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The Beattie Files: Long Road to Sturgis
It's
circa 2001. We have Tommy’s famous Vegas bar room
brawl, the Nymphs of Nephi and the world’s most
expensive cheap promotional pens, sold by a
stroppy Sheriff – this Beattie-ism has it all.
It's a huge story and we recommend finding time to
read it
(Ed's note: These are excerpts from young Beattie's book on some of the more colourful incidents in an action-packed life. See the end of the piece for more info.)
Published June 2025
“Hey
you, stop right there!” I heard as I attempted to stroll
nonchalantly past the parked cop bike, with its lights
still flashing, on the darkened Las Vegas back street.
Even though it was late at night, it still felt hot
enough to fry an egg on the cracked pavement.
Crouched in the gutter was my mate Tommy, arms cuffed
behind his back. His lady, Leanne, was leaning on
Tommy’s custom Harley, clearly upset.
I stopped in my tracks and slowly turned.
“You’re that clown in the truck, aren’t ya?” barked the
State Trooper, pointing a gloved finger in my direction.
“Get over here right now. Your friend here is coming
back to jail with me,” he said, looking down at Tommy
(pictured above), “And you should probably be going with
him,” he added as he went through the contents of
Tommy’s jacket.
Our Las Vegas misadventure had begun innocently enough a
few days earlier when my good buddy and occasional
partner in crime, Mark and I had caught up with Tommy at
a bar just off the Strip near the centre of town. We’d
ridden up from LA that day on a couple of test bikes
supplied by Harley-Davidson with our final destination
being the famous Sturgis Rally in the Black Hills of
South Dakota. At the time I was founding publisher and
current editor of Heavy Duty magazine,
Australia’s only Harley-dedicated publication. Our plan
was to write up both bikes and also run a piece on the
incredible Sturgis bike rally, which is a kind of Disney
Land for bikers.
We’d allowed around five days for the ride, including an
overnight stop with Tommy, who had been living in Vegas
for a few years. He had built up a successful interstate
trucking business and was doing quite well for a wild
colonial boy from Down Under.
It was getting towards the end of July and the run up
from LA through the desert had seen temperatures soar
into the high 40s centigrade. Given the heat, we were
keen to make the four and a half hour run in quick time,
as, it seemed, did the rest of the traffic headed east.
Pleasingly, Americans have a very relaxed attitude to
freeway speed limits and even cruising at 80mph (130kph)
we still had plenty of people flying past in the fast
lane. But the searing hot wind in our faces soon had us
stopping at every gas station and diner just to pour a
bottle of chilled water in our helmets to cool things
down.
By the time we pulled up at the bar a couple of blocks
back from the Strip in Vegas we were covered in road
grime and dust and in urgent need of an ice-cold beer.
It was fortunate that Tommy was part owner in the bar,
which meant we got VIP treatment as soon as we walked
in.
“Fuck me, you’re getting even uglier as you get older!”
came a rasping voice I recognized from behind the bar.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness the image of Tommy,
cold beers in hand, came into view.
“Tell ya story pouring,” I replied. “A bloke could die
of thirst waiting for a beer around here for fuck’s
sake!”
It was a mid-week night so the bar wasn’t too packed,
although the clientele did seem a little distracted as
we brushed the dust off and dragged our tired bodies up
to the bar.
“Fucking good to see ya mate,” said Tommy, giving me a
big welcoming hug. “And this must be Mark. How ya goin’
mate,” he said, passing us two cold Coronas.
Tommy had moved to the States a few years earlier after
spending most of his younger years moving in outlaw club
circles back in Australia. Now in his late 30s, the
solidly built and fit truckie still had the look and
demeanour of someone who had earned his battle scars, of
which he had his fair share.
Weirdly, his little drinking establishment was
surfer-themed, which seemed a bit odd on a couple of
levels. Most obviously because we were in the middle of
a desert several hundred miles from the nearest wave
break. But also because of Tommy’s background with one
per cent motorcycles clubs, which generally weren’t
known for their love of saltwater and the great
outdoors. Surfboards, ocean murals, fake seaweed and
other beachy-type ornaments adorned the walls and the
waitresses were all dressed in tiny bikinis.
We spent the next hour or so catching up on each other’s
exploits, laughing too loud and making spectacles of
ourselves in front of the bar’s patrons. Eventually,
Tommy suggested we relocate to his pad, just a couple of
miles away.
As we mounted up out the front, Tommy pulled up in his
brand new and very black Ford 150 Harley-Davidson
Limited Edition pick-up truck.
“Follow me and try to keep up,” he laughed, leaving two
black tyre marks as he disappeared into the night in a
cloud of tyre smoke.
A few minutes later we were unloading the bikes in his
garage. While I was expecting a modest apartment, it
turned out Tommy had done even better than I’d heard. As
we made our way up the central spiral staircase, he
explained that his eight-bedroom mansion was actually
essential for his trucking business as his home was the
overnight stop for his fleet of six big rigs as they
crisscrossed the western states of the US. At any given
time, he could have up to four drivers sleeping over as
they waited for their next load.
Tommy explained that he had a small crew of Kiwi and
Aussie truckies who ran his rigs across the country and
loved them for their ability to make-do if or when the
shit hit the fan.
“I just have to hand the Aussies and Kiwis a shifter and
a hammer and they can rebuild a fucking Kenworth or Mack
on the side of the road and be on their way in a coupla
hours. No contest.”
The two storeys of Tommy’s north Las Vegas house were
arranged in a circular layout, with a large central
staircase and atrium acting as the hub. Almost
everything was painted white. The styling theme was
Florida Coke Dealer – Al Pacino’s coked-up Tony Montana
(Scarface) wouldn’t have looked out of place unloading a
pair of M16s off the top balcony.
There was plenty of Aussie paraphernalia on the walls,
including framed AFL footy jerseys and quite a few
photos of Tommy from his younger days on various bikes
and with a varied selection of lady friends.
Once we’d packed our gear away, Tommy opened up the bar
and we spent the rest of the night listening as he
cracked us up with tales of his trucking and other
exploits in the US. He also showed us some photos of a
custom Harley he’d just had built by a local bike shop,
and I told him that we weren’t leaving town until we’d
done a magazine photoshoot with it for Heavy
Duty.
“No fucking worries, I’ll call the guys tomorrow and
have it detailed,” said Tommy. “Actually, I know just
the spot to shoot it, too. They reckon it’s where the
mafia used to bury all the bodies. There are big cactus
plants and all the other desert shit, so it’ll look
pretty cool. I’ll bring my girl Leanne along in case you
want a model. And just for fun, I’ll pack a few guns and
ammo and we can have a little target practice.”
After packing a couple of shotguns and an AK47 assault
rifle into the truck, we had breakfast back at the bar
and headed off to pick up the bike with Leanne and
Tommy. Leanne was dressed appropriately in tight, black
leather and with her long blonde hair would look
stunning straddling the bike in the Nevada desert.
It was starting to heat up, with hot air shimmering off
the pavement as we hit the freeway. A few minutes later
we pulled up at a bike shop on the industrial outskirts
of Vegas. There were a handful of customs and choppers
parked out front and a couple of guys checking them out.
“Hey amigo, who you got with you?” said a large brown
tattooed bloke who looked like he might have just snuck
across the border from Mexico.
“Hey Pancho, these are my good buddies from Australia,
Chris and Mark. They are bad boys so make sure you keep
the women locked up until we leave,” joked Tommy.
Pancho obviously knew we were coming because as we
followed him into the shop he turned, suddenly wide-eyed
and full of attitude, and pulled out the biggest hunting
knife I’d ever seen, holding it millimetres from my
face. Before I could react, he said: “That’s not a knife
… this is a knife!” with what I reckon is
still one of the worst fake Australian accents I’ve ever
heard.
“Ha, ha …” laughed Tommy as I tried to recover my
composure. “Crocodile Dundee is one of Pancho’s
favourite movies. He doesn’t get to pull the knife
routine often, so I let him know we had a couple of
Aussies aboard when I called him this morning.”
“That’s one more I’ve got to even up with you for,” I
said, throwing a mock right at Tommy as we walked
through into the workshop.
All was forgotten, though as Pancho pulled the covers
off a shiny, low and black custom Harley. It had the
aggressive lines of a street fighter, with a matching
lightning strike custom paint job. Plenty of work had
gone into the engine and it cackled and spat as Tommy
started it up and gave it some revs.
“So whatdya reckon? Worth a photo or two, bro?” yelled
Tommy over the rumble of the straight-out exhausts.
“Mate, I’m definitely looking at our next cover bike, I
reckon,” I said.
As Tommy rode it out to the street, I was already wiping
sweat off my brow. It seemed even hotter than our ride
up from LA and it was still only around 10am.
“Follow me blokes,” yelled Tommy as we pulled up behind
him in the truck.
We drove for about 20 miles straight out into the
desert, the road getting windier and narrower until it
finally turned into a dirt track at the base of some
foothills. Tommy stopped just before the dirt, and I
pulled up next to him.
“The mafia graveyard’s just up ahead,” he said. “I’ll go
first so I don’t ride through your dust … nice and slow
so we won’t have to wipe the bike down too much before
you do the pics. And if ya see any guys in dark suits
with shovels, better keep going,” he laughed.
A couple of hundred metres further on, the track wound
around to the right into what looked like a pocket-size
Grand Canyon, complete with desert cactus plants and
what looked like a couple of bleached white steer’s
skulls – a perfect spot for a Heavy
Duty photoshoot, I thought. Or a quiet burial.
By this time the sun was almost directly overhead, and
it was definitely much hotter than yesterday.
“Fuck me!” said Mark, “Check out the outside
temperature!” he added, pointing to the dash display.
“Fifty-two fucking degrees for fuck’s sake! Fuck blazing
away with the guns mate. Let’s just get the photos done
and get the fuck back to the pool!”
Apart from having to cool the seat down with bottled
water every time we posed Leanne with the bike, the
shoot went smoothly – aside from Leanne’s make-up
melting after about 30 seconds in the blistering sun. We
kept the truck running with the air-cond set on ‘Arctic’
and after one of the quickest cover shoots I’d done, we
were back on the road and headed back to Tommy’s, where
we spent a pleasant afternoon chilling in the pool and
enjoying cold Coronas.
“Dinner’s on me tonight,” announced Tommy as we emerged
from an afternoon nap. “I’ve let the bar chef know we’re
coming so he’ll have some nice thick New York sirloins
on the grill when we get there.”
By the time we rode up to the bar the desert night had
set in, the dry wind nudging waves of sand across the
car park. As I slowed, Tommy rode up next to me. “Follow
me,” he said, nodding in the direction of the bar.
As I followed, he rode up onto the sidewalk, before
nudging open the swinging western doors and riding his
bike inside. I followed suit, with Mark behind me.
Directly ahead, Tommy pulled up right in front of the
bar and gestured for us to park either side. The bikes
were making a hell of a racket inside the bar and
shocked patrons stared up from their meals as the three
hairy bikers finally switched off their motors and took
off their helmets.
“No point in owning a bar if ya can’t park ya bike in
it,” grinned Tommy as he ordered three more Coronas.
We knocked off the first round sitting on the bikes,
with patrons and staff walking around them as best they
could.
Later we moved to the back of the bar where Tommy had
our table waiting and enjoyed the sumptuous sirloins the
chef had prepared.
Washing down our meals with a couple of bourbons, we
were interrupted by one of the waitresses, who whispered
into Tommy’s ear, pointing to a couple on the other side
of the bar.
“Excuse me blokes,” said Tommy. “Seems like we got a bit
of a situation. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Knowing Tommy’s tendency to shoot first and not give a
flying fuck about questions afterwards, I watched on
warily as he strolled casually across the bar. He was
soon engaged in what looked like a heated discussion
with the black guy, who was gesticulating and raising
his voice.
As Tommy stomped back to our table, I could tell the
conversation had not gone well.
“See that big fucker over there,” he said, pointing
straight at the guy he’d just been talking to, who was
now glaring in our direction. “He reckons because we
rode our nasty, noisy motorcycles into the bar, he
shouldn’t have to pay for his or his girlfriend’s meals.
I told him I’d take a vote with my mates and let him
know the verdict.”
“Fuck him,” spat Mark.
“I’m with him,” I said, nodding to Mark.
“Right answer! Okay, Chris you take the door in case he
tries to run and you stick with me Mark.” whispered
Tommy, watching the black guy warily as he talked. “By
the way, I forgot to mention I’ve seen this prick
before. He’s about six foot five and weighs around 250
pounds. Make every hit count boys.”
As I made my way over to the front door, I watched Tommy
and Mark out of the corner of my eye.
“Looks like you’re out of luck, sucker,” said Tommy, the
guy attempting to stand up as Tommy grabbed one end of
the table and overturned it on top of him. At the same
time his girlfriend leapt to her feet, screaming and
pounding on Tommy’s back. Mark managed to grab her
around the waist, but she was one big mama and was being
a real handful, yelling and stamping her feet.
With the guy attempting to get out from under the
furniture, Tommy leapt over the upturned table swinging.
He managed a couple of quick headshots before the guy
got him in a headlock. Meanwhile, the rest of the bar
was in chaos. Patrons who hadn’t already fled the scene
were standing around enjoying the show and yelling
encouragement.
“Give the fucker one for me, Tommy,” said one.
“Whack him with this,” said another, reaching out to
hand Tommy, who had managed to slip out of the
head-hold, a large ornamental clam shell from the bar.
Instead, Tommy reached for a bar stool and smashed it
down legs-first over the guy’s head. He was leaning on
the stool with all his weight to prevent the guy lifting
his head off the floor, but next minute Tommy was going
back down, with the big chick jumping on his back from
behind. She’d slipped out of Mark’s grasp and was now
riding Tommy’s back and trying her best to gouge out his
eyes.
Meanwhile, her boyfriend had managed to scramble to his
feet and while Mark was trying to pry the lady off
Tommy’s back, he was throwing kicks at Tommy’s head.
“Don’t move a muscle fucker!” said the chef, holding
what looked to be an impressively large, old west-style
revolver that he was pointing at Mr Angry’s head. As far
as Dirty Harry impersonations go, it was right
up there I reckoned.
It had a definite instant calming effect on proceedings,
which was just as well as by now I’d managed to grab the
fire extinguisher off the wall near the front door and
was preparing to give angry black guy a white powder
facial, once I’d figured out the instructions.
At the same time, there was a commotion out the front.
Somebody must have called the cops as it seemed like
half the Las Vegas police force was now parked in front
of the bar, all flashing blue lights and blazing
headlights.
Before we could react, a group of cops came rushing
through the door, guns drawn and yelling for everyone to
hit the floor. Meanwhile, I was still bent over trying
to pull out the safety pin on the fire extinguisher.
“Drop the weapon … now!” yelled one of the cops,
pointing his police issue automatic at the chef who,
wisely complied.
Another cop marched over to me and grabbed the fire
extinguisher.
“What were you planning on doing with that?” he
demanded.
“Just cooling things down a little,” I managed.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he growled.
As the bar filled up with more cops and medics, who were
tending to a couple of serious cuts on Mr Angry’s face,
the boss cop explained that no one was leaving the bar
until he said so.
Over the next hour or so people were interviewed, photos
and notes were taken and eventually, much to the
annoyance of him and his girlfriend, Tommy’s disgruntled
and battered customer was led away in cuffs.
After a lengthy discussion with Tommy, the cops took
another good look around before leaving. We spent the
next hour or so helping to clean up the mess.
Over a bourbon or two at the end of the night, and with
Tommy nursing a nasty bite wound on his ear, he
explained that the cops told him the offender was
already known to them, and his specialty was skipping
out on meals and drinks without paying. Nevertheless,
they cautioned Tommy for his part in the brawl, but said
no charges would be laid. They also said they’d be
keeping a closer eye on him and his bar from now on.
“Fuck, that’s the last thing I need,” he said, gulping
down another Jack. “I can’t afford too much close
attention as far as the immigration department goes.
I’ve already been kicked out once. If they spring me
again, they’ll probably give me some Federal time.”
The next morning, we decided a quiet day wouldn’t go
astray for our last day in Vegas, and we happily lounged
by the pool, enjoying an Aussie-style barbecue lunch and
another afternoon nap. With the sun going down, Tommy
announced that we’d head into the iconic Harley-Davidson
Café on the Strip for a last night dinner right in the
heart of the action. It seemed like a fitting finale to
what had already been a pretty eventful and exciting
couple of days. Little did we know there was more to
come …
“It’s such a great night honey, how about I come home
with you on the bike,” said Leanne as we sorted out the
bill and tip and headed for the café door.
“Yeah mate, me and Mark will drive the truck back,” I
volunteered.
As I backed Tommy’s F150 out of the car park, he waved
us over.
“Is there a spare helmet in the crew cab?” he asked.
“Not that I can see,” said Mark.
“Fuck it hon, you take my helmet and I’ll ride
lid-less,” said Tommy, unclipping his helmet and handing
it to Leanne on the back of the bike.
The State of Nevada has a compulsory helmet law,
carrying a hefty fine for non-compliance. But Tommy
figured we only had a short trip home, so decided to
sling the dice and take his chances.
As we swung a right onto the Strip behind Tommy, I
looked to my left. “Fuck, there’s a cop!” I said,
pointing to the other side of the intersection. Just as
I did, the blue light started flashing on the rear of
the cop’s bike.
Tommy was far enough ahead that he hadn’t seen the cop,
who was still stuck at the intersection waiting for a
green light. But it was only a few seconds before he’d
turned and was coming up rapidly behind us.
We’d just entered a road works section with witches hats
funnelling traffic down from three lanes to one and as I
attempted to locate the cop in my mirror I looked over
at Mark.
“See if you can tell me which side the cop is
going to try and pass on,” I said. “Let’s see if we can
give Tommy a head start.”
I was driving as slowly as I could without being too
obvious.
“He’s coming down my side,” said Mark, looking in the
right-side mirror.
I moved the truck to the right, trying to give him as
little room as possible between the truck and the curb.
“Now he’s switched over to your side,” he said.
I pulled the wheel to the left as a bridge support
loomed, leaving no room for the cop to get past.
I pulled a couple of more weaves, but eventually the cop
saw a gap and managed to race past us, glaring at me
through the window as he did.
Inevitably, half a mile up the road the flashing blue
light came to a stop. As we drove past, I could see
Tommy getting off the bike and what appeared to be a
very excited cop walking towards him.
I saw a right turn coming up and as I turned the corner
there was a 7-Eleven across the road. I pulled in and
jumped out of the truck.
“You stay here and I’ll go back and see what’s going on
with Tommy and Leanne,” I said to Mark.
Which is when, for the second time in 24 hours, I became
acquainted with Nevada State Trooper Chandler. It was
just plain dumb luck that Chandler had also been one of
the attending officers at the previous night’s bar
brawl. In fact, it was he who had taken an interest in
the fire extinguisher I was holding when he burst into
the bar.
Doing my best impersonation of an innocent Aussie
abroad, I had attempted to stroll past the unfolding
drama ahead, when he recognized me.
“Hey you!” he said, obviously referring to me.
I turned as he motioned me to approach him.
“You stand right here while I deal with your buddy. And
don’t move a muscle.”
As he waited for a back-up car to arrive and transport
Tommy to the Las Vegas Country Jail, he had a parting
word of advice.
“Now you listen to me good,” he hissed, squinting into
my face. “Your friend’s life is about to
get real complicated and you’ve come to my
attention twice already in the last 24 hours. To me that
says you and your buddies are trouble. I’d advise you
and your partner in the truck to get as far away from
Vegas tonight as you can. I’m giving you a head start,
but if see you on the streets after tonight, you’re both
gonna join your friend here. Am I clear?”
“As a bell,” I replied, before turning to Tommy.
“I’ll get Leanne home and check in with you later, bro,”
I said.
The next morning, we waited for Leanne to return from
the jail for an update before we packed up our bikes. It
turned out the cops had run a background check on Tommy
and had uncovered some priors – and the fact that it
appeared he was also an illegal alien.
As we mounted up, I put my arm around Leanne.
“You let me know if you need anything hon,” I said.
“Same goes for Tommy. I’ve got to get to Sturgis, but if
I can do anything at all, you make sure you get word to
me.”
It was a couple of months before we finally heard that
Tommy had been taken into Federal custody for the
immigration breach and was eventually sentenced to six
months in a Federal penitentiary at Marion, Ohio. On
release, he was immediately deported to Australia,
without appeal.
I caught up with him at a bike show in Sydney a few
years later. Over a couple of beers, he explained that
his downfall came when the cops
found three different IDs in his jacket and
wallet. With suspicions raised, they did some background
checking and a couple of weeks later Tommy was
transferred to the custody of Federal immigration
officials for a six-month vacation courtesy of the US
government.
Ultimately, though, Tommy was philosophical about his
time in Las Vegas.
“Fuck it, I knew they were gonna grab me sooner or
later,” he said. “It was a fucking helluva good ride
while it lasted though,” he grinned. “Such is life, eh.”
Our adventure didn’t end in Las Vegas – for Mark and I
at least. We still had to get to Sturgis and since we’d
spent more time with Tommy and Leanne than we’d planned,
we had a bit of time to make up. We still had 1600km or
so to cover so we were keen to hit the road, but that
didn’t stop us checking out a few scenic highlights
along the way.
An hour or so east of Vegas we crossed the Nevada-Utah
state border, losing our helmets for the first time
since our journey had begun back in LA. Helmet laws vary
from state to state in the US and given the extreme
summer heat we opted to shed our lids as we veered off
the interstate and into the awe-inspiring Zion National
Park in the south-western corner of Utah.
We spent several hours carving our way through the
majestic canyons and ridges of the park, arriving
eventually at the small burg of Nephi, just south of
Salt Lake City. After a day on the road, we were ready
for an early night, but the womenfolk of Nephi had other
plans, it seemed.
“Excuse me, but my friends and I were just wondering
where you guys are from?” smiled the pretty young
brunette, who looked all of 18 in her tight halter top
and torn denim shorts. Next to her sat a group of
giggling girls, sharing burgers, fries and milkshakes in
the small diner we’d chosen for dinner.
“Australia, honey,” grinned Mark as we worked our way
through yet another greasy roadside meal.
“Rrrrr-sum!” gushed our new friend, as she turned back
to her friends. “They’re from Rrrrstralia!” she
said, followed by more giggling.
“Wow, you’re Ossseys! Hey, do you know that Crocodile
guy? He is soooo cool!” gushed a particularly cute
blonde.
“So, are those your motorcycles?” asked another. “They
look soooo cool!”
“Yeah, it would be soooo rrrrr-sum to go for a ride!”
chimed in the blonde.
Lesser men would have succumbed to the temptations of
the Nymphs of Nephi that night, but a few hectic days in
Vegas had already taken their toll, so we
uncharacteristically ignored their pleas for a ride in
favour of an early night in preparation for a big next
day on the road.
But our encounter with Nephi’s nubility did reinforce
the observation that the ‘Osssey’ accent could be
employed for both good and evil in the USA …
We left early the next morning for the climb over the
magnificent Rocky Mountains, crossing into Wyoming for
our next destination of the historic wild west town of
Jackson Hole, at the foothills of the equally impressive
Grand Tetons range.
By now, we were seeing groups of other Harley-mounted
riders who were, like us, Sturgis-bound. Jackson Hole
marked the approximate halfway point in our trip and as
we soon realised, it was ready, willing and more than
able to provide a suitable welcome for wandering packs
of bikers.
“Hey, you ain’t Ossseys are ya?” inquired the grizzled
looking, bearded sixty-something biker as I ordered two
beers at one of the western-themed bars lining Jackson
Hole’s main street. He had a black patch over his left
eye and looked like he’d done a few hard miles in his
time.
The bar was already jumping as more and more bikers
arrived to join the party.
“Sure am,” I said. “We’re headed to Sturgis. How about
you?”
He halted for a second, seemingly deciding whether or
not to continue the conversation.
“Well, my Osssey friend, I’m hopin’ to,” said Dan
Waller, shaking hands and introducing himself. “Mind if
I join ya?”
Mark and I made room for him at our small table and
shared the sort of idle chit chat most bikers do about
their time on the road.
As the night progressed, Dan shared his story. He was
from the north-west, up the coast from Seattle, and he’d
attended around 25 Sturgis rallies as best as he could
remember. “Hard to tell, now that I think of it,” he
reflected. He was softly spoken and gave me the
impression that he had a bit on his mind.
“But this is gonna be my last. Got the cancer,” he said,
patting his eye patch. “Doctor told me I had six months.
That was a year ago, so I reckon I’m on borrowed time,”
he added, peering into his glass with his one good eye.
“Me and my old riding brother, Sam were going to do this
last one together, but Sam fell off the perch a few
months back. Got leukemia and was gone within a coupla
weeks,” he said, shaking his head. “Sam and I enlisted
together and did two tours of ’Nam. Came across a few
Ossseys over there. Good fighters and even better
drinkers as I recall …”
The conversation seemed to be taking a melancholy turn,
and both Mark and I glanced at each other, wondering
whether to leave Dan to his thoughts.
“I’m riding Sam’s old ’72 Shovel to the rally in honour
of our friendship and love,” said Dan. “So would you two
Osssey mates do me and Sam the honour of sharing a Jack
Daniels or two,” he smiled, finally seeming to lighten
up a little.
We spent the next few hours toasting Dan and his fallen
brother in arms and vowing to catch up at Sturgis. I
don’t recall much more of the night, but was grateful
that Dan had shared his story with his two Osssey mates.
Our paths never did cross again, but I hoped Dan made
good on his mission to honour the memory of his lost
brother.
The next day, flanked by the spectacular, snow-capped
Grand Tetons range, we headed for another old-west town,
this time the small burg of Cody. It would be a packed
day, including encounters with various wildlife in
Yellowstone National Park and also with one Sheriff Joe
Arzi of the Wyoming State Highway Patrol. I had
apparently attracted Joe’s attention after blasting by
him at a vastly greater velocity than local limits
allowed. At the time I was sweeping down from the
imposing Big Horn Mountains and thought I’d give the big
cruiser some wide-open throttle, since it seemed there
was little traffic around.
There was a long downhill straight up ahead, so I wound
it on. As I flew past a line of on-coming cars I glanced
down at the speedo, with the needle swaying between 105
and 120mph. Looking up, I was just in time to see the
black and white cruiser flash past, his brake lights
suddenly flaring in my rearview mirror.
“So, what’s the big hurry,” demanded the tall, crisply
uniformed figure. He’d chased me for about five miles
after executing a hurried U-turn and I sensed he was in
no mood for bullshit. “You got your licence on you?” he
growled.
I looked at his big cruiser, which had a bold “Vote for
Sheriff Joe Arzi” sign emblazoned down the side. I noted
it matched the name tag over his breast pocket.
“Here ya go mate,” I said, brandishing my thickest,
cheeriest accent. At the same time Mark finally caught
up and pulled over. His arrival seemed to put our
uniformed companion on edge.
“He with you?” he queried, glancing suspiciously at
Mark.
“Yep, we’re heading to Sturgis,” I explained.
“Hmmm … that right?” said Sheriff Joe, inspecting my
licence. “Says here you’re from Australia. I got some
good friends from Sydney come over and stay with me in
the ski season,” he added. “Drink me out of beer every
time, but we have some great fun together,” he smiled.
A silence followed, as a light breeze rustled through
the prairie grass.
It seemed Sheriff Joe was starting to chill a little –
until he returned to the reason we all happened to be
standing on the side of the road in this remote patch of
Wyoming farm country.
“Anyway, so I reckon I had you at about 110mph coming
from up off the mountains,” he said from behind his
aviator shades. “That is enough to put you in jail until
the county judge visits in a couple of days, and you’ll
probably be hit with a $300 fine and bond,” he added,
pausing for grim effect.
With the sun beating down, his last comment had me
sweating even harder. Having narrowly avoided jail time
in Las Vegas a couple of days earlier, I definitely
hadn’t allowed for a stopover in a Wyoming jail in our
Sturgis schedule.
“So how about this.” he continued. “You seem like a
decent coupla guys. Eighty miles an hour gets you a $75
on-the-spot fine. You can swipe your card right now in
the cruiser and I’ll even throw in a couple of Vote for
Joe pens.”
“Done!” I said, relieved that I wouldn’t be Sheriff
Joe’s guest for the next two days.
“Right answer, by the way!” he replied, taking my credit
card. “The jail food is terrible. I should know – my
wife is the cook …”
He was even decent enough to pose for a mock souvenir
photo pretending to cuff me as I leaned over the bonnet
of his car. As Mark took the photo it occurred to me it
might have been for real if I’d come up with the wrong
answer.
Seventy-five dollars lighter, we headed off to complete
our last day on the road before the beginning of the
legendary Sturgis Rally…
(ends)
More at The Beattie Files home page
The excerpt is from Beattie's wild and woolly book. So far as we know it's had one brief print run and he's threatening to do another. Watch this space.
In the meantime he can be contacted by email.
More at The Beattie Files
home page
Travels with Guido columns here
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