Daytona Bike Week ’06:
“The best & the worst.”

2006

Those who made the annual pilgrimage to the sun and fun capitol of America’s east coast from March 3-10th, bought up a lot of spf 50. Ten days, and not a single drop of rain. This was the driest bike week we’ve ever seen. Highs in the 70’s, 80’s all week provided riders from northern latitudes with the kind of weather they’d have to wait ‘til June for back home. Great weather, however, was a double-edged sword. Experienced riders were racking up to a thousand miles a week on some of the best roads anywhere, and when you have 500,000 riders on the road virtually every day, there are going to be accidents. For the whole state of Florida, bike week related deaths rose to a total of 19. Cars were the cause of most, but not all accidents, according to local law enforcement agencies. One rider, in his 50’s bought a brand new Harley at the rally, and died while riding it home, crashing in a construction zone. His new bike had less than 100 miles on the odometer when the flatbed arrived to pick it up. We’ve been begging new riders to the sport, and even experienced riders who buy a new bike to run up some serious break in miles before coming to a rally. Aside from your personal safety, your bike’s engine will be less prone to burning up in heavy, slow traffic. When it comes time to make a stupid mistake on your new motorcycle, you won’t be surrounded by others doing the same thing.

After a couple of weeks in the eighties, the first weekend of Bike Week ’06 brought moderate 75 degree temps for two wheeled fun seekers. Main Street Daytona is right on the Atlantic Ocean, and the water temp was about 65 degrees, so if the wind’s blowing off the water, it’s a damp 65. If it’s a land-based breeze, temps can soar all the way to 90. This year, we were lucky as hell to have had southern breezes for most of the rally. Enough said. Let’s have some fun!


Friday, March 3rd:

New top end rebuild on my engine, due to a ceramic exhaust pipe inside coating process gone to hell, so I’ve chosen US 1 instead of the usual I-95 partner for my dance card. What a lousy time of year to be breaking in a new engine. At least it didn’t cost me a dime, but she’s prone to a little overheating as I burn in the new rings. Arriving at the world’s most famous beach, impressive numbers of early bird bikers are apparent. Way more people than expected, but no problem finding a parking spot on Beach Street. Main was already packed, and the jaw-dropper? Main was closed off to all four wheeled traffic, no cages. Man, it was great. Motorcycle only parking, and the street was packed with northern girls eager to expose their pasty white flesh to some warm vitamin D Florida sunshine. Cruising up and down Main, two passes were required before finding a spot, and it’s not even noon.

Saturday, March 4th:

Before again departing the ABM compound some 100 miles from Daytona’s bubbling cauldron of flesh, the weather channel forecast noted a chilly night, with temps in the upper forties, so a search for a Daytona room, any room was begun. Naturally, all the cheap rooms had been sucked up, but finally did bid on a room, for about fifty cents on the dollar, at four-star hotel called the “Shores” on the south end, beachside. The room, service, and food were all excellent, but at a hundred more than a motel six, that’s the way it should be. From the 5th floor, the sight of motorcycles cruising up and down on the hard packed sand, and through the surf, was enough to cause ya to cringe. It’s never a good idea to ride through salt laced sand, but especially here, where a series of hurricanes have left very little beach, almost none at high tide. Ride directly on the sandy beach if you must, but be prepared to be finding rust spots forever, it’s that bad. When I first came to Florida, I’d ride my enduro along the Ocean from St. Augustine to Jax, right over the sandbars, and through the run outs. The morning after the first day, the chain was frozen solid. Salt. There’s nothing worse.

Later in the afternoon, while cruising down a side, just off Beach Street, a stone’s throw away from the old Harley dealer, I rediscovered Lyndhurst dollar draft and dogs. That’s right sport fans, a full cup of Bud, or a steaming hot doggie all the way for a buck. Just across the street, same dog, same bun, but it cost ya $4. It’s not how much you spend, it’s how much you save, and accordingly, this became my office away from home. An old boarding house, Lyndhurst opens up the front porch during bike week to make a little extra cash. The crowd is eclectic, fun loving, and full of piss and vinegar. Like the time Daytona cops came to pull a Kawasaki off the curb and flatbed it away. The cop kind of aroused the ire of the dollar beer crowd by not sufficiently explaining that the crotch rocket had no plates, and they’d been chasing this bike all over town for 2 days. After he settled down and simply laid it all out, everything was okay with the crowd, but for a short while, it was getting ugly.

We always know when someone shows up wanting to be photographed. Items: Twin cue-balls. The pink leather chap babe, hell yeah.

Sundown, & my bike is tucked into a slot halfway up Main, across from Dirty Harry’s. The late afternoon air is chilly, and as the engine heat faded, it was time to wander across the street for a quick shot of Tequila. Dude, six bucks? Fortunately, the entertainment value made it worthwhile. Ladies from the crowd were being encouraged to compete against one another. Hard bodies except for one chick who looked like she’d swallowed a bowling ball. A couple of the girls were hotter than a set of black exhaust pipes, and soon, I began to forget all about the cool night ocean air, if ya know what I mean.

Leaning back against the tour bag and sissy bar, a prime seat to the goings on began to evolve. As night time arrived, the crowd started to get a little rowdy. A small group of up to a dozen fine looking ladies hung off the railing in front of Dirty’s and encouraged some bikers to display anti-social behavior, which became a trend, which in turn drew the ire of law enforcement. As sport bikes approached the ladies, the girls would..”turn on the charm”, the sport bikers would either rev their engines to 12 grand, splitting brain craniums in a three block area, or do a short burnout. The rest is history. At the very next light, Daytona cops were right on them, ticket books in hand. Being written up for noise cost a hundred bucks. Laying out on my bike, right in front of the action, I began to count the tickets. Three hours later, 2,000 bucks worth of tickets, all for excessive noise, written to sport bikes. Were the hotties taking advantage of some of the younger bikers, many of whom were spring breakers? You be the judge. I’m here to observe.

11pm, & it’s all about that nice soft poster bed back at the Shores. I fire up the S & S, and five more bikes are on me for that parking space like stink on shit. The big rumble is just getting started, but I gotta get some sleep, or there’ll be no tomorrow for the kid.

Sunday, March 5:

Sunday morning, after an incredible three egg omlette stuffed with smoked salmon, wild mushrooms, and bell pepper at the hotel, we sped off to check out the speedway, where major manufacturers had their 18 wheelers all set up. Some very innovative frame designs and outrageous bikes from Redneck Engineering. Their stuff defies description. Many companies had organized rides for their clients, and you could try a test spin on lots of different bands of motorcycles. Unsure which kind of bike to buy? Try this, a great environment in which to gain insight to comfort, safety, and speed. You need only have an approved helmet, and a valid license with motorcycle endorsement. Why guess? Ride for free before making up your mind which bike to buy, like a kid in a candy store!

I dropped by the American Ironhorse truck to have them look at a little problem with my digital speedo, and the guys were nice enough to swap me out for a new unit. My girl’s out of warranty, and I wonder how many other companies would do the same. Good people.

Thursday, March 9:

I ain’t ready for sans-a-belt slacks and depends diapers just yet, but needed some rest till the next trip down to Bike Week ’06. Still breaking in new pistons, rings, and cylinders, but she’s loosening up. I dump the old oil for some fresh mineral, and blast down US 1. In Ormond, near the intersection of US1 and I-95, is the new Harley Dealership. It’s on a hundred acres, and on the weekend days of the rally, there are so many bikes in the far parking lots, you’d almost welcome a tram to get ya back and forth to the buildings. This place has everything: Restaurants, rooms, shops—about the only thing lacking is traffic control. So many people are passing through, or headed to Destination Daytona, the traffic jams are terrible at this intersection, US1/I-95.  Like it or not, the geography of bike week has been forever changed. The crowd has spread to the north, leaving Daytona a little less crowded, and US 1 packed to the max. A road bro explained how he’d camped for years at a little spot just up the road for 30 bucks. Last year, he was informed the price had jumped to over $100 a night….for a chunk of ground to throw his tarp over. If you’re in Daytona, and headed north for Destination, TAKE THE INNERSTATE INSTEAD OF US1. It’ll save you an hour and a set of spark plugs. (You can thank me with a Corona!)

In the afternoon, I dropped by the speedway for free munchies, shirts, and a ride with American Ironhorse owners. The 40 mile sprint took us from the speedway to Destination, then around the “loop”, and back to Beach street, where we ran into Arlen and Corey Ness, working the crowd, and just generally being the nice guys they are.

At this point, the incoming ’06 Bike Week crowd is really beginning to swell, and traffic headed down I-95 is bumper to bumper with bikes, trucks, and trailers covered with slag and salt from the snow banks of the great white north. We’ve been here all weekend, but they’re just arriving, the poor bastards.

There’s a tat shop on US 1, near the Ormond/Daytona line, and each year, they showcase local talent with an old school ride-in chopper show. Several classes of bikes are displayed in the parking lot throughout the afternoon, and I won’t miss it. Ran into a bro who’d won first place in his category with a bike featured in our Biketoberfest coverage ---his is the first picture at top of the page). Tropical Tattoo sponsors this show, and each year the bikes get a little better, a little wilder. Think I caught a glimpse of Keino from Indian Larry Legacy, followed out the drive by his girl, who rides a chopped down bike like she stole, & rebuilt the s.o.b. He, Paul Cox & the guys back in NYC are turning out rolling steel that would make Indian Larry proud.

A few of the girls from Hustler magazine are known to hang out at Tattoo’s chopper show, and for a tip, you can get a T&A pic with a bike. Centerfold, “Jade” was on hand again this year, looking younger, and better than ever. If she doesn’t make your blood boil, then get ready to look for the shining light, ‘cause you’ve already flat-lined, been embalmed, and someone closed the lid.

Friday, March 10:

Gotta work all day and all night tomorrow, in my alter-ego skin. Sucks, but you forget all about that crap right after pulling out of the driveway when you’re on a bike. One more blast through Saint Augustine, and down past a big little bar, not ten miles north of the Harley dealer, called the White Eagle, located in the little town of Korona, spelled with a “K”. This year, the front parking lot was jammed with bikes, and I was floored to discover that the bar had a full midway out back with vendors, a live band, and even more parking along the side and rear. Unlike some other spots, the White Eagle is populated by working class people. You aren’t going to see the proliferation of kids and baby strollers like in Daytona. The people at the White Eagle are bikers, not tourists. On Friday and Saturday nights, this place gets really packed with rabid hell raisers, and sporadic and not so sporadic outbreaks of T&A are possible. Tired of all the tee shirt collectors and bullshit posers? This is where you go. The town is located on one of the most dangerous curves on Route 1. While headed home past the Eagle on this mellow evening, I came upon a softail, lying side down, on a flatbed. It had been virtually stripped of handlebars, signal lights, everything but the engine and frame, obviously having been run over. In the median, a red body bag, with nothing in it.

On Main, right next to the intracoastal waterway, and across the street from The Wreck, there was a huge crowd gathered around Billy Lane, who was busy as hell signing shirts, paper, and tittys. Billy was gracious enough to pause for a second so I could get a good photo, so I won’t run the one of him slugging down a Corona. What the hell, I’ll run em both anyway!

Exile Cycle’s Russ Mitchell was less than 75 feet away from Billy, but only had a few people. I couldn’t get him to pause or smile for a photo. Russ has gone to a brunette look these days. I love Exile’s bikes, and nobody says ya got to be in a good mood all the time, still Russ could use a public relation lesson from Billy. Want to meet good looking girls? Find Lane, and hang out for awhile…Billy is a Chick Magnet!

Sunday, March 12th:

Leftovers, anyone? You can find out a lot about rally attendance by visiting on the very last day. If $20 tee shirts are going for 3 bucks, it was a bust. If they’re 4/$25, then there aren’t many left. Hell, the long sleeved shirts were still 15 bucks, so based on my  unscientific study, Daytona Bike Week ’06 was one of the driest, biggest, ever.

This year, we met people from Sweden, Italy, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, France, Germany, Spain and Mexico.

For all the shit America takes from foreigners, these visitors had one trait in common: They’d step over their own mother for a green card.

Conclusion:

“I’m so glad to be livin’ in the USA!”