I found myself between jobs. The company I worked for the past 4 years was closing down at the end of the year and my new job wasn’t scheduled to start until February. It would require us to move from Texas to Virginia, but that’s what you do sometimes to pay the bills. Preparations needed to be made; secondary housing in VA, a house to sell in Houston, etc. So naturally, the first thing that popped into my head was, “ROAD TRIP!!!” In mid-December, I informed my wife that I was going to ride out to California. She did what most wives do in that scenario, laughed at her crazy husband. By Christmas she realized I was serious and then did the next thing wives are so good at, she began the inquisition to find out why I was going. I tried to explain my rationale for more than thirty minutes, but after all that talking, she still didn’t understand why I was going.
It fell into the category of “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand.”
I decided I use the trip as an excuse to track down the infamous Bandit. It was rumored he was in Texas as recently as November. That was enough to lure me down to Galveston to see if I could pick up his trail. Folks in Galveston said he was going back out west, but to be sure, I mounted up with the intent of checking every town of ill-repute between Galveston and the Pacific. If there was a shit-hole between here and there, Bandit was likely to have been there, and with a little luck, he might still be holed up in one of them.
The trip from Galveston to Houston didn’t uncover any new facts. I knew The Devil in Houston would know something, but he wasn’t likely to give up any information on Bandit. I decided to check out San Antonio instead. There were plenty of possibilities there given the margaritas and cerveza available in that city. Maybe someone came across this Bandit character there. I was determined to track his ass down.
Day One
My early morning departure from Houston was greeted with a dense fog. The fog was thick across the Brazos River and hung tough until I cleared the Colorado River valley 75 miles west of Houston. I pulled off at Ms Molly’s in Glidden to dry off. I decided to see if Ms Molly could shed some light on Bandit’s whereabouts. She blushed at the mention of his name. I’m sure she knew something, but she wasn’t letting on. I thanked her for her hospitality and left. I arrived in San Antonio around 11 in the morning. By that time, the sky was clear and the sun was shining brightly. I rode my trusty Fatboy into the heart of town and parked near the Alamo. The city was bustling.
It takes a strong imagination to picture the Missión San Antonio de Valero (the Alamo) of 1836. The battle at the Alamo really began in December of 1835 when Ben Milam led Texian and Tejano volunteers against Mexican troops there. Milam and company were successful in ousting the Mexican troops and took control of the city and the Alamo.
It was February 1836 when a group of 189 men held their ground against the army of thousands led by Santa Anna. The initial siege lasted 13 days and on March 6, 1836, the Mexican Army stormed the Alamo in a pre-dawn attack. The defenders of the Alamo drove back the first two assaults, but by the third, the Mexican Army successfully breached the walls. Fierce fighting broke out inside the walls of the Alamo, but the defenders were not able to overcome the dramatic numbers of the Mexican Army.
By sunrise the battle was over and everyone inside the Alamo, with the exception of women, children and one male slave, were killed. Great men, such as Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and William Travis met their fate at the Alamo. This place remains hallowed ground in Texas and it’s difficult to visit it without gaining a sense of pride and inspiration from the effort put forth there.
Santa Anna was defeated in April at the Battle of San Jacinto and Texas claimed its independence from Mexico. Later that same year the constitution of the Republic of Texas was approved by voters and Sam Houston was elected President. I’m a proud Texan who wasn’t born here, but got here as fast as I could. The defenders of the Alamo were made up of men from all over the eastern US and several countries. So, while it may be great to be a Native Texan, it’s damned good being an immigrant Texan, too.
I asked around about Bandit. This was the type of town he’d want to visit. It’s full of history and the location of one of the bravest stands made in battle. It’s the spot where men died in their pursuit of freedom. I know that’s something Bandit believes in, Freedom. Even if he wasn’t here now, he’s probably been here before. The town folks knew of him, but they hadn’t seen him recently. Most suggested I continue west and pointed guns in my direction. Women wept. I thanked them kindly and mounted up.
After a quick lunch at Hooters, I tore out of San Antonio on Highway 90 passing south of the Texas Hill Country and through one ranch after another. My sights were set on Langtry, the home of Judge Roy Bean and the Law West of the Pecos. I knew I could get information about Bandit there. It wasn’t likely Bandit could have passed through this area without the Judge finding out about it. The trick was to find out without getting shot.
I followed the trail blazed by the Whiting-Smith Expedition back in 1849. Their expedition was charged with finding a route to California. The first section of the route became the San Antonio-El Paso Road. It was the route Bandit would take. Rugged and unforgiving, it crossed the Devils and Pecos Rivers, and traversed the scorching Chihuahuan Desert. The kind of territory Bandit would love.
I crossed the Pecos River between Comstock and Langtry. This is one of my favorite spots on US-90 in southwest Texas. The bridge sits high above the river as it slices its way to the Rio Grande.
Langtry was Bandit’s kind of town and Judge Roy Bean was Bandit’s kind of man. In 1882, the Galveston, Harrisburg and San Antonio Railroad hired crews to link San Antonio with El Paso.
The route crossed 530 miles of sweltering Chihuahuan Desert, infested with bobcats, rattlesnakes and scorpions.
Roy left San Antonio and headed west to become a saloonkeeper. County Commissioners later appointed Roy Justice of the Peace. He accepted and moved to Langtry. The town was named for a railroad boss who ran the tracks through the town. However, the name also happened to belong to a beautiful British actress, Lillie Langtry. Roy was infatuated with her even though he never met her. He built a small saloon and named it the Jersey Lilly in honor of her. He posted a sign on the front of the saloon that read “Judge Roy Bean, Justice of the Peace, Law West of the Pecos”. It was from the front porch of his saloon that Judge Roy Bean proffered his unique style of justice.
In 1903, Roy died in his sleep in Del Rio after a drinking binge. Unfortunately, he never got the chance to meet Miss Langtry. A few months after his death, she visited Langtry and listened to story after story about Judge Roy Bean from the locals. She described her visit as short, but unforgettable.
After wandering around Langtry for a while it was obvious that Bandit would have loved it here, but there was no sign of him in the area. But there were disgruntled women and downright angry men. It was time to move on and continue my search. There were plenty more places between Langtry and the Pacific that needed to be explored.
I entered the Sanderson Canyon a few miles east of Sanderson, Texas. US-90 runs through the Sanderson Canyon for another 50 miles, almost to Marathon. The canyon is lined on either side by massive limestone cliffs separated by a couple of miles of flat terrain that cross various wash deposits of sand, gravel, and mud. The canyon and creek were named for Sanderson, Texas, and for the nearby railroad station that was established there in the 1880s. Like Langtry, the town and station were named in honor of a track foreman who supervised the railroad gangs in the area.
I decided Sanderson would be a good place to bed down for the night. I acquired a room at the Desert Air Motel and proceeded to the Dairy King for some Mexican food, (Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but that’s where the locals directed me for some Mexican food). After a plate of enchiladas, rice and beans, I hunkered down for the night with the intent of getting an early start in the morning. I traveled 500 miles on the first day and didn’t catch the slightest glimpse of the elusive Bandit.
Day Two
Day two opened with another beautiful, cloudless sky and a great day for riding. I left Sanderson shortly after sunrise and continued my trek west. The space between Sanderson and Marathon is a seriously lonesome stretch of highway. I can only imagine how remote is must have felt back in the 1880’s as the railroad was being laid. I decided to label this expanse “Lonely Texas” as there isn’t much there. It’s only you, the highway, and the railroad, but it has a rugged beauty to it.
A typical view in "Lonely Texas".
I passed through Marathon and Alpine on my way to Fort Davis, another Texas outpost that would be ripe for a visit from Bandit.
That bastard had to be there, somewhere, shot in the back, while sneaking in a barn to chase an old motorcycle or a young woman.
From 1854 to 1891, Fort Davis was strategically located to protect emigrants, mail coaches, and freight wagons on the Trans-Pecos portion of the San Antonio-El Paso Road and the Chihuahua Trail, and to control activities on the southern stem of the Great Comanche and Mescalero Apache War Trails. It was also home to the 24th and 25th U.S. Infantry and the 9th and 10th U.S. Cavalry, all-black regiments established after the Civil War. The Cavalry units were known as the Buffalo Soldiers.
Although relatively few American Indian tribes called the Tran-Pecos region home, Kiowas, Commanches and Apaches regularly passed through the area. Fort Davis soldiers provided escorts and protection to travelers and settlers. The fort was abandoned in the summer of 1891, but lives on today as a National Historic Site managed by the National Park Service.
My first stop in Fort Davis was the Hotel Limpia. The original “Limpia Hotel” became a private residence after the fort closed down. But, in 1912 a new Hotel Limpia was built and is still in use today. Again, this was a perfect place to look for Bandit given his penchant for the old and restored. I spoke with the hotel clerk and scanned the guest book. No entries under Bandit or KRB. Looks like I would have to keep riding. The weather was cool, but the sun was bright and the skies clear. The Fatboy didn’t blink, just kept rolling.
Given it was still morning and the day was turning out to be a beautiful southwest Texas winter day, a ride through the mountains was icing on the cake. I wasn’t far out of Fort Davis when I came upon four elk feeding in a field not far from the highway.
They were magnificent animals. They kept a close eye on me, but never spooked and allowed me to take several pictures of them. As I walked back to the bike, I noticed a huge buck striding across the meadow too. He was too far away for a decent picture, but he looked majestic as he ambled past me.
Unfortunately TX-118 northbound ultimately terminates in Kent, Texas, at Interstate 10. This section of I-10 roughly traverses the San Antonio-El Paso Road. I merged on and let it take me to my next stop, Van Horn, a major source of water on the trail back in the mid-1800’s.
I continued on to El Paso. I gained an hour as I crossed into the Mountain Time Zone a few miles west of Van Horn. It was mid-afternoon and I needed some nourishment. There’s only one place to feed when I’m on a solo road trip, so I made a stop at Hooters.
I traveled 160 miles on I-10 to El Paso and since I needed to get as far down the road as possible that day, I knew there was another 160 miles of I-10 still to go. After replenishing on wings, I reluctantly merged back onto the interstate and trudged forward to Lordsburg, New Mexico arriving shortly after sunset.
One thing this Gulf Coast boy learned was it gets damned cold in the desert when the sun goes down. The last 30 minutes of the ride that day taught me a valuable lesson about gearing up as sunset approaches. That lesson came in handy the next few days.
Another 500 miles under my Dunlop tires and the only thing I knew for sure was where Bandit wasn’t.
Day Three
Another beautiful, cloudless sky greeted me on day three. Unfortunately, it was 30 degrees when I left Lordsburg. I made it 17 miles down I-10 to my exit south on NM-80. Luckily, there was a diner at the exit and I couldn’t resist a hot cup of coffee and breakfast. I sat at the counter talking with a trucker and eating breakfast for 45 minutes in an effort to let things warm up before continuing. My destination was Tombstone, Arizona, “The Town too Tough to Die”, another town that would pull at the core of Bandit.
I mean absolutely no disrespect to Geronimo or Lieutenant Gatewood… But I don’t know what the people of Douglas, Arizona were thinking when they designed this monument. It looks strange sticking up in the San Simon Valley of southeastern Arizona. I was a damn disappointed that an event of such importance to the Apaches and the western United States was acknowledged with this particular effigy. If there is significance to the design, they don’t mention it.
I passed through Douglas and approached Bisbee. Apparently, fate wanted me to stop in Bisbee, so it filled my bladder and brought me to a stop. Since I was wandering around town anyway, I decided to see if anyone knew anything about Bandit. Lo and behold, he was known in town. The story goes that he once considered settling down in Bisbee. The town folks said he dreamed of making a run to the border every morning for a breakfast burrito. Damn, so close, but still no contact with Bandit himself.
Bisbee Post Office.
I arrived in Tombstone late in the morning. I strolled into Big Nose Kate’s Saloon assuming it would be the place to pick up some information. The locals spoke about Bandit with the same reverence they afforded Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. It was apparent they weren’t going to give me anything I could use to track Bandit down, but I listened intently to their stories anyway hoping I might get a scrap of information and not take a bullet in the process.
In 1877, Ed Shieffelin discovered a vein of silver near the site of Tombstone. Ed named his claim Tombstone because a soldier once told him, “You keep fooling around out there amongst them Apaches and the only rock you'll find will be your tombstone!".
The town of Tombstone was laid out in 1879. By late 1881, there were over 7,000 people in town and more gambling houses, saloons, and bordellos than any town in the southwest. It was as big as San Francisco at the time. Of course, Tombstone is best known for being the site of the infamous “Gunfight at the OK Corral”.
Throughout 1881 a feud built up between the Earps and the group known as The Cowboys. The Cowboys included men from the Clanton and McLaury clans, along with others. On October 26, 1881, Virgil Earp, the City Marshal of Tombstone, was told some of The Cowboys were in town and armed, which was against town law. He set out with his brothers Wyatt and Morgan to disarm The Cowboys. As they walked down 4th Street, they were met by Doc Holliday who insisted on joining them. The four men advanced toward the OK Corral on Fremont Street.
The gunfight actually took place in a vacant lot behind the OK Corral. In 30 seconds, three of The Cowboys, brothers Frank and Tom McLaury, and Billy Clanton lay dead. Virgil and Morgan were seriously wounded. Doc Holliday suffered a minor wound when a shot from Frank McLaury sliced through his holster and grazed his hip. Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne were apparently unarmed and escaped death, but not without having a piece of lead or two fly their way.
The Sheriff of Cochise County, Johnny Behan, arrested the Earps and Doc Holliday for murder. They were released in a preliminary hearing when Judge Wells Spicer decided they acted within the law. Unfortunately, the story didn’t end there. Virgil Earp lost the use of his left arm when he was seriously wounded in an assassination attempt. Morgan Earp was killed while playing billiards with Wyatt in the next ambush. Witnesses say they saw Frank Stilwell running from the scene. Three days later, Stilwell was found dead. Over time several other members of The Cowboys met the same fate.
It was common belief that Wyatt was responsible for these deaths.
I rode out of Tombstone no closer to knowing Bandit’s whereabouts than when I arrived. I decided to take a slight detour and pass through Charleston, southwest of Tombstone. The Clanton ranch was near Charleston. Uncertainty still remains regarding whether the Earps were the good guys or the bad guys at the OK Corral. Maybe Bandit made a visit to the Clantons to make up his own mind. It was worth a shot.
Charleston is a ghost town now, but in its heyday, it may have been more dangerous than Tombstone. The ghost town is a mile walk from where the Charleston-Tombstone Road crosses the railroad tracks. Only a few adobe remains can be seen now, but at one time Charleston boasted four general stores, a meat market, a drug store, two restaurants, two laundries, a boarding house, a couple of hotels, and anywhere from ten to fifteen saloons. It was a happening place and home to The Cowboys.
The death of Charleston started when the mines flooded, but the final nail in the coffin was Mother Nature. In 1887, a major earthquake struck the town and 30 minutes of continuous shocks reduce the adobe structures to ruins. The town was never rebuilt. Standing there in the stillness and quiet of a perfect day you could almost hear the yips and calls of The Cowboys as they moved cattle and worked the ranch.
In an effort to avoid I-10 as long as possible, I left Charleston and passed through Sierra Vista and Huachuca City. I went west on AZ-82 to Sonoita, then turned north on AZ-83, hitting I-10 twenty miles east of Tucson. In Tucson I experienced a prime example of why I loathe riding on interstates. The first warning came from a highway sign proclaiming, “Accident Ahead 7 Miles, Freeway Closed”. “Yippee Yi Ki Ay, mother fucker” was my reaction.
Having done the proper planning, all was not lost. If I could get a little further up the road I knew there was a Hooters on the north side of Tucson. Since it was already afternoon, I figured it was time to stop for some sustenance and let the highway clear. I jumped off the freeway as soon as I saw the backup and made my way to Hooters by paralleling I-10 on surface streets.
I love it when a plan comes together.
A couple of beers, boobs, and wings later, I was back on the road having avoided the aggravation of I-10’s closure. It was getting late and I needed to get to Yuma that night. So, much to my annoyance, I hauled ass up I-10 and across I-8 stopping once for gas and once, 90 miles east of Yuma, to gear up. Did I mention it gets damned cold on the desert when the sun goes down? That last 90 miles was rolled through in the dark. But, the dark provided me with an impressive view of Yuma as I passed through the Gila Mountains and started into the valley.
Another 500-plus miles traveled and still no sign of Bandit.
The Historic Evening of January 4, 2006
I arrived at Famous Sam’s Sports Bar with a couple of minutes left in the 2nd quarter. I ordered beer and food. I sat patiently through the half-time show. It was apparent I was in a minority. The place was packed, but there were only a few of us cheering for one of the teams. We were a confident and proud group of Longhorn supporters.
With 6:42 remaining in the 4th quarter fate seemed to be against us. The Trojans took a 38 – 26 lead. A local Trojan fan began an assault on the few Longhorns in the room. It led to a bet being proposed.
Seems this Trojan fan was so certain of victory he offered 14 points to a fellow Longhorn. Each party laid $40 on the table and the bet was on. Two minutes and 39 seconds later, the Longhorns scored a touchdown putting the Trojan’s bet in serious jeopardy. In a panic, the Trojan yelled, “Yeah, but I bet the Trojans still win the game.” Being a generous Texan, my new found partner graciously allowed the Trojan to cover his first bet with a $50 bet straight up that the Trojans would pull out the victory.
Well, I think you all know by now how this story ends. With 19 seconds remaining in the game, my fellow Texan and I exploded into jubilation, jumping up and down and raising more hell than Yuma’s seen in years, as Vince Young took control and brought the NCAA National Championship home to Texas. My new found buddy collected his $90 and as I rode out of the parking lot, he was still yelling into a cell phone about his good fortune.
Damn, we had a good time that night! Hook’em Horns!
Day Four
I noticed my rear brakes were barking loudly at me when I was in Tucson. So, by the time I stopped for the night in Yuma, I decided I better get the pads replaced before going much further. They weren’t metal on metal yet, but it was getting close and those pads wear quickly when they reach that point. Luckily, my planned route left me with only 325 miles to travel on Day Four, so I could take the time to get the problem corrected.
I took the bike to Bobby’s Territorial Harley-Davidson in Yuma first thing the next morning. They recently opened a nice, new shop on Gila Ridge Road. The service guys, Steve and Willie, took good care of me and I was back on the road in an hour with fresh rear pads and a tightened belt.
I guess the football gods must have frowned on my lack of benevolence in victory the night before. I knew I didn’t drink too much, but for some reason, by the time I loaded the bike and headed west out of Yuma I was feeling a little queasy. Little did I know, that was a precursor to the shittiness that was about to surround me.
I rode west out of Yuma on I-8. I was roughly following the old trail to California laid out by John Butterfield for his stage business back in 1858. Actually, Butterfield took advantage of routes explored by Spanish expeditions as early as 1775. Butterfield’s Overland Mail Route became a famous and much used passageway to the west.
I passed through the southern edge of the impressive Imperial Sand Dunes Recreational Area with huge dunes on either side of the highway. Dune buggies and ATVs ran up and down the dunes. With the right equipment, it looked like a good time. Unfortunately, a Fatboy ain’t the right equipment, so I snapped a picture and kept riding.
By the time I reached El Centro, California, that shittiness I mentioned earlier hit me full force. I spent an hour in El Centro fighting off moments of nausea, chills, then fever, and aches that made my joints feel like I was being ripped apart on a medieval torture device. I decided to trudge on. I needed to make it to Wilmington, my best shot at locating Bandit, and I didn’t have time for this shit!
Thirty more miles on I-8 and I exited toward the Anza- Borrego Desert still following the Overland Mail Route. The flu-like symptoms haunted me, but, like a dumb ass, I didn’t stop. At this point, I didn’t have any business being a passenger in a car, much less riding a Harley solo across an empty desert. I think I passed one vehicle going the opposite direction and got passed by a Jaguar (the car, not the animal) somewhere along the way.
Borrego Badlands.
Imperial Highway, as it is called, is 50 miles of nothingness. Even when you reach the end of nothingness, there’s nothing there. You have to go another 15 or 20 miles to get somewhere.
I loaded up in El Centro with a couple of bottles of water and Gatorade. I stopped a couple of times to get a drink and click off some pictures. It took me an hour to cover that 50 miles. There were brief moments where I seemed to lose consciousness and saw bobcats, camels, and stagecoaches blur by at 75 mph. At least my sub-conscious seemed to keep my hallucinations in context. The things I saw (that weren’t really there) fit into the desert environment appropriately.
The long and winding Imperial Highway.
Thanks to divine intervention, I managed to make it through the Carrizo Badlands, No Name Canyon, and Blair Valley, eventually arriving in Warner Springs, California. If there’s a motel in Warner Springs, I didn’t see it or else I might still be there asleep. Since I didn’t see one, I continued my trek toward Bandit’s lair.
I stopped in Temecula and loaded up on flu and pain relief drugs.
Great, as if I wasn’t impaired enough by whatever took over my body, now I was doped up too. Luckily, I only needed to negotiate the freeways of Riverside and Los Angeles counties, what could go wrong?
I made it as far as Corona before my gas tank and body demanded another break. I was feeling a little better, but not much. I gassed up the bike, hit the bathroom and then pulled over to the side of the station and enjoyed a Heath Ice Cream Bar. Man, those things are good and it was my first taste of food since the night before, making it especially good.
Another biker rode up on a fine-looking Fatboy with ape-hangers and went into the shop. My conversation with him was the epitome of contrast to the conversation between my wife and me about my ride to California.
He walked out of the shop and said, “Looks like you’re on a long haul.”
“Yeah” I replied, “I just rode out from Texas.”
“Oh, did you come out for the Rose Bowl?” he asked, making a fair assumption.
“Nah” I answered, “Just for the hell of it.”
He laughed, straddled the Fatboy, lit his cigarette and said, “For the hell of it. I can dig it.” He fired up the Fatboy and rode off.
In 10 seconds he understood what my wife was still trying to figure out years later.
See, if I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand and if you do understand, no explanation is necessary.
It’s been reported that Bandit “works” at the inter-planetary headquarters of Bikernet.com in Wilmington. I decided to take a shot and call to see if he was there. An angelic voice answered the phone making me immediately suspicious. A lovely creature, like the one on the other end of the line, wouldn’t be involved with this Bandit character, would she?
Well, evidently she was, because in a few seconds, Bandit himself was on the line. My long search was over. Upon learning I carried some type of plague across the desert, Bandit suggested I get a good night’s sleep and we would get together the next morning. I couldn’t argue with that logic. Besides, my body was telling me to find a place of sanctuary soon, or it was going to get some rest without my permission.
Fifty miles of LA freeways later, I checked into the Best Western in Harbor City on Pacific Coast Highway. I probably would have made the 6 o’clock news if the clerk said they were out of rooms, but, as luck would have it, she was able to put me up for the night. I unloaded and by 4:30 I was asleep. I woke up a couple times during the night, but basically got myself 15 hours of much needed rest. Thank God I only had to cover 325 miles that day.
My Quest Concludes
The next morning I mounted up and rode the two miles to Wilmington. I parked outside the fortress known as Bikernet.com headquarters. Now my only problem was to figure out how one goes about infiltrating this fortress. Since I didn’t see any obvious way in, I tried the 21st century approach and used my cell phone to penetrate the enclosure.
The same virtuous voice answered the phone again and assured me she would send Bandit my way. A couple of minutes later, I was greeted at the gate by the legend himself. He suggested I ride the Fatboy around the corner and park inside the Bikernet compound. He glanced harshly in both directions and the homeless miscreants scattered.
I had the pleasure of meeting his grandson who was there waiting for the mini-chopper frame to get back from powder coating. I also met John, who handles the Bikernet product lines. I received the nickel tour of the facilities and a quick rundown on the various build projects underway. We walked over and picked up some tubing to replace the hard copper lines on the Shovelhead. Plus, we took a walk down to the waterfront. All-in-all, it was a damned pleasant visit. Like the dumb ass I can be at times, I left my camera back at the hotel, so I missed out on shots of Bandit and Bikernet HQ. He looked relieved that my camera was missing.
The elusive Bandit rolling down the highway. Thanks to Bikernet.com for the use of the picture.
1825 miles later I finally met the man, the myth, and the legend that is Bandit. What did learn? That he’s a man that is extremely proud of his family, community, and his biker brothers and sisters. Motor oil runs through his veins and he lives to make sure the Industry and freedoms he loves survive.
I excused myself to let the man get back to work. That mini-chopper needed to get finished, along with the half dozen other projects in process. I was still a little under the weather, but feeling much better. Besides, I had a return trip to get underway. But, that’s another story coming soon.
