Theres a chicken farm in the middle of nowhere Georgia that once a year becomes a party so great that it takes a week to come down from. It’s called The Grundle Run.

The Long Brothers are behind it all and let me tell you, missing it is a big mistake.

My journey started out Friday afternoon. I loaded up my 77 Chevy shorty and hit the road for a 6 hour trip through Atlanta and into Ranger Georgia. My bike broke down two days prior and I had a bad feeling about my infamous bad luck getting the best of me but come hell or high water I was making it to the party. Here’s a recap of my trip.

Three hours in I noticed the van getting sluggish, I could feel the motor lag for just a second at a time.  I knew something was wrong but I was on highway 20 smack dab between Athens and Atlanta so I just kept on truckin. This van has been good to me for years, I thought she had it in her to make the remaining 245 miles. But I was wrong. While passing a rig the bottom end let out a snap and suddenly I was hearing a slapping sound so loud I could no longer hear traffic. At first I thought that my rusty E-brake cable finally let go and wrapped itself around my driveshaft. But it was worse than that. I limped into a gas station via the berm of the road and the attendant called a mechanic to come out to help me. Fortunately I was in one of those small towns where everyone was still friendly.

We determined after checking my rockers (and soaking the white fur interior of my poor van with oil) that I had spun a rod bearing and the van couldn’t go another mile. My buddy drove an hour and 40 minutes from Atlanta and towed me down the road to a mechanic shop where the van would spend the weekend. But I however had a party to attend.

In case you’re ever wondering. It costs $90 to catch a lyft ride 223 miles. And that’s exactly what I did.

At noon on Saturday I rolled into a chopper party in a lime green Kia Soul. As we drove down the road to the entrance we passed the group ride. The only time my lyft driver spoke on the two hour trip was when he let out a “woahhhhh” in awe of the massive amounts of beautiful machines rolling by us. Pulling up that steep gravel hill though he went from awe to terrified as the bikes kept on coming from all angles. He had it in reverse before I even got my stuff out of his car.

Ron, one of the amazing dudes who throws Grundle Run greeted me at the gate with a hug and a silvery wrist band. I made it. Now let’s drink!

There were bikes everywhere, a sort of chaos that in traffic on a Monday would have you ripping out your hair. But here it was a soothing hum of engines and chrome and an unusual amount of bright pink choppers. I walked the rough gravel road with nothing but a change of clothes a helmet and a sleeping bag looking for my oasis of friends in the biggest baddest black van there. Owned by the tiniest sweetest chic I’ve probably ever met. I was greeted with beer and hugs. The party had started without me. But I wasn’t left behind. That’s what’s so amazing about this family of friends.

The whole event was to raise funds for Life Line Animal Shelter. The raffle booth was splitting at the seams with rad donations like Custom Destruction helmets, custom made handle bars, and bad ass needlework from Dirty Rotten Stitches. In the end they brought in three thousand dollars for the charity.

It was scalding hot by noon and the breeze brought in the lovely aroma of chicken shit from the farm. Dozens of groups came and went all day riding to a local lake to cool off.

Meanwhile the chopper games were starting to kick off in the field, announced by Meeks pulling a giant flag pole and full sized Jolly Roger flag strapped precariously to his sissy bar. The extra few feet of pole were quickly forgotten as he plowed under someone’s canopy nearly taking it with him.

The slow races had some of the best wipe outs, Liam making it only a few feet before going over his bars and rolling through the freshly cut grass. And Wes recovered his crash with a tasteful donut or two. In the end I don’t remember who won, I was too distracted by one of the Haints racing with his blue tighty whiteys tucked into his ass crack.

On the hill there was an inflatable water slide that even the dogs were enjoying. The challenge was to try to go down it with such force that you launched out of the other end. Some were successful as their grass stained asses and welted backs showed.

 

A few feet away sat a cute vintage camper where Greg DeHoot was making permanent memories on skin of Sasquatch’s and chickens.

The main event kicked off with some of those crazy Haints helping themselves to the wrestling ring before the big dogs came in to elbow drop each other on thumbtacks and legos. Gorgeous George cameoed his moves and should have taken home the belt if you ask me.

In the midst of the chaos I noticed a Great Dane named Trooper was struggling, his people got him to a vet in time and for those who were wondering Trooper is doing great!!!!

As the night grew dark the party moved to the buildings where there were dueling dj’s. Having to choose between David Allen Coe and Pantera was the hardest decision made all weekend. I watched everyone bounce between a dance party and an intense game of paper rock scissors where in the end someone was body slammed across a table soaked in red moonshine.

The sun came up with the sound of engines starting and I rose from a tent to find Benny still fighting his charging issue. It’s not a chopper if it’s reliable right? I went on a hunt for coffee and didn’t have to travel far. Amazing neighbors handed me a dog bowl full. I sat and took all of it in, watching all my beautiful friends who live so far and wide and realizing my infamous shit luck ain’t got nothing on the amazing people I’ve met along the way.

 

Soon we were up and running for a quick breakfast before we parted ways. We invaded town and took over a cute little place for a few hours talking laughing and doing last minute repairs before setting out for home. These are the moments you’ll cherish and these are the times to appreciate your life and all of those magical souls in it. If you get it you’ve been to Grundle Run. If you don’t, well we’ll see you next year.

special thanks to Josh Hawks for the amazing photos. Find more at @thisrandomperson22

In July I crashed a motorcycle and broke my collarbone. I have had two surgeries since then and recently my dad came down south to help me out with recovery. He brought his slides and projector with him and told me some more great stories that I thought I’d share.

The slides were mostly of him and Mom in Hawaii in the 70’s when he was enlisted, but we came across some of the old “van in” days. A lot of photos of topless girls posing in front of beautiful vans mostly. As we clicked through the slides, projected on a sheet hung in my living room, he told me a few stories about the bikes he had over the years and the stupid shit he liked to do. Actually I was simultaneously scrolling through Instagram while we talked and I came across a post by those crazy Haint Boys. If you know who they are you get it. If you don’t you should probably give them a follow. I met them at The Congregation two years ago in Charlotte Nc. They rolled in dressed in all white, and the story was they were riding in that gear start to finish without changing. The end result of that trip not a one of them were close to clean. Anyways, the video I ran across was of those guys riding their choppers through the woods up this steep, muddy, grassy wet hill trying to get onto the road. I showed it to dad thinking he’d get a kick out of it, find it amusing. But in reality I knew it would trigger a memory of a great experience and another good story. And it did,.

 

He watched the video, smiled and said “yeah, my buddy and I used to do shit like that. We would ride along the highways in Pennsylvania and find those steep water run off edges along power lines and challenge each other to climb them on our sportsters”. He said it with such a casual tone that it came off like it was an everyday thing. Because for him, it was. He said that he had a buddy back then who was crazy, would do anything you told him to. He’d see a huge steep hill climb along the road that local kids on   dirt bikes climbed and he’d pull over and rip up it on his chopper. Dad would ride his Ironhead on dirt bike trails on the weekends with his buddies, he couldn’t afford to have both so a chopper seemed like the logical toy. He could literally take it anywhere.

When he got older he bought a CZ, It was a Czechoslovakian made dirt bike. It was made of iron and steel and lead and rocks I think by how he described it. It was heavy and mean, and fast. Dad and my uncles Nils and Allen, my mom’s brothers were out riding on the property adjacent to my grandparents one day. My uncle Allen,  and the youngest Nils were leading, they knew the trails better. Nils told my dad the trial up ahead would curve left then there’s a nice jump, hit it he said, it’s a good one. Well dad got up ahead of them and up came his left turn and he could see that jump approaching. Only Nils got the description of the trail wrong, it wasn’t a jump up ahead, it was a rock ledge to the edge of the strip mine below….. And Dad was already sending it…

When he hit the ground below he said he narrowly avoided landing on boulders. He was laying sprawled out on his back, bike about twenty feet away. He knew his ribs were broken, and he knew his leg hurt, Allen made it to the bottom of the hill and was a panicked mess, he showed my dad that one of his legs was toes to the sky like it should be, the other however was not.. Dad told him to turn his leg around and fast, but my uncle wasn’t sure which way to twist. That was when they decided someone should go get help. The ambulance came after having to find its way into the woods and they loaded up my father. My uncle Allen rode with him to the hospital and gave all the information the paramedic asked for.

My dad woke up in the hospital with a broken hip, leg, all his ribs, collar-bone and shoulder. He said they had him on some good pain meds but he was still hurting. That’s when the nurses came in to ask him how he was feeling. In his half awake state he heard the nurse repeat the name Allen. “Allen, Allen you’re in the hospital Allen, how are you feeling?” My dad’s response was “My name’s not Allen mannn….” The nurse uttered “oh he’s in worse shape than we think he doesn’t even know his name!”

My Father’s name is Ron. My panicked uncle’s name was Allen. In the chaos and confusion he gave the paramedics his own information instead of my fathers. Dad said that took my mom having to clear things up! Dad laid in traction for a few days before he couldn’t take it anymore and made himself able to stand up on his own so that he could go home. Against the doctors orders. He told me this story after I had signed myself out of the hospital earlier that day… Like father like daughter….

Have you ever ridden a rigid bike on a rip rap rock road along the edge of a roaring river? If so you were at this years Twin Rivers Chopper Camp Out.

This is Zack Gibbon’s second year to host this party in the mountains of Crumpler Nc. The small unassuming campground looks like your grandparents fishing camp at the entrance, with manicured trailer sites and those little wooden cutouts of the lady bending over with her bloomers showing. But down that sketchy gravel road that at times blends right into the river, the party in the woods does not disappoint. People rolled in from all over, some rode as far as 500 miles, some trailered in from the neighboring state, but we all came for the same reasons. Choppers and good times.

Friday afternoon was the calm before the storm. People were rolling in, setting up and the mood was light. The weather was perfect for a dip in the river. Hosts Zack and Sean rolled around on a golf cart chatting with friends, stopping from site to site to have a beer or say hello. Danny Biggins was setting up the stage and DJ booth at the “rave cave” a large rock cliff that made for great acoustics.  Throughout the weekend locals would row down the river to catch a safe glimpse of the party, occasionally getting things yelled at them like “dump em out” or “bring us some beer” all in good fun of course.  Later into the night all of those Long Brothers boys rolled in 20 deep from Georgia and Tennessee. They just hosted a rowdy good time last month with their Grundle Run. If you missed it like me you messed up. Especially if you were doing what I was doing, having a titanium bar screwed into your collar-bone.

 

Friday nights party ran into the early morning hours with everyone taking turns manning the Dj booth and playing their favorite songs. I woke up Saturday morning to the sweet sounds of motorcycles revving to warm up, and revving to wake up those friends who might have drunk one too many and were gonna miss out on the breakfast run if they didn’t get up and moving. As the day went on more people trickled in, Gorgeous George was yard salein’ with his wife and side kick Bambi dog, and a few guys decided to make the little two-way trail from one end of the campground to the other their own personal dirt track. Each beer fueled lap getting a little sloppier a little faster and a little muddier. But whats a chopper party without a few good wipeouts? Eventually he found his way into the river to wash the bike, himself and most likely his cylinder walls too!

By night fall the party was kicking and the world’s longest raffle was in full swing. The never-ending table of bad ass sponsor donations ranged from a sweet set of custom bars made by Mama Tried Customs to a gnarly ass handmade blade that my old man took home. I’ve never seen more man boob in my life after almost all of the winners succumbed to the demands to “show some tits” while claiming their prize. The crowd got excited when one guy came up for his second win and called his girlfriend up. Everyone was stoked to see some titties without hair on them, but instead he proposed and she said yes. (Congrats kids!)

The live bands brought everyone to the “rave cave” some even climbing on top of the rock for an aerial view of the party. Biggins closed out the night with a great set despite a malfunctioning speaker that Danny immediately chucked offstage and into the fire post show.

After the bands stop the party doesn’t. Saturday night turned into more mud partying and great decisions. The dude doin river burnouts was passed out on a tarp by midnight and I noticed while walking back to camp to get him a blanket someone had already beat me to it. A few guys decided the mud was irresistible and went for a roll, following that up with a team effort of sending one into the river with a rope tied to him for safety to wash up. One of the best things about this lifestyle is the comradery and general goodness amongst all of us. I mean yeah a couple of shit heads stole our beer saturday night, but it didn’t matter because at these events everyone will offer you a beer.

Sunday Morning came too soon and we stumbled out later than we should have but earlier than we wanted to. The ride home was good, soothing and somber, everyone wishing tomorrow wasn’t Monday and reality wasn’t back to work. The descent down the mountain was beautiful, and the exhaust fumes rolling into the cab of that old van made everything even more surreal. The goodbyes till next time, the old friends the new friends, all of it a damn blessing to be part of. So we will see a lot of you even further north in a few short weeks at the War Run on October 13 in Wilmington NC.

My mother was 5′ 2″ and no more than 90 pounds soaking wet. She was beautiful, dark  haired and exotic looking. She told me she was of Gypsy blood when I was a little girl and I chose to believe her. I mean, her grandmother was from Czechoslovakia so it’s highly possible. She was the personification of bold, and wild. I guess I get some good traits from her. My motorcycle riding though, I get that from my dad.

Mom decided for some crazy reason that she wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle. And for an even crazier reason, my dad obliged. I guess that’s what you do when you’re young and in love.

Dad told me this story while driving to Georgia for our birthday dirt bike/sxs hell raisin weekend getaway. The one where he ended up with total memory loss deep in the woods after showing my friends that a 69 year old man can still do donuts… well, sort of… I’ll talk about that later.

My mom wasn’t a great multi tasker, it just wasn’t her strongpoint to be able to focus on a lot of things at once. Dad said he was pretty impressed with how quickly she caught on to the clutch on the Ironhead. They practiced in my grandfathers yard. He rode behind her, his 6′ 5″ frame towering over her perched on the seat behind her while she stretched to reach the controls of the bike. He kept his hands near the bars, prepared to pull the clutch in on her fingers if necessary. Once she got the hang of it he let her loose on the open field. He said she was doing great, she rode right up to him grinning from ear to ear and rolled off the throttle, and pulled in the clutch perfectly. And then the bike fell over. She forgot to put her feet down when the bike stopped.

After telling this story he immediately went into another. I don’t know why he ever let her be in control of that bike again but he did. This time they were on the open road. in traffic. With other cars and people around. He said he switched with her and climbed on the back, I would do anything to see my lanky ass father perched on that seat with my teeny tiny little mom in control. They switched at a red light near the old Apollo bridge. It was a tiny little town with no claim to fame other than it being where Andy Warhol grew up. It had one little bridge and back then a parking lot across the street that was on a fairly steep downhill slope to the river. While waiting on the light to change my dad gave my mom a lil lesson review. Reminding her to “let the clutch out slowly, ease into the throttle, just like you did in the yard, just take your time.”

The light turned green.

Mom dumped the clutch and sent the tuned up, bored, stroked cammed up tweaked out Iron head Screaming across the intersection on its back wheel. My dad acting as a perfect counterbalance for all of that torque to displace itself to. He said he started yelling at her to ease off the throttle and pull in the clutch. She managed to ride over the edge of the hill into the parking lot headed right for the river before dad managed to get his hands on the bars and the bike under control.

There wasn’t much to be said about the conversation that followed, dad was once again laughing too hard to finish this story.

Dad met mom in high school. At 17 they fell in love and in 1967 they knew that it was only a matter of time until my dad was drafted. But Dad was a hippy, free love and peace and all that happy horse shit that created the most amazing era and time to live in history. So dad joined the air force. His enlistment stories are fucking amazing, everything from painting his snub nose van with political statements and parking it in front of his officers building, to painting a giant peace sign on the two story barrack facing the highway. (he said the punishment wasn’t worth the prank on that one) But Dad bought an Iron head before he shipped out, and that bike lives on in history as the machine that nearly killed half my family.

He was 18,he didn’t have any tools and the motor needed a lot of machine work. He worked for this local Harley mechanic in town. He was an older man, his shop was dirt floors and his main tool was a hammer, but he knew his shit. But this was beyond that. So he took this two year old bike with a thrashed motor to a young mechanic the next town over and asked him to simply make it run again.

The mechanic told him he had two options, to rebuild it with original factory Harley Davidson parts or for the same price or less, with aftermarket parts.  He asked “What’s the difference then?” the mechanics response? “you’ll go a lot faster on the aftermarket parts kid”

Done deal. Aftermarket. Enough said.

“That god damned bike had so much power it was sick” -Dad.

 

I recently asked my dad for a detailed summary of what was done to that motor. This is his exact response.

” Everything. Dytch stroker kit, they made them for Sportsters back then, I think they were mainly for race bikes. New flywheel, aftermarket rods, high compression pistons, and sleeves, oversized valves, cam, all kinds of stuff I can’t remember now. But the compression was so high I could barely kick it over, Especially when it was cold. So I’d have to tow it behind a car or push it down a big hill or get someone to push you, but that usually never worked.After it was warm you could kick it but barely, so you couldn’t let it sit too long or you’d be stranded. Sometimes I would start down my dad’s driveway if I started pushing from inside the garage and jump on, but usually he’d have to tow me”

He rode that bike year round, 30 minutes through blizzards to visit with my mom for an hour before being kicked out to ride 30 minutes back home.

 

Dad got shipped off to basic shortly after and mom hid out at his parents house while he was there. The bike waited for his return as well. After basic they moved to Sumpter South Carolina where the bike got it’s first facelift. Dad was a poor Airman so he put his diy skills to good use. He fabricated some drag bars out of the chrome legs of a kitchen dinette chair and made rigid struts out of a stop sign post. He custom fabricated a king queen seat with a built in six pack holder in the queen ridge and six over slugged fork tubes. He told me last summer while I was in the direct path of the solar eclipse that during the last one, in March of 1970 he had just finished the build and put my mom on the back to ride into town and show it off. He said the minute they hit the main drag of town the sky went black and no one gave a shit about his chopper. That’s the typical outcome for something for my dad. Everything is a shit show. But it makes for a damn good story.

Dad’s chopper Sumpter 1970

 

My grandfather, trying to help his son out elected to keep the bike running for him while dad was stationed in Hawaii and took it out once for a short cruise. That was the day my grandfather took his first and last “hell ride”. My grandfather was an impressive man, He came from Italy as a baby was raised tough as nails, fought in the war and worked in a foundry. Nothing scared that man. Except for that Iron head. His version of the story was the bike took off on him and he held on for dear life while riding out what I pictured as he told the story one gnarly ass wheelie. My dad said it’s far more likely he got whiskey throttle and slid off the seat and somehow got lucky and recovered before total loss of control. Either way, after that the bike sat in wait for my father’s return from his military contract. My grandfather eventually convinced him to sell it and after a few years of the new owner having it but never riding it he lost track of the bike. I’d do anything to get my hands on it. It was last seen in Apollo Pa.

 

I guess I’ll start from the beginning. The 1965 Harley Sprint my dad bought in 1966. He was 16. He Lost his driver’s license 3 weeks into owning it.

“I was street racing my dads 62 Ford fairlane and had a head on collision with a brand new ford galaxy. I was racing in the rain and my dads car had bald tires on the front so I didn’t make the turn.”

In the 60’s you didn’t need a license or insurance to ride a motorcycle, so naturally that’s what you do when you can’t keep 2 tons of 4 wheeled steel in a straight line.

When my dad first told me this story we were on one of our father daughter birthday outings, something we have started doing since I made the mistake of moving over 700 miles away from him. Our birthdays are three days apart in the beginning of March, so we always do something big. This year he was turning 69, I was turning 36 So we decided to drive 4 hours to middle Georgia and spend 3 days at an off road park. Dad was extra excited for this trip, he had just upgraded the suspension and wheels on his side by side, and it was the first time in years that we had ridden together like this with a group.
My bike was tuned up, I had 5 friends meeting up with us and I think he was pretty amped up to feel like a young buck again.

I’ve heard many versions of his stories over the years, as I age, and we bond and the realization that he can’t keep me young and innocent forever sets in the stories get more raw, more honest and more absurd. I can’t wait to hear them all when I’m in my 60’s.

So dad got his Harley Sprint, His mother, the overprotective woman that she was gave him fair warning that dinner would be on the table in ten minutes and he better take one careful test run up the street and be back in time or else……

He started up his 18 horsepower, 271 pound American machine and down the road he went. They lived in a rural Pennsylvania town, the roads were beautiful two lane winding hills, perfect motorcycle roads. As my dad crested the top of the large hill about a mile down from the house he decided to do what in his words “has always been the best and the worst decision I make every time I get something that moves since childhood” See what this bike can do. So he starts his downhill acceleration, first gear, second, third, now were picking up speed. One more to go, as he upshifts that little 246cm3 motor. He started to pass a car and thats when he saw the curve in the road by then it was too late.

He tells this story a lil different every time, but the one thing that’s consistent is this part right here, the part after he admits he’s moving entirely too fucking fast on drum brakes with no motorcycle experience to come out of this turn on two wheels, or any wheels at all. I can’t really give you the details of what went wrong, or how it happened, because at this point in his story he’s laughing at himself too hard. Something my dad does a lot and I think it’s honestly what’s kept his wreckless ass alive this long.

Long story short he was late to dinner, After careening through the woods and scaring the living shit out of some lady who stopped to see if he was alive he limped his little Arimachi home, with the bars turned left to go slightly straight, and both wheels bent. His shiny helmet scuffed about as much as his teenaged ego. I asked him if he was wearing a helmet when he crashed.  “I didn’t have a helmet at that time that’s why my mother took me to the Harley dealer in Butler to get one, it was white, I painted it in the service to match my 69 camaro”

He later painted that little motorcycle in art class. I admired it growing up, as it hung proudly in his childhood bedroom with the old surfers cross hanging from the corner of the canvas and the yellow ribbon from the art show it had won in 1967. That painting now hangs in my house. I’m still in admiration of it.

 

 

He must have ridden this bike for a little while, here he is still in high school riding wheelies down the street while my grandfather risked his life for this shot!

I recently made friends with an amazing couple in North Carolina who when I shared this story with them their eyes lit up and they immediately pulled up a photo of their 1965 Harley Sprint. Much to my surprise it’s the same year and color as that little bike my dad proudly posed on in his parents yard all those years ago. We are currently working on getting that little bike to him, and hopefully finding a way to tell if it could possibly by some miracle be his exact bike.