a.k.a. The Camp of Dr. Caligari. Editor’s note: As promised, Elvis ‘e*rock’ Jones’ Daytona story, guaranteed to scare you away from Florida for life:
Most of the license plates around here have a green peninsula and a juicy ripe orange inked by prisoners in back of the numbers. At the bottom, it reads: SUNSHINE STATE. Not this time. Shortly east of Tallahassee, the rains came. And came, and came. In the back of the truck, there’s no air filter or protective housing on the big Mikuni carb, except for the Lammy sidepanels. Fresh rainwater in the chamber does not make for a fun rally. If only I had a stock twist ‘n goOe
Somewhere around the crossing of I-10 and I-75, the signs begin to appear along the roadside.
FRESH ORANGE JUICE – FREE DISNEY TICKETS GOLF AMONG THE VILLAS, PRICES FROM $130K – 1 MILLION SEE THE 30FT. LIVING ALLIGATOR SILVER SPRINGS – FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY RON JON SURF SHOP – THE ORIGINAL SINCE 1973 EROTIC CAFE, WE DARE TO BARE DAYTONA HARLEY-DAVIDSONOe LARGEST DEALERSHIP IN THE WORLD BOOT HILL SALOON. KEEP THE PARTY GOINGOe KILL YOUR PIPES!
It seems that, to speeding tourists, large boobs (surf shops) and only the brightest, most garish colors (everybody else) will be the most eye catching. The rains continue as we take the cut-off that bypasses Jacksonville and slices past St. Augustine, toward Daytona. I’m riding with Jeremy “Shaggy” Janes, a resident of Silverhill, Alabama, in his new Nissan Frontier. He farts a lot, even more than I do, and every other word out of his goateed mouth is ‘fuckin”.
TELL DES TO GIT BACK ON THE FUCKIN’ INNER-STATE. THERE’S NO FUCKIN’ McDONALD’S AT THIS EXIT.
MAKE SURE TO WIPE OFF YER SHOES. AH DON’T WANT NO DAMM DIRT ON MAH NEW FUCKIN’ CARPIT!
GAWDAMM THIS FUCKIN’ RAINOe WHAH’D IT HAFTA FUCKIN’ RAIN THIS WEEKEND? OUT OF ALL THE DAMM WEEKENDS, IT’S GOTTA FUCKIN’ POUR ON THIS ‘UNOe
Around 4 o’clock, we are nearing the rally site. It’s not in Daytona proper, but about 15-20 miles inland. Just outside a small community called Edgewater. The downpour has now trickled to a slow but steady drizzle. The terrain in this area of the state is almost totally flat. The abundant live oaks and towering pines of the panhandle give way to endless stretches of palmetto plants (a favorite home of the diamondback rattlesnake) and 40 feet high palm trees.
We arrive at the campsite, meet and greet, and set up the tent and supplies. The obligatory bonfire is not going yet, rather, the huge log is covered with a tarp to shield the rain. The grass is soaked and quickly turning to mud. It looks like our Pensacola contingent is the first to arrive, outside of the local club members already there.
Shortly, though, a Series III Lammy approaches. It has a cool, but cracked and faded, Capt. America paint job. It’s riding two up, a guy and a girl. They’re from the northeastern U.S., trailered it down for bike week, and rode the Lammy about fifty miles from a nearby town, Deland. Gradually, more people arrive. Mostly locals, non-skinheads.
One dude shows up in a Rob Zombie cowboy hat. He’s very affable, very drunk, rides a Yamaha Roadstar with gay leather fringe draped from the handgrips. He has a THICK Florida cracker accent.
Another local named John. He’s huge, and very, very funny. african-american with John Lennon glasses, a rastafari-red, gold and green cap and a Hailie Selassie t shirt.
After sunset, we ride to the east and a restaurant/lounge, whose name I don’t remember. It’s very Jimmy Buffet meets Ernest Hemingway. Old Florida, before Walt Disney moved in. Beach bums, middle aged rednecks, a few bikers, drunk frat boy Dave Matthews fans, fifty year old women whose sagging skin is almost mummified by decades of overexposure to the brutal Florida sun. Most are wasted and horny and looking for ‘love’. One of the tipsy, off balance, 60 year bimbo-divorcees grabs the ass of a local skin they call Sea Bass.
HEY HUN, WHASH-YALL DOIN’?
OH, UM, JUST HANGIN’ OUTOe YOU HAVIN’ FUN?
YESH! Y’ALL LEAVIN’Oe CAN I COME?
UH SURE. WE’RE HEADIN’ BACK TO OUR CAMP. YOU OK TO RIDE ON THE BACK OF A SCOOTER?
OH YESH-SHURE! DAT’LL BE FUN! I KIN DO IT! TAKE ME WISH YOU, BABEOe
OK, I’LL GET BACK TO YOU BEFORE WE LEAVE. (He never does.)
We order drinks and grub, then depart after a few non-eventful hours, aside from some playful food fights. Back at the site, we all talk the usual shit about bikes, people we hate or think are dicks, and plastic scooters. After more than a few beers, I feel the urge to hit my new friends with the excruciating ‘Blue Banana’ joke. It’s long, usually running about half an hour, and keeps you squirming and sucks you in. It won me the rally asshole award.
A steady rain continues to pelt the bonfire and the tops of the tents. Between the snoring and the constant, distant rumble of Harley pipes, and a nasty bout of food induced nausea (don’t think that overworked waitress appreciated my starting a fried fish finger and beer soaked paper towel fight), I don’t sleep very well.
Saturday, I miss the 10 am rideout to Pub 44. I finish cleaning myself up just as the group returns. It’s time for judging, lunch & prizes. High Endurance has done a good job of securing plenty of raffle prizes, the most I’ve ever seen at a rally (the few I’ve attended) especially for a small one. Turnout was perhaps 25 to 30 bikes. the club is infighting with the Vulcans from south Florida and has taken some shit, and a boycott from other clubs in the southeast.
I’m currently a single guy, and was hoping for a few available scooter girls to make the rally. Although 6 or so females are present, they are all attached. The blue eyed brunette that rode in on the Capt. America bike is INCREDIBLY sexy. Great body, ample, natural breasts and an engaging personality.
Soon darkness falls and it’s time for the night ride to a place called No Name Saloon. This place is only 10 minutes from the camp, on Highway 1. Despite being half an hour or more from the main happenings on the Daytona strip, the place is packed with bikers at 6 pm.
The lot in front is full of motorcycles, and the parking attendees, some of them high school kids, some of them grizzled pot bellied old timers, wave flashlights at our group and point us toward the gate that leads into the sawdust covered back lot. One of them noticeably winces at our arrival. Inside, it’s like a circus. Huge bikes are neatly lined up throughout. There are numerous tents/booths selling leathers, knives, see thru halter tops, BBQ & beer.
My attention is drawn to a tent hawking patches and stickers. The smell of wet sawdust is omnipresent. THere are some cool products for sale, but mostly cornball items, appealing to the stereotype ‘Nam vet biker.
AIRBORNE. MESS WITH THE BEST, DIE LIKE THE REST
YOU TOUCHA MY BIKE, I SMASHA YOU FACE.
TRY BURNING THIS FLAG, ASSHOLE.
JUST PUT ME BACK ON MY BIKE.
NATURAL DEATH IS FOR PUSSIES.
THESE COLORS DON’T RUN.
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU’RE TOO FUCKING CLOSE. BACK OFF!
and one I thought I’d never see again: AIDS, KILLS FAGS DEAD!
Plus half a dozen swastika/ SS Totenkopf patches, each large enough to cover the entire back of a jacket.
We mostly split into smaller groups and take in the scenery. A three piece cover band is onstage in the back. MILLER BEER WELCOMES BIKERS signs are draped across the stage front. The band runs through the usual fare one would expect in a place like this. “Born to be Wild” was actually playing when we arrived, no joke. An intoxicated woman is sloshing through her off kilter dance moves by herself at the foot of the stage.
WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE COME AND DANCE WITH THIS LADY?Oe RIGHT NOW!
There is an 80’s era Kawasaki stuck in a tree and a burnout pit nearby. The treed bike is chained to one of the large branches, I guess to prevent someone from yanking it downOe
The lone dancer has somehow made her way onstage. She does her best to sing along to ‘Comfortably Numb’ into the mic.
Y’KNOW, LADIES–AFTER DARK, CLOTHING IS OPTIONAL!!
Two of our crew are talked into entering the beer chugging contest up front. There is a wooden picnic table by the outside bar. On it sits a very large biker. He’s not moving very much and he’s sporting a gigantic hairy ass crack. His pants hang lower than a Jr. high school g-money gangsta wannabe’s. Sea Bass snaps a pic.
A tall long haired biker in a leather vest and pointy cowboy boots (imagine) wins the beer guzzling contest.
DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT WAITRESS BEHIND THE BAR?? SHE’S WEARING CHAPS AND SOME, LIKE, SEE THRU PANTIES UNDERNEATH!
I take the time to order another beer and have a see for myself. But have to wait for a plain looking middle aged gent to finish his spiel with her. He’s setting up a raffle display for a bike giveaway. I notice he has a new mini-harlee with him, about the size of a moped. The DJ of the beer contest rolls it into place by the bar. The money will go to the Shriners, he tells me.
Most of the crowd here is authentic harley material. I only see one greying couple that are obviously upper-middle class with plenty of dough. They sport matching H-D brown and orange leather jackets. I’m sure each one cost as much as the last P200 I bought.
The rest of the crowd is dirty, hairy, overweight and over- testosterone driven.
Some lines I overhear –
LOOK HUNNY, THE MOPEDS ARE HEREOe HUH HUHOe
MAY-UN, WHAT KINDA DAYMAGE CAN YA DO GOIN’ THIRTY FIVE MILES AN HOUR?
MAN, I HAD ONE OF THESE AS A KID, DELIVERIN’ NEWSPAPERS! THEN OF COURSE, I GRADUATED TO A BIG BIKE.
There are a few crotch rockets. R-1’s, Ducatis, CBR’s, Goldwings. And some nice looking vintage hogs. A blue and white shovelhead, a 60’s sportster, old skool Road Kings.
The licence plate selection is a cornucopia. NC, NJ, NY, TN, SC, KY, MI, CA, TX, LA, AK, WI, IL, IN, ND, CO, ONTARIOOe
Back at the stage the dancing lady is baring her breasts. Shaggy has asked and is given approval to do a burnout. It’s a roughly 24 sq. foot cement slab wrapped with a six foot high sheep farmer style fence. The small hand painted sign reads: WHEELS OF FIRE
A Dunlop tire is hanging on the fence. Written in magic marker, inside the whitewall margin: BLOWOUT. DAVE SMITH. BIKE WEEK 2001. ’93 FLHT
THere’s a solid wooden wall at the back to place your front tire against. Shaggy’s green GTR approaches, it’s loud (well, sorta) pipe making a path through the crowd. The DJ announces Shag’s arrival over the P.A. A handful of gawkers follow. A guy named Stan, whom they call Sam, is next, on an orange P with ‘General Lee 01’ stickered on the frame where the engine cowl should be. Both guys produce plenty of smoke, but no popped tires.
They’re followed by someone on a brand new harley, not even broken in yet. The copious amounts of burning rubber smoke dwarf what the scooters could ever produce. Chunks of rubber bits can be seen streaking through the night air like miniature artillery shells, plumes of smoke in their wake.
After 5 minutes, the huge tire is still not blown, but we’ve all gulped enough tire smoke to kill a small pig. In the darkness, the heads of the pipes are glowing a muted orange. Several people light their cigarettes on them.
The announcer mentions a Best Buns and Wet T Shirt contest, $100 prize each, coming up at nine o’clock, but were getting restless, and head for the scoots.
Back at camp, two of the local skins mention a ‘party’ that we might attend later. The skies have cleared for the first time. The crescent moon and a few stars appear through the clouds. The rumble of harley pipes are incessant then and for the whole time there. Even, if not especially, at 4 and 5 in the morning.
There is talk of a naked ride later that night. We are all hoping it involves the gorgeous girl from Pennsylvania. (She mentions that she’s is originally from Ohio.) After a while, a handful decide to keep put, a handful opt to attend this party.
I’ve never heard of this company, Motorcycle Freight, but if Forward Air even makes one-tenth of the dough these guys do, you’re getting taken to the cleaners every time you ship a bike. The place was like I imagine the Kennedy compound in West Palm would be. Hundreds of cars and trucks parked on the grass. Two police cars, blue lights flashing, have been hired to escort pedestrians across the highway. DOT cautions signs at each end.
Inside the gate, hundreds more bikes are parked. As always, it’s mostly newer H-D’s. People are everywhere. Beautiful people, not like the road-weary bike rats at the No Name; these rich bastards didn’t ride here; they trucked it in, like us.
It was a ‘nice’ party, inasmuch as ALL THE DRINKS WERE FREE. All the food, FREE. Your choice. Beer, wine, cocktails, pasta, fresh Atlantic seafood, sushi, corn on the cob. Hundreds, no, thousands of drunks, all eating and drinking as much as they wanted, no charge, except for tipping the barmaids. One of the skins tipped .50 cents; the bartender reached into the jar and returned the tip!
It was weird. No ID required to get in. No printed invitation. Any bloody fool that staggered in is treated to a feast for the gut, and yes, the eyes. As I mentioned, a LOT of beautiful people. Tons and tons of trashed college girls, well dressed and nicely groomed rich boys, a few gnarly biker dudes, rich middle aged accountants, lawyers, mid- level corporate managers and their ilk.
Behind one of the many bars , is a sign which reads:
SUM POOSIE ENERGY DRINK.
The logo features a french kitty with a cigarette holder, I thinkOe I’d had a few. The caption at the top of the ad reads:
THAT IS SUM POOSIE!
At various spots in the crowd, young women are walking around virtually naked. Each of them is tall, sexy, to varying degrees, and wearing next to nothing. Pink tops and barely there pink hot pants, made of the thinnest cotton. Think ‘Hooters’ minus the ugly tan panty hoseOe and a lot more cleavage and ass cheek hanging out. The Sum Poosie logo is silkscreened onto the back of each girls panty. The logo is quite small due to the lack of material to cover even the smallest ass. They’re almost thongs. They’re giving away test tubes full of the energy drink, which they hold vertically in their mouths and pour into yours. Brett is one of the few local club members not a skin. He doesn’t drink or smoke, so when he is approached, he declines the shot.
BUT IT’S NOT AL-CO-HOL-IC!
WE’LLOe OOe OKOe
Most of these girls have modest tattoos, usually at the small of her back, at the waist line. Was this a pre-requisite for getting hired here? Some girls have less than stunning faces, or a bruise or two on her thigh, but not many guys noticed, as all eyes are on the butts, tits and the sea of freely intoxicated women floating around. It’s common to see a grinning man snapping a flash picture of a ‘Sum Poosie’ girl behind her back. They ALL had very nice asses. That DEFINITELY was a requirement for the job.
A band plays on a lit stage near the entrance by the row of portable bathrooms. Mostly older guys with white beards and ill- fitting t-shirts. They run through the gamut of Allman Bros, Bad Co., Zeppelin, and whichever group does
I DON’T WANT YOUOe TO BE TRUE, I JUST WANT TO MAKEOe LOVE TO YOU.
Drunks stagger about, writhing, dancing, trying to act sexy to their partner. The beautiful girl from Pennsylvania is there, along with her lucky boyfriend — who is very cool, by the way. Shaggy is there, along w/ me and 3-4 of the local club guys. Plus a new kid from the Miami area. He looks to be maybe 20 years old. It’s his first rally. He doesn’t own a scooter. He stays constantly drunk the whole weekend. He sleeps in a Honda Accord during the rally and doesn’t change clothes. He sports a foam, trucker style ball cap with a cobra printed on it. His black t shirt has the exact same cobra print. Done in that glittery 70’s iron on method.
DUDE, IF I’D A-KNOWN RALLIES WERE LIKE THIS, I’D-A HADDA SCOOTER LONG BEFORE NOW!!
He threw his Cobra hat in the fire before it was all over. I know I didn’t see him anywhere near sobriety, even in the a.m. I’m not good with remembering names, so I called him the COBRA and it stuck.
It’s a laugh fest at this point. A wasted older woman, dancing, trips over a landscaping barrier, drunken men of all backgrounds hoot and holler, rebel style. And there is a totally androgynous woman (I think) dancing by herself. Beckoning anyone within eyeshot to join in her hilarious dance moves. She makes the singer from Devo or Elvis Costello look like Gene Kelly & Fred Astaire. She looks COMPLETELY out of place here, like a middle aged soccer mom from Indiana. Short cropped hair, glasses, no boobs under her sweatshirt whatsoever! She is utterly wasted. Later, one of the skins offers me two bucks to sit in her lap. He tried it himself, but she refused when he produced a driver license with no motorcycle endorsement.
Signs abound that read: DON’T DRIVE DRUNK. WE WILL PROVIDE A CAB FOR YOU.
Between songs, a man talks into the singer’s mic: WOULD SOMEONE FROM HARLEY-DAVIDSON PLEASE COME SEE ME AT THE STAGE? ANYONE FROM HARLEY-DAVIDSON, YOUR LIMOUSINE HAS ARRIVED TO TAKE YOU TO THE AIRPORT. YOU HAVE ANY EARLY MORNING FLIGHTOe
The band takes a break and a dj spins music from a CD player. “Sweet HOme Alabama” skips badly midway through the song. Someone pinches my ass. I look over my shoulder and spy a cutish blonde leering at me thru bloodshot eyes. She’s dancing with another girl. I turn away to gawk more at the masses.
Oe MAN, ARE YOU STUPID? THAT GIRL WANTS YOU! WHY DONCHU GO FER IT?!
Like she’s gonna know who I am ten minutes from now. Or ride on the back of a moped to a muddy field and a tent that was puked in the night before, with a squad of liquored up skinheads farting around a campfireOe
Eventually, 500 cases of beer are gone through and Mike’s Hard Lemonade is all that’s left. The word spreads quickly that the Genitorturers, a cheeseball, quasi- industro-gothic major label band from Ft. Lauderdale are making an appearance onstage. Pay per view cameras and bright lights await at the front. Two ‘Sum Poosie’ girls stand upright in a jeep to see what’s going on.
As we prepare to leave, four figures can be seen approaching the entrance, lights and cameras pointed at them. Our exit is, for now, blocked. 2 men, 2 women. A south Florida-lite version of Marilyn Manson. It’s like watching a pro wrestling event. Everything is scripted and staged as they do several takes of walking down the path to meet with the party organizer, the owner of the m/c freight company that funded the shindig. Apparently, the story is about how the band crashes the party and takes over the stage from the aging classic rockers. We left before things got ugly. The cameras caught several scoots exiting the joint. Maybe it’ll be on Speedvision.
Back at camp, time passes. The weather remains nice, beer is consumed. John the Rastafarian breaks out a jug of Capt. Morgan rum and passes it around. He’s quite witty, clever and quick with a joke or a putdown. He ribs me about the banana joke the whole time I’m there. After a few more passes of rum make the circuit, he talks a couple of the scooter girls into a game of “let’s take off each others shirts and bras and make outOe on top of a scooter.” It was like he was directing a scooter porn flick. Someone even produces a cordless mic with amp and speaker.
OK, NOW I WANT YOU TO KISS HER. DO IT RIGHT! LIKE YOU MEAN IT!
THAT’S IT, THAT’S ITOe LET’S SEE SOME TONGUEOe NICE – VERY GOODOe
Oe OK, WE NEED A SCOOTER — WHERE’S A SCOOTER?
(Shaggy’s Vespa is not ten feet from the benches that circle the fire.)
OK, GOOD; WE HAVE A SCOOTER. NOW BOTH OF YOU GET ON TOP.
(Shag has a funky fiberglass race seat, only holds one person, but both girls follow John’s every command. He’s a smooth talker and as convincing as Doctor Caligari.)
ALRIGHT. GOOD JOB. NOW — I NEED YOU TO REMOVE *HER* SHIRT.
(Both of them are giggling like, well, drunk scooter chicks. Every guy in camp is ogling the scene like it’s a fresh train wreck.)
NOW, *YOU* UNDO HER OVERALL STRAPSOe GOOD.
NOW *YOU* TAKE OFF HER BRAOe
She has pierced nipples, nice breasts and plenty of tattoos.
OK, I WANT YOU TO REMOVE HER WIFEBEATER.
Both girls are now topless and frenching one another.
AWRIGHT, NOW PUNCH HER IN THE FACE.
(this is the ONLY command they don’t obey. Why he said it I don’t know. He was joking, of course and it cracked us all up.)
NOW I WANT YOU TWO TO ROLL IN THE GRASS TOGETHER.
They comply, knocking over the scooter, and the flashlights follow them down. About now, especially after the face-punching joke, they begin to break it up. Both are laughing hard and their backs & arms are covered in mud and wet grass.
I WANT Y’ALL TO BRUSH THE GRASS OFF EACH OTHER. THAT’S RIGHT — AND BRUSH IT OFF HER BREASTS, TOOOe
Later (or was it before, I don’t recall) there was a “see which girl can lick her own nipple contest”. Three girls ”won”.
Someone brings up the Best Buns contest first mentioned at the No Name Saloon. Several of us comment, rather loudly, that the beautiful girl from Pennsylvania, would have won it, had she entered. She’s wearing a short SHORT red dress and fishnets. This girl has it all. Gorgeous, smart, killer personality AND SHE LIKES SCOOTERS, Lambrettas in particular. I had to ask if she had any sisters when she and her boyfriend invited us to their rally.
I won’t go into details, but let us say that she was involved in a naked Lammy ride and certainly has the best buns I’ve seen in awhile. In fact, one could call it a (critical) ‘mass’ naked ride. 4-5 bikes at one time, encircling the tents for perhaps twenty minutes. Two babes, the rest were hairy dudes. I guess you could say HESC put the ‘skin’ in skinhead!
In New Orleans, we had the CROW. In Daytona, we have the COBRA. Sunday morning, I spot him sitting in the Accord, staring straight ahead into empty space; I knock (gently) on the window and crack open the door.
HEY MANOe YOU MUST BE FEELING GOOD RIGHT ABOUT NOW.
(*HUGE* GRIN) AWW, MANOe I FEEL GREAT!!
A few pics are up at scoot.net.