy biker - the Wild One, indeed.

So here I am, riding my Valkyrie 1520cc cruiser, comparing myself to that image from the ‘50s that still is burned into people’s minds. Nope, that’s not me, I say to myself. Not much of a beer drinker, and were I ever to find myself with a woman looking for "fun" she would no doubt find in me a supreme disappointment.

But that image works on me as I ride further south heading toward I-75 and Zanesville, Ohio, destination of hundreds of Valkyrie riders in the first of what is hoped will be an annual ride-in. What will this group be like? A bunch of outlaw biker wannabes, or a group of those "nicest people" one is supposed to meet on a Honda?

We aren’t entirely strangers, as the common bond that holds us together, in addition to the Valkyrie, is our participation on an Internet Web site dedicated to the Valkyrie Riders Cruiser Club. But we are only names on its bulletin board: LaMonster, Hal, Sue, Barbarian the Mad Serb, R.C., Dennis from Blythe, Dragbars, Spirit, Crazy Rick.

As I near "InZane" central, the Holiday Inn a few miles east of Zanesville, I can see the large Rivco balloon over the trees.

Here we go. Expectant.

At my own motel there are scores of Valkyries parked. I wander over to where a small group of guys are talking, one of them buffing his shiny Valk.

They welcome me into their circle and introduce themselves: Walt, Jack and Mike from Philadelphia, Penn., and Ron from Philadelphia, Miss. They invite me to one their rooms and we all sit around, doing the beer thing, and swapping stories.

A memorable lesson I learn is that guys from Philadelphia really do say things like, "bah-ta-bing, bah-ta-bang, bah-ta-bong." That’s Mike, who regales us with stories of growing up Irish Catholic in Philadelphia. He tells harrowing tales of nuns disciplining miscreant students - e.g. for chewing gum in school his brother’s hands are tied behind his back and he is forced to push the gum along the floor with his nose. On occasion his older brothers would drop him like a World War I bomb down the laundry chute of his three-story house, only the day’s laundry down below cushioning the fall. Mike’s now an atheist, by the way.

These are a bunch of nice guys, I thought as we eat dinner together that night among hundreds of other Valk riders. The bad-boy biker image withers.

The highlight of the gathering is the presence of a Dyno machine, which allows bikes to "race" each other while strapped down to a flywheel. Two show up with Boss Hoss motorcycles, which have - I think I am right on this - 358 Chevy engines in them. Adrian from Riverbank, Calif., and Warren from Atlanta dazzle the large crowd gathered by registering over 180 mph over a half-mile run.

I later ask Adrian how fast he had ever gone on a highway. He told me he was on a deserted California road one day and he decided to open it up. At speed, he kept his eyes on the highway, which he described as looking like a pencil. When he got back home his son pointed to the GPS monitor on his bike and asked, "Dad, what does the 181.6 mean?"

And then there is little Miss Vicki, a grandmotherly-librarian type who smoked her testosterone-laden competition on the Dyno. Word to the wise: Don’t mess with Miss Vicki.

Saturday night one story in particular seems to characterize the general ethos of the group. A guy from England is there. He is a Valk rider, an active participant in the Web community on the Internet, and shared in the VRCC chat room one day that he just couldn’t afford to ship his bike to America to attend InZane. A member in this country, Botman, said he couldn’t go but that he had a Valk that would like to go, and that if the Englishman could get himself to the states he could use his Valkyrie to make the trip. And that’s just what happened.

Damn bunch of nice guys.

Then there is Tigger.

There is an untamed aura about Tigger. He is the sort that when he walks down the street pedestrians tend to cross to the other side. He looks the sort of biker townsfolk lock their doors against. He is every mother’s nightmare: fearful her sons will emulate him and that her daughters might succumb to him. Tigger is a tattoo artist, and in fact has tattoos over much of his body, including tigers on the sides of his bald head. He is a self-described "psycho hardcore member of the Valhalla Six Guns" motorcycle club, as well as being an "outlaw biker" of long standing. Here is the real thing. Marlon Brando, eat your heart out.

My first thought in seeing the big bellied, tattooed and ear-pierced Tigger is of him as the "before" in a "before and after" shot, the tag line being "before homo sapiens ..." They say every baby is beautiful. Well, I’d like to see Tigger’s baby photos before I sign on to that.

But you know what? Tigger is a damn nice guy. Period.

Riding home I get to thinking about that stereotype of the biker, and realize it is mostly infantile wish-fulfillment on my part, a dionysian streak, generally held in check, that wants to defy the strictures society places on each of us to be responsible and respectable members of the community.

So every once in a while, riding the bike gives one at least the illusion of being the bad-boy, no-one’s-going-to-rein-me-in character some part of us fantasizes being. So I go to a biker ride-in, drink some beer, and ogle the women.

Come Monday morning, though, here I am back in Ludington putting out the paper -- just another biker at his day job.