BIKER: An Action Adventure Book by Bob Bitchin
ABOUT BIKER: An Action Adventure Book
True stories of riding the highways of America and Europe on a Harley-Davidson chopper in the 70’s. Lot’s of humor and a true look at what the outlaw biker world was like in that era.
About the Author
Bob Bitchin was the editor of three of the most popular motorcycle magazines of the 70’s, and the creator of Biker, Biker Lifestyle and Tattoo magazines, as well as Latitudes & Attitudes Magazine. he was also the national director of the US Helmet Law Protest in 1979, which brought over 100,000 bikers to the streets to protest the helmet laws.
About the Book
It’s about Adventure… You’re riding with a partner. He swears he knows the surrounding area and roads for miles and miles.
He insists you take a turn-off. So you follow his route and become hopelessly lost.
Just when you think you’re going to be stuck pushing a thirsty bike in the middle of nowhere, low- and-behold you’re right where you were supposed to be two hours ago.
It doesn’t really matter whether you were lost or not. All that really matters is that you’ve managed to get off the beaten path of things you know and are sure of, and have taken a little side- trip exploring the unknown.
Excerpt from BIKER: An Action Adventure Book by Bob Bitchin…
By the time Hans showed up to give me a ride to AMF Headquarters in Wicker (just outside Frankfurt) I had munched down the two stale rolls they call breakfast, and gone to the bank to turn good American dollars into what looked like Monopoly money.
It took about an hour to get the bike rolled out of the building, loaded with camera gear, and filled with gas. Finally I was to begin my trek through Europe.
I wound through a couple of small country roads, keeping my eyes glued for road signs, and soon I was making a turn onto the world famous Autobahn. For years I had heard of this famous road system, but this was to be a first for me. I had about 250 Kilometers to go on the Autobahn before I pulled into France.
I cranked the throttle pretty hard as I made my entrance, and I remembered what Hans had told me. Keep to the right all the time, except to pass, and then watch your ass. Hell, it didn’t sound any different then the American Freeway system, except it was just a two lane version.
I was coming up behind a slow truck and checked my mirror. Nothing behind me, so I turned out into the fast lane and wicked on the throttle, taking it up to about 80 miles per. Before I passed the truck I heard the blaring of a horn and looked into my rear view mirror, only to see the grill and hood ornament of a Mercedes 220 Sedan sitting on my rear fender.
I cursed under my breath and wished I had my piece with me. The asshole shouldn’t have gotten that close, or so I thought. After I pulled in front of the big truck the driver of the Mercedes didn’t even give me a look. He just dropped the sucker down one gear (at 85 mph?!) and floored it, and was followed almost six inches behind by another Mercedes, which was followed at an equally crazy distance by a red Porsche. In a matter of seconds they were out of sight.
I kept up my “snails pace” of about 80 miles per, only to be whizzed by like I was standing still. Caravans of five and six cars, traveling in excess of 125 miles per hour, just inches off each others bumpers, would pass like one.
And I never saw one accident on the Autobahn.
Just after I passed through Muelhiem I turned off the Autobahn and headed west, through the city of Meulhous, and crossed the Rhine River, entering France.
I expected to have all kinds of hassles crossing the border, so naturally I hadn’t brought any drugs along. As it turned out, the whole damn trip went without a search. I could have brought bushell baskets overflowing with Panama Red and Acapulco Gold and never been apprehended.
Oh well, anyway, I came upon the frontier, pulled up to the guard expected to be hassled, and sat there looking like a dummy as he started to spout off something in French.
1 had no idea what he wanted and just kinda shrugged my shoulder and held my hands in the air, like saying I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
He muttered something about “Paassapoorta” and I whipped out my genuine, official US of A Passport, and sure enough, that was all he wanted. He checked it out, looked me up and down, shook his head slowly, like he had just met his first total idiot, and waved me on my way.