How did they know what underwear to get me?

August 15, 2023August 15, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Hunky biker Jim Wilson is fresh from the shower, a white towel around his neck. He looks confused. Who's paying for this hotel room? And who left a new set of clean clothes? — **Take a shower, the note instructed. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

I walk into the Hotel Kendall, a place too fancy for my usual digs. The place smells like money and wood polish, a far cry from my jail cell just an hour ago. Something’s up. The Twisted Paladins aren’t known for their charity.

“Welcome, Mr. Wilson,” the front desk clerk says with a grin that seems too perfect. “We’ve been expecting you. Your room’s been reserved.” Reserved? By whom? “Third floor, overlooking Main Street.” The guy talks like I’m royalty, not some ragged biker fresh from the slammer.

A bellboy’s on me before I know it, escorting me to the third floor. He keeps glancing at me like he’s sizing me up. But it’s not an ugly sizing up, more like curiosity. The elevator’s too slow for my liking, and finally, we’re there.

“Enjoy your stay,” the bellboy says, sounding like he means it, and then he’s gone. Doesn’t even wait for a tip.

The room’s nice, real nice. Martha Stewart wouldn’t mind getting laid here. There’s an envelope on the bed. Inside, a note: “Take a shower, change into clean clothes, and await further instructions.”

Further instructions? What is this, a spy movie?

I’m filthy, that’s true, but my only clothes are what I’m wearing. That’s when I see a neatly folded paper bag on the dresser. Inside, there are exact copies of my black T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and even my socks and underwear. How’d they know about the underwear? Creepy.

I don’t think about it much. The hunger’s gnawing at me, and the hot shower washes away all my worries. Well, most of them.

I change into the clean clothes, looking out the window, down on Main Street. Bike Week’s over now, and Sturgis has returned to its small-town slumber.

As for the Twisted Paladins, my benefactors, mystery envelopes — it feels like a scene out of a Tarantino flick. Only thing missing’s Samuel L. Jackson telling me what to do.

I sit on the bed, lean back, and wait. The Twisted Paladins did me a solid, got me out of jail. But nothing’s free, not in this world.

Twisted Paladins: Who’s behind the vest?

August 14, 2023August 14, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

An eager young biker wearing a vest with a patch that reads "prospect" stands in front of Jim's Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. The Meade County Jail in Sturgis, South Dakota, is in the background. — **My one-percenter benefactor has a prospect deliver my Fat Boy just in time for my release from Meade County Jail. (Photo by Midjourney/Google/Harley-Davidson, Ivamis)**

I’m stepping out of Meade County Jail, unsure what to expect. Been in worse spots, but this ain’t exactly a walk in the park. A young guy in biker gear approaches me, and his vest tells me he’s a “prospect” with the Twisted Paladins.

Prospect’s a young guy with a face that looks like he’s spent more time on the cover of Teen Vogue than Easyriders. There’s an eagerness in his eyes trying to prove something. Not to me, but to someone. Maybe to the Paladins.

His gear’s still got that shine of newness; he hasn’t settled into the role. He’s in, but not all the way.

“Yo, Jim! Room’s reserved for you at the Kendall Hotel,” he says.

He’s eager to please, this kid, but he’s not falling over himself. There’s a coolness to him. He’s done this before and has something to prove but doesn’t want to show it.

“You part of this?” I ask, nodding at his vest.

“Just doing a job,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

His smile’s practiced but not fake. He hands me the keys to my bike, fingers lingering a moment too long as if he’s unsure whether to let go.

A young woman rolls up on a Harley, and the prospect climbs on back, leaving me with that lingering sense of something more going on. He glances around once as they pull away, and something in his eyes says this isn’t a simple favor.

I watch him go, still puzzling over the kid before I return to my Harley. Fresh and gleaming, it’s been washed, waxed, and detailed.

Something’s going on here, but I’ll figure it out later. For now, the Kendall Hotel’s waiting, and so is the night.

My get-out-of-jail-free card has strings

August 13, 2023August 13, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Jim stands in front of Meade County Jail after his release. — **Freedom comes with a price that I don’t know yet. (Photo courtesy Midjourney/Google)**

The cell block door clanks open, and a sharply dressed man with a predatory gleam in his eye is led into the area by a correctional officer. This has to be the one-percenter’s attorney, I think, the kind of lawyer who can twist the law into pretzels — and who wears a three-piece suit even on Sundays.

The attorney motions my cellmate over, and they talk in hushed tones, words slipping through the bars like secrets. The attorney leaves, and a corrections officer opens the cell in a matter of minutes and leads my new friend away.

He’s free, just like that.

I slump back on the thin mattress, alone in the cell now, resigned to my fate. The walls close in, and despair creeps into my thoughts. My hearing on Monday is a lifetime away.

But then the cell block door opens again, and the attorney strides in. His eyes find mine, and I can’t help but feel like a cornered animal.

“Jim?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“You’re getting out, too.”

I blink once, twice.

He shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that belies the power he wields. “My client has taken an interest in you. The witnesses have recanted. You’re free to go.”

I stand up, my legs wobbly, my mind racing. “But why would he help me?”

The attorney leans in. “Let’s just say he sees something in you.”

I swallow hard but nod. I’ll figure out the one-percenter’s angle later. Right now, I can’t turn it down.

Later, as I walk out of Meade County Jail and step into freedom, the sunlight feels cold.

No good deed goes unpunished

August 13, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Sturgis police department mugshot of Jim after he's been arrested. — **I’ve been arrested plenty of times, but never for something this serious. (Photo courtesy Midjourney/Depositphotos)**

Here I am, sitting in a cold jail cell in Sturgis, my jaw throbbing.

Yesterday, I took a stand in that dive bar, thinking I was doing the right thing. Now, I’m facing charges of felonious assault, and I can hardly believe it.

The woman I thought I was protecting now claims her man wasn’t abusing her. How could that be? I saw it with my own eyes. But she’s singing a different tune, and now I’m the one in trouble.

The whole situation stinks, and I can’t shake the feeling that something fishy’s going on. I replay the scene in my head, over and over, looking for clues. Was there something in her eyes? A hidden plea for help, maybe? Or did I read the whole thing wrong?

My thoughts are interrupted when the cell door clanks open, and a heavily tattooed guy with a wild beard is tossed in beside me. His ink marks him as a one-percenter, and I immediately sense trouble.

“What’re you in for?” he growls, sizing me up.

“Felonious assault,” I say.

He laughs, a harsh, gravelly sound. “You’ve got it easy, man. They just captured me on an outstanding warrant for first-degree murder.”

I’m taken aback, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not joking. He’s lived a hard life, and this is just another chapter.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say, more to myself than him.

He leans back, eyeing me with a strange mixture of curiosity and contempt. “Right thing? Wrong thing? Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with truth.

Kenny Rogers is right: Sometimes you gotta fight

August 11, 2023August 20, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Hunky young biker after getting in a fight. He has cuts and scratches on his face and the beginning of a black eye. — **Jerks need an ass-kicking. I can’t always give them one, but I’m sure as hell gonna try. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

It’s just before noon and I’m sipping my Jack and Coke in a Sturgis bar I won’t name when the shouting starts.

Big guy’s shoving his girlfriend, and she’s trying to get away. I look at the bartender, but he pretends to be busy polishing glasses. I look at the bouncer, but he pretends to be talking on his cellphone.

“You lay off her!” I yell, getting up from my stool.

Everyone’s looking at me now.

The guy turns, eyes blazing. “Mind your own business,” he spits.

I don’t like his tone. Don’t like what he’s doing either. “Your business is my business when you treat a lady like that,” I say.

A fist comes at me, connects with my face. The guy’s buddies join in, and I’m swinging, hitting, dodging until WHAM! Something slams into my jaw, and everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m on the curb, jaw aching — and a dozen people are taking photos and videos of me. I feel a smear of blood pooling under my left eye and touch it gingerly. That’s going to be a beauty of a shiner.

Inside, the bar’s careening along like nothing happened. “Hey,” a voice booms from inside, “did you see how we tossed that loser out like a box of cat shit?”

For an insane moment, I consider pulling my hunting knife from my right boot and going back in. But the last time I did that, things didn’t turn out well, so I let it rest.

I check for my bike keys. Still there. Good.

A craving for Norco sets in, gnawing at me. That’d fix things right up. Instead, I pull myself to my feet, stagger over to the Harley. Don’t feel much like a hero.

I start her up and ride off, the roar of the Fat Boy cutting through the music and noise. I’m just another guy with a sore jaw, a developing black eye, and a head full of thoughts I don’t want to think.

It’s been a lousy day and it’s only half over. But that’s life. You step in, you take a swing, you end up on the curb.

Maybe next time, I’ll mind my own business.

Maybe not.

Harley for a Triumph: One-day challenge at Sturgis

August 10, 2023August 10, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Young guy dressed in beige leather jacket and skinny white pants poses in front of his vintage Triumph Bonneville behind The Knuckle Saloon. — I swapped bikes with this dude for a day. Yeah, I know he looks like Joran van der Sloot posing for his Aruba arrest mugshot and dresses like a douchebag, but I felt an immediate connection with the guy and trusted my gut. (Photo courtesy Midjourney. Triumph component licensed from Rama under Creative Commons CC BY-SA 2.0 fr.)

Belly full of beer outside The Knuckle Saloon and a dare in the air. The stranger’s eyes lock onto mine, and he’s talking crazy.

He challenges me to switch rides for the day, my Harley Fat Boy for his vintage Triumph Bonneville T120R. All for the thrill of it.

“Yeah? You serious?” I say, not believing it.

“As a heart attack,” he says, hand outstretched.

Should I do it?

My pal Larry from Cleveland says you can’t drink all day unless you start at breakfast, and it’s almost 10 a.m., so . . .

What the fuck!

Deal’s done with a handshake, and I hop on that Triumph, nowhere near as hefty as my Harley, but she’s got spirit, and we’re off like a prom dress.

Start riding, wind in my face, new beast under me. Triumph’s nimble, dances around curves, growls at stoplights. Ain’t my Harley, but she’s something special.

The Triumph attracts her own crowd. Folks I wouldn’t usually cross paths with.

I head out on U.S. 14A and stop at some bar I’ve never heard of halfway to Deadwood. Dixie admires me and the Triumph, invites me inside to watch a mini bike slow race and buys me a Jack and Coke.

Dixie says she rode in from Coos Bay, Oregon, with 47 cancer survivors. She shares stories of the road and of the breasts she lost. Hugs me solid when we part.

Outside, I bump into Pembroke, an old-timer — you have to be with that name. I think he’s fucking with the Triumph, but he’s running papyrus hands across her curves with eyes closed as if reliving his youth through Braille.

“I’ve been fixing bikes since God knows when,” he says. “They’re like robots, fine and wild machines — they need a human brain to be complete.”

Wisdom wrapped in grease-stained stories.

Nightfall. I meet the stranger again at The Knuckle and swap back, but we’re no longer strangers. Share a drink, trade stories. He’s had a hell of a time on my Harley. We laugh, promise to keep in touch.

By the way, I know many of you are going to harsh on me for letting this guy ride my hog. But I knew what I was doing, so fuck you.

Biker patch that reads Yeah they're fake, the real ones tried to kill me. — **As we hugged goodbye, I noticed this patch on Dixie’s jacket.**

The Ten Commandments for Bikers

August 8, 2023September 2, 2023 L.T. Hanlon1 Comment

**Did Jesus visit Sturgis on Tuesday? Some folks think so. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

I think Vicki is nuts. She’s my bartender this afternoon at a townie joint in downtown Sturgis.

She sets my bottle of Bud on the bar and gently nests a booklet the size of a driver’s license alongside.

“Whoa!” I declare. “A chick’s giving me a Chick Tract!”

“It’s something else,” she says. “And no shot of Jack till you read it.”

I chug the Bud and figure I’ll humor Vicki. I pick up the tiny booklet; its simple white cover has black text that reads, “The Ten Commandments for Bikers.”

It’s printed on what feels like metal, yet the pages are thinner and lighter than Bible paper. And they won’t tear — I try.

So, I flip through the booklet, prepared to laugh my ass off. But I don’t.

Ride with Respect or Don’t Ride at All: The road isn’t a playground. Honor it, or stay home.
One Family, One Road: No matter the bike, the brand, or the style, we’re all riders. If you can’t respect that, you don’t belong.
Take Care of Your Beast: A biker’s pride is in their ride. Treat it right, and it’ll never let you down.
Gear Up or Eat Asphalt: The choice is yours, but the wise know that the road can be as harsh as it is free. Dress for the slide, not just the ride.
Sober Riding Ain’t Just a Suggestion: Your choices affect everyone on the road. Ride high, and you’ll fall low.
Stranded Is No Way to Be: See a brother or sister in trouble? You stop. It’s not just about being cool; it’s about being human.
Ride Hard, But Ride Right: There’s a thrill in speed, but law and skill aren’t just words. Know your limits; know the law.
We’re All Ambassadors of the Road: Act like a fool, and that’s how the world sees us. Ride with dignity, show respect, and earn your place.
Teach the Willing, Ignore the Foolish: The road’s wisdom isn’t for everyone. Share with those who respect it. Leave the rest in your dust.
Ride Free, But Never Alone: The road is a journey, an adventure, a calling, but remember your family, friends, those waiting for you back home — and the guy who always has your back.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

“Some biker who looked like Jesus passed ’em out this morning.”

“He looked like Jesus?”

“Well, maybe like Bradley Cooper playing Jesus.”

“Right.”

“The weird thing is, everybody described him different,” Vicki says. “One gal thinks he’s Black, one thinks he’s Asian, and here’s what’s really spooky: A couple folks didn’t see him at all.”

And then Vicki pours us both a double shot of Jack.

Some Sturgis satisfactions prove permanent

August 7, 2023August 9, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

A beautiful blonde in short cutoff jeans, knee-high boots and a cropped halter top strikes a pose in front of an old yellow school bus. — **Charlie remembers when models posed in Sturgis back in the late 1970s. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

Charlie’s a Sturgis local, a retired photographer, and in exchange for letting him take my picture with his vintage Stereo Realist 3-D camera, he buys me lunch at One Eyed Jack’s Saloon.

Like all of Sturgis, it’s a fun place where folks from everywhere can be themselves and then some.

As I tuck into a damn fine Black Hills Burger, Charlie almost drops his French dip.

“Hey! There goes Miss Debrie, my junior high English teacher! Didn’t know she’s still alive.”

Charlie stares distantly at the Main Street crowd of bikes and people like he’s seeing stuff that isn’t there. I chomp my burger, unwilling to let him derail my meal.

“The first day of seventh grade,” he says, still looking past me, “she had us write about how we spent our summer vacation. So I chose the time me and my friends saw some beautiful biker ladies posing for a fashion shoot right in front of a school bus downtown during Bike Week. We couldn’t believe our eyes.”

“Ever hook up with some hot biker chick?” I ask.

“Married a good woman,” he says. “Raised two boys and a girl. But no, no biker chicks. I never even saw the magazine ad they were in.”

I finish my burger and order another Jack and Coke, feeling something unexpected. Charlie’s words, they make me think.

“You married, son?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say. “Came close a couple times, but I guess I got a lot to learn.”

Charlie nods.

We part, him with his memories, me with thoughts of what lies ahead. Some lessons uplift you, and some make you question everything.

One Harley, one dog, one day

August 7, 2023August 10, 2023 L.T. Hanlon1 Comment

A reddish dog named Rusty poses with four participants at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. — **Rusty and I make new friends at Sturgis. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m walking on Main Street in downtown Sturgis, still buzzed from last night — and still uncertain whether I knocked boots with Joey from Skokie, his old lady, or both.

Three cups of coffee later, I remember that I didn’t go gay. All I did was lay pipe on Joey’s old lady while Joey stood at the foot of the bed and rubbed one out.

Thank God I went down on Mrs. Joey when Joey splattered the wall — or else I’d need intense therapy.

I can’t finish a fourth coffee, so I toss the now-cold styro cup into a trash can and cut on over to Main Street, where I’d parked my bike in front of the Oasis. As I dig out my keys, I see a medium-sized dog with short reddish hair, tail tucked, and looking lost, standing near my bike.

I kneel, hand extended, heart open. The dog sniffs and, with a wag that seems like approval, becomes my partner for the day. We name each other without words. In the wag of a tail and the warmth of a hand, we speak a silent language of trust.

Together, we roam the rally, each spectacle more vivid through the eyes of the other. I laugh more, my soul lighter as we navigate the labyrinth of bikes and people.

Day turns to night, and our bond deepens, lessons whispered in wag and woof. Loyalty isn’t a chain but a choice.

Then we stumble upon a man, eyes frantic, face lined with worry. “Rusty!” he exclaims, recognizing his dog.

I give Rusty one last ear scratch, all smiles, like tuning an old radio and hearing a long-forgotten song. Life’s a curious dance.

Reddish-brown retriever-mix dog sits in front of a motorcycle. — **Who’s a good boy? Rusty, my faithful Sturgis dog for a day! (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

When a guy needs tuning up, do it right

August 6, 2023August 15, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Photo of Joey from Skokie, a bruiser of a guy who takes crap from nobody. — **This is Joey from Skokie. He teaches me the finer points of beating the crap out of someone.** **(Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

Remember Allison, the Manhattan bombshell who works at a Chicago ad agency and wants me to be a model?

It’s bullshit.

What she did to me, she did to at least a dozen guys. Sure got us seeing dollar signs and stardom.

But it’s all smoke and mirrors — like Tom Horn Smokeless.

Joey from Skokie, a bear of a man who doesn’t suffer fools gladly, his old lady sniffs something foul when Joey brags about his modeling job. She knows it’s a scam.

The real sting is when Allison and her accomplice, Mr. Jones (surprisingly his actual name), tricked us into signing those forms and revealing our Social Security numbers and bank details for supposed direct deposits.

Joey and the rest of us find Allison and Mr. Jones, and we’re hot on the trail of justice.

Allison bolts, legs carrying her into the night like a scared rabbit. Mr. Jones ain’t so lucky.

We drag him into the alley behind Main Street and tune him up till he’s singing like Sinatra. Promises to torch the papers.

Joey’s smart, though, and tells Mr. Jones he knows our info’s likely in the wild, sold to the highest bidder. So we tune him up until he falls on his ass.

I kick Mr. Jones in the nuts twice, and he screams like a bitch, but Joey makes me stop. Says it’s best to beat a guy only when he’s standing.

“It’s too easy to kick and stomp a man to death,” Joey says.