Chopper Hostel

It’s a beautiful 207-mile ride through the mountains to what I was sure was gonna be a fuckin’ washed up shit show with the once infamous Smoke Out moniker slapped all over it. Smoke Out Rally 2024, I was ridin’ my broken ass down to take a look, shake my head and call out all its bullshit for, what I am sure, was gonna be a fuckin’ trainwreck and fuck whose feelings I hurt. Who the fuck do they think I am, Ghandi? I threw some clean drawers in my pack, some weed in my pocket, a gun in my boot and I rode out. It was 72 degrees, and the road led to the mountains.

My last Smoke Out was right before the collapse of the THBC empire. It was Rockingham. It was hot, loud, flat and humid. The grounds were uninteresting, covered with pinecones, dead sand and anxiety. The noise from the dragstrip would ricochet off the bleachers and drown out any conversation you might be having so why bother. You would wear the weather all day and the only relief would be get on your bike and ride, which was good because you had to ride at least a mile to get some fuel or a pack of smokes. That just leads to thoughts of cops spoilin’ your fun, although the never were a real problem, but thinkin’ about them doesn’t suck any less.

I did it, I did all of it and I really had no need to get my dick dirty with any of it again. My opinionated ass can find fault in free pussy so why would anything from my past as a motorcycle vagabond be attractive to an old dude who could give a fuck about a gathering of mooks eatin’ overpriced turkey legs and leaning into an event they never attended in its heyday. You can’t fake the shit that happened spontaneously back in the day with some whitewashed false idol made to pull on the heartstrings of the faithful in this ever increasingly hollow world.

Suddenly, the whole chopper thing fell back in my lap again. The Latowski was unexpectedly back on the road and runnin’ stronger than it had a right to. At a touch over 200 miles from my front door to whatever shit show landed back in Salisbury I seemed obligated to see for myself what was what with the event and more importantly what is the chopper culture as it is stands in the light of 2024.

I made the ride down by myself. I had a couple of guys riding down with me but previous to the time I was leaving the ‘three days of flaking’ occurred and they bailed or blew up, either way I was riding alone. Not complaining, the ride was a chill one through the mountains at a snail’s pace through the twisties. No rush t get there, I was content just puttin’ along expecting the fun to be replaced by anxiety I expect to encounter once I cleared the gate.

The ride went without a hitch until my phone died taking my GPS with it. I was somewhere around 5 miles from the fairgrounds asking locals for directions and getting sent in the opposite direction, three different times by three different locals havin’ a time getting the chopper guy lost. I eventually made it to the grounds despite the locals’ best efforts to make me a resident.

It was Thursday, the same day I left, when I found myself standing at the gate asking questions on the load in of my paintings and prints. There was bingo being played where the Legends Gallery was being held so nothing could move forward until Salisbury’s senior set go their ass home to catch Matlock.

Matt the Wrench had loaded my stuff in his truck for the ride to the event and everything was safe and secure until the green light was lit to load in. I hopped back on my sled and perused the grounds.

The last time I was on these grounds was for Smoke Out 4, twenty years ago. It was a simple loop to camp along and a building for the vendors, that’s where Indian Larry and Paul Cox were set up. This was a long time ago, but this event would set the president for the other events to follow. It was a blow out of legendary proportions, killer homebuilt bikes of every imaginable configuration, plenty of treats to get your head thumpin’ and all this driven by mob rules mentality! That place never saw nothing like the tidal wave of debauchery that took over their town for those three infamous nights. I was expecting a lot.

It was late afternon by the time I rolled the Latowski though the gates. The Shovelhead was loping on a big cam and the solid lifters were humming along. The clutch was cool so a simple blip from my left foot keeps the rig on two wheels and feet up at 2mph. I swing that long front end to the left, a couple of blips of throttle and a clutch stomp or two and we’re crusin’. I was in the zone, I successively pulled off a cool moment in front of a crowd without stallin’ it and my spirits were high when I stumbled on a sign post straight out of the Twilight Zone, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!

At the height of Smoke Out 4’s chaos the LAST thing we were doing was welcoming Hamsters! The attendees at that infamous weekend were strictly anti-Hamster and I, on several occasions, wrote about my opinion of these capital heavy, yellow shirted yahoos and how they just didn’t get it…and never would.

They were everywhere. With their blow-up couches, fresh hair implants and private bar. Hangin’ right out there like an inappropriate dick in a schoolyard, first thing through the gate…vermin with gold cards. I parked the bike in a field, called my brother to tell him how much it sucked, he agreed, and we both laughed! I wasn’t through the gate 10 minutes, and I already made up my mind, fuck this place and fuck that infestation!

I was pissed that I rode all this way for…hamsters. I wasn’t really pissed about the ride because it was fantastic. I was more pissed that I had to endure this charade for two days until I could ride again on the way home.

I was here though, I made a few promises, and I was hungry as fuck so at least I could get some groceries down my neck. A cool twenty later I found myself throwin’ the shit food in the trash…here we go.

I glided the bike down the hill towards the campground stopping to gaze at the mass of RV’s and trailers. Minibikes running amuck, golfcarts with their drunkin’ passengers and bikes kickin’ up dirt off the connecting roads. Tiki torches and lawn chairs abound, with the prevailing winds carrying the smells of meals being cooked on the bar-b-que. The draw was overwhelming, I think it was time to make some friends and find a place to ditch for the night.

I smoked a joint and took the Latowski to explore the campgrounds. As the lights from the midway of the carnival faded into a fresh memory, I made my way into to the darkest reaches of the surprisingly large primitive campground. This was a different vibe to be sure. The combination of food, weed and tire smoke was intoxicating…did I find some semblance of life in this lost cause? I needed to think.

I found a place to lean on my bike and soak things in and maybe find the bottom of this quandary I found myself in. Finding a piece of level ground by my friends, General and Heather to call home for the weekend. I found myself seated behind a big ol’ bowl gumbo watching the freakshow building on the campground’s dirt road. A sense of ‘place’ began to watch over me.

That evening, I had to set up the paintings and prints Matt brought and with that I spent the evening glad handing with industry people which always makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m your best friend now but where were ya when I wasn’t dippin’ my toes in relevance. It’s a crazy game and I found myself runnin’ for the campground and ‘my kinda people’ any chance I could get away. It was a nice balance from the ‘great yellow infestation’ way up on that hill. They were making pretend; I was makin’ friends.

I spent way too much time standing off by myself thinkin’ my way to the bottom of the first event I attended in five years. I was here, initially I was appalled at what was presented as the Smoke Out but I was damn sure not going to pout my way through the weekend just to be contrary. That was one trick this pony did for years, I needed to look at things in a different, old guy perspective.

I could’ve been pissed for the whole weekend but quite frankly. its fucking exhausting. I’m tired, my back was killin’ me, and I just needed to lay down in the dirt and get some rest.

I really didn’t bring much with me. I knew I was camping, and the weather looked favorable, so I didn’t bring fuck all as far as creature comforts go. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush never mind a tent or sleeping bag. Somebody threw a blanket my way and I slept the sleep of the dead shortly after sunset, in the dirt just like ol’ times.

The morning came early, just after sunrise and I had reset myself to address this ‘rally’ with a fresh set of eyes. The folks I found myself floppin’ with were friends from way back. Years upon years of riding to the events with their tow rig bringin’ all the things needed to make a happy campsite and with that, happy campers (even though I never thought of myself as one). A recent bike wreck had General bikeless and attending the event with all the toys. I his words ” I ain’t gonna let a bike wreck spoil my good time”.

Friday mornin’ and I was just pealin’ my eyes open when the smell of fresh coffee helped me speed up the morning unfolding of my beat-up carcass. The fresh brew and eggs started the day off right, a far cry from some of the event mornings from the past. It was nice to luxuriate after a good ride instead of diggin’ through my belongings hoping for a renegade Cliff bar.

The hard surface of the ground I slept on popped my back into roughly the right position. A pair of Crocks kept it more or less pain free or at least as pain free as it ever is.

The Crocks are as uncool as any footwear ever invented this side of Berkenstocks. Honestly though I love ’em. They pack easy on the sissy bar and are good to go in almost any condition after the kickstand is down. A side benefit is that the lack of heal and decent support really do my beat up back good. It’s an old guy troupe but it’s better than pullin’ my pants up to my nipples and sporting a fanny pack so I’m good.

Although technically open the crowds on the grounds had yet to arrive later that afternoon so I took the time to set up my booth in the Legends Gallery before the droves of people would make it impossible.

The Legends Gallery is the location for the invited builders show bikes and moto-art including my own. Although my own art isn’t entirely bike related it seemed to fit in well with the custom sissy bars and tanks. It was a good fit and I was located next to Richies Panhead and a painting I did of him was on loan from the private owner along with my other paintings and prints. Somehow, my area looked fairly professional, and it fit in with the surroundings well, I was set.

I was free all day until that evening when the Gallery would be closed for a ‘private’ gathering of those fuckin’ vermin in yellow. Until then I decided to see what this ‘rally’ had to offer.

It was late morning when I sinched down my hat and made my way around the grounds both by foot and toolin’ around on my sled. The night before I spent most of my time reading lips and tryin’ to figure out why folks think it’s a good idea to strike up a conversation right after you drop the kickstand. Myself, I’m wound up and deaf when I get off the bike. Only time will restore my senses to a semblance of normalcy. So, if I seemed rude when you were talkin’, that’s the reason and get over it.

Pokin’ around the swap meet and checkin’ out the bikes I could see the different climate in the bike culture. Dynas, FXRs and club style bikes dominated the landscape but there were some really nice iron cylinder choppers in attendance. As a matter of fact, the quality of the bikes both displayed and ridden was surprising. Although it seemed the majority of them were trailered there. This is definitely a RV and trailer event. Gone was the struggles and stories of calamity on the ride to the event replaced by toy haulers and safety. This was something I missed but it wasn’t the thing that bothered me the most.

What bothered me the most was the smell of men’s cologne, hair dye and plastic surgery disasters dressing 20 years younger than they actually are. Gone, it seems, was the blue-collar folks given it their all in the celebration of the working class. Now, there was money and the people that insist on flashing it. The ‘we are better than you’ attitude permeated the grounds as the ‘Hamster Only’ areas and events that they held for themselves really drove me outta my fuckin’ skull.

The Hamsters are like the Masons of the biker culture. The difference being that the Masons help each other out and pull the strings in secret, these guys spent the whole-time bein’ about the money and every conversation I had with any of them was them justifying their clubs existence to a dirt ball sap like me. They were the first thing you saw passing through the gates and somehow assuming a form of hierarchy of their own construction. It wasn’t a down in the dirt anti-establishment gathering. It was now a gathering OF the establishment, and I wanted no part of that aspect of this thing.

On the other hand, my friends from previous Smoke Outs were there in force. People I had lost track of years ago were in attendance. I was old and somehow, I was surprised that they got old too. The actual blow out Smoke Outs were decades ago and many of the folks that were here held onto that original Smoke Out comradery that I got out of all those previous ones I had attended. Sure, we are older now, with kickstarter limps and high blood pressure but we were still fundamentally the same people, we just moved slower and fell asleep in any comfortable chair we happened on.

I was damn near forty at Smoke Out 4 so yea, twenty years later all those years on two wheels have taken its toll but that doesn’t mean that I don’t hold the same feelings towards the ‘thing we built’ when it takes on the shine of those things we stood against when this was still fresh. However, I was really havin’ a good time, just hangin’ out with old friends and meeting some young bucks that still held true to those things we held dear, and I wrote about, all those years ago.

This is the point where my opinion took a dramatic turn. The problems I was having with this event was me comparing this event to the iconic Smoke Outs of the past. This was actually a great event, it wasn’t Smoke Out, it was Smoke Out Rally.

Letting my guard down and just avoiding the smell of cologne kept me happy and with my people. I was on my third day with the same socks and a lot of the folks I was hangin’ out with weren’t to terribly concerned about personal hygiene especially to the point of wearing perfume. Out in the farthest reaches of the campground is where the spirit of the old Smoke Outs lived. In the dirt next to my bike is where I found it.

There is no way you can compare the two completely different events. Any similarity between the two was strictly by design. All the trappings of the original were there but it was more of a tribute to the old Smoke Out. My best analogy is that Smoke Out Rally is more of a tribute band to the original Smoke Out than a continuation. It wasn’t Smoke Out but, I have to admit, it wasn’t bad, not really bad at all. Sure, now there’s money in attendance but faking poverty just to align yourself with the past makes no sense. The Smoke Out rally is a big event, but it’s my favorite big even I’ve attended.

The weekend continued with my new mind set without personal incident. Eventually I just ‘got past’ that sign and its obvious misguided hypocrisy. The original Smoke Out would have been forced into action had the Hamster shown up but I guess the Rally doesn’t stand by those old principles. I guess that’s okay by me, I have friends involved in making this new event happen and I’m happy for their success.

However, if you’re looking for the original Smoke Out, this isn’t it and nothing else has a chance of makin’ it either. It was an anomaly manufactured by the times. The tidal wave of chopper popularity was still fresh and the HORSE B.C. was riding the wave with uncompromising antisocial behavior and a straight finger to those who treated choppers anything short of a religion. That was then, things aren’t the same in the culture, so it reflects in any event that looks to relive the past. The powers that be made the Smoke Out Rally more palatable to a broader audience and, as with any business, you have to cater to the times and the Smoke Out Rally does just that.

The ride home I was torn on how to right this article. I had a great time; it wasn’t the same, but I made some bank. Did I enjoy this event because I’m 60? I don’t know. I kind of slowed down a bit and don’t mind the creature comforts as much as I used to. Do I long for those more primitive events? Yea, but there’s plenty out there. On the east coast they are prevalent, and a good grass roots time can be had at any number of them, you just gotta go.

This, however, was me dipping my toes back into the chopper scene and that bond between me, my chopper and the people that get it are stronger than ever. So how does Smoke Out Rally stack up against the original? It doesn’t, it’s a different event giving a nod to the past and those who paved the way all those years ago. I will go again, for sure but I won’t be comparing this event with any other.

On its own it’s a great party and comparing it to anything else just takes away from what it is, in this day and age not twenty years ago. Would I recommend it? Fuck yes especially if you’re a vendor. There’s money here now and people want to show off spending it and that’s good for everybody.

I actually could give a fuck about the Hamsters and all that glad handing they enjoy so much. I’m still the same guy, just a lot fuckin’ older. They were irrelevant back then and remain irrelevant now to the things I hold close to my heart. They will never know the attraction of hard riding an old chop for way more miles than they were designed for. They haven’t the foggiest as to what hardcore is and that’s just fine. I’m not part of their club and they’re not a part of mine.

The event was a success and dispite all my belly aching I had a great time and will be back next year is they’ll have me. Do yurself a favor if you do come, don’t expect the same chaos but know there is a good time to be had if you just let yourself have one.

This all came into the light when I wasted a rear head on rt 77 on the way home. Crapped out on the side of the road waiting for a truck to come pick me up I found myself layin’ in the grass with the weekend bringin’ an unexpected smile to my old windblown face.

I had a great time and I’ll be doing it again. It might not be the Smoke Out of old but Smoke Out Rally can hold its head up high by knowing it’s a tribute event that truly honors what happened before it. So, drop your expectations and just have a good time, because time is limited so fill it with as much fun as you can.

Painter….out!

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