Robin Postell hits Daytona Bike Week with nothing but a bikini, a camera, and a felt tip….
By Robin Postell
NOTE FROM AUTHOR: With the coronavirus pandemic canceling pretty much everything, I thought it would be fun to revisit my Daytona Bike Week story published in Bikini Magazine.
In spite of the raging coronavirus, Daytona Bike Week 2020 goes on.
Almost-full moon. The second night of Bike Week, Daytona Beach, Florida. This means different things to different people.
For some bikers, it’s the first opportunity of the year to come out of hibernation, polish their machines, and shake off the winter doldrums.
But it’s also a time for heavy metal daddies to bust out and get some pussy.
To me, it means I can wear a bikini top down the street and not get called a slut.
Bike Week is expected to drawn hundreds of thousands. Featuring a variety of parties, races, shows, exhibits, and swap meets, Bike Week is designed to serve as the be-all-end-all of motorcycle mania. March, about a week before Spring Breakers ambush Daytona Beach, bikers from all over the world converge on the otherwise dumpy seaside vacation hub, giving it style and lending it some character.
They are in full regalia – and in full control.
And they have waited all year for this.
For 47 years the festival cranked up with no formal management or coordination. But finally the Volusia County Chamber of Commerce figured they ought to get in on the act.
Which mostly means that the’re making a money machine out of it, putting welcome banners up, and adding port-o-potties so the nasty bikers won’t piss on the streets.
And so far, it looks like everybody’s got a good attitude.
No Hell’s Angels, no angry lawdawgs with weapons drawn, no brawls in the street.
I can’t help but be sorely disappointed.
The growl is what hits you first. As you make the slow progression into the beach city you begin to h ear it.
Potent and foul, thousands of Harleys prowling like steel wolves through the night.
Within half an hour, the sounds becomes part of you. It follows you into your hotel room, a din bigger and louder than Al Green or Soundgarden or L-7 on your bluetooth speaker. It rocks you to sleep at night. You start digging it hard. When you get back home, you’re gonna miss it.
Then there’s the smell…
The air is rank, and thick with the pungent combination of fuel, leather, sweat, and salt water. Something else you get used to.
Something else you’ll miss.
Add post smoke and spilled beer and you’ve got the signature potpourri scent of Bike Week.
My friend Ketcher smokes a Camel Light and hauls the big Lincoln into our hotel parking lot.
“This shit,” she says, taking a long drag, “is gonna be good.”
She works for the Olympics back home with a bunch of conservative whitey-tighties. This is her big chance to hang out with the universal freaks.
I get the impression that a lot of these people feel the same way. A time to bust out.
Main Street, where all the big bikers go to play. The place to see and be seen. Hundreds of customized Harleys line the cobblestone street. Exclusively Harleys. Blocked off for the occasion, only two-wheelers are permitted to cruise the strip.
Japanese bikes are around, but not here with the big hogs on Main Street. They stick together and cruise Atlantic and Ocean Avenues – safety in numbers. The “rice burners” are a different breed. Not nearly as loud of as stylish. Sportier. Less testosterone and grease, more cheese. Faster, maybe, but lacking that gritty, wise soul.
A black and chrome menagerie, Main Street is seasoned with both polish and decay. The clothing looks a hundred years old, but the bikes are ageless. Even the oldest bikes gleam with pride. An ocean of rawhide faces with ancient eyes staring out fearlessly hint at primal beginnings.
The tribe has re-banded, if only for ten days.
The sidewalks are a writing mass of pedestrians, squeezing past each other. Shops are packed with leather pants, chaps, vests, hats, thongs, bikini tops, silver jewelry, and any type of motorcycle accoutrement imaginable.
Bars abound. The Boothill Saloon, the Froggy Saloon, and the Bank, fronting Main Street, are so filled with biker patrons you have to stand outside and wait until someone exits before you can enter.
The Bank offers blues, resonating down the block, a tan pin-up quality babe hawking overpriced cans of beer troughed in ice at the doorway. Wearing a thong bikini and leather chaps, she’s got tits that give men instant hard-ons and make women whimper with envy. A young guy shakes like a junkie nearby, “Cocaine Cowboy” airbrushed on the back of his leather jacket.
“Goddam, baby,” he slurs at her. With a beer in each hand she raises her arms in the air and shakes her ass to the music, ignoring hi. He adjusts his crotch, “Goddam, baby…”
We’ve roamed the streets long enough tonight. Bikers bought us too many beers and we stumble to the Town Car parked in the public lot a couple of blocks off the main drag.
“I gotta take a piss,” Ketch says. She squats between the two opened passenger doors and does her business. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“Now that’s how a real woman pisses,” says a 6’5″ biker with tattoos of witchy naked women with big tits sleeving both meaty arms.
I crack up. Ketcher nods at the guy, trying not to lose her concentration.
“Boy, howdy!” she yelps.
“Don’t worry, baby,” the biker smiles, crunching a beer can in his hand and tossing it. A real macho man with dirty armpits and a Harley to prove it. “It’s all good.”
In a few minutes we’re back in the car, headed for that southside motel where these strange bikers from Holland are staying.
“He king of turned me on,” admits Ketcher, referring to the big biker.
“I’m gonna tell your mama,” I say.
Sunday. As pumped up as any Saturday. We keep hearing about the Cole Slaw Wrestling at Sopotnick’s Cabbage Patch. Ketch thinks about it.
“Hey, a thousand bucks is a thousand bucks,” she quips. We missed the Ugliest Old Woman Contest.
A guy shoves a blue card in my hand and as we stroll away I take a gander. It reads:
He would’ve ridden a Harley
Compliments of the Biker Ministry of Jesus Christ from High Point, North Carolina.
Inside it reads:
Jesus the Biker
He was a lot like you and me. The government didn’t like him. The church thought he was weird. What friends he had, denied him. He was persecuted by hypocrites. He hung around people like you and me, not the goody-goody-two-shoes Pharisees.
Yes, if Jesus were on this earth in the flesh he would be next to you on his Harley telling you he loves you…enough to die for you.Pamphlet from the Biker Ministry of Jesus Christ
On the back is the “Biker’s Prayer.” Something about dedicated yourself and your “scoot” to serving Him. I gave this some thought while I smoked a joint with a guy called Big Daddy who smelled like whiskey and pussy.
Afterwards we buddy up with Big Daddy and Little Mama and go hang out in the Froggy Saloon. They’re weird enough to entertain us and we go for it.
“When we left Michigan it was only 10 degrees,” Big Daddy says. Little Mama nods in support beside him, rubbing his knee. They were on the road 24 hours with their bikes on the trailer behind their Winnebago.
They’ve been coming since 1990 and swear they’ll come till the day they check out.
“Is this the way you live back home or do you just bust out here?” I ask.
“This is a bust out,” Little Mama says. “A seasonal lifestyle. This is how we get away from the winter.”Little Mama
Ketch starts talking to Little Mama, who is trying to scam some free tickets to the Olympics. Little Mama buys Ketch a Dewars on the rocks and I start shifting my attention to the bartender.
“Harley folks are stylist. That’s what lets them slide,” espouses the bartender surreptitiously. “All that power and volume. They got character. Character goes a long way. They might be trashy back home when they go to the grocery store, but here, they’re underground superstars. They belong. They can relax here and be around people who are like them.”Bike Week bartender
Patrick Galway from Canada who is sitting beside me says, “Uh huh,” in agreement. I ask him what Bike Week is.
“People,” he says.
He came all the way down from Canada and does every year. I ask him how many days it took him to make the trip. His leather jacket looks like it’s been through snow and sand storms, run over by a thousand trucks. I fantasize about his plight, making his way down here to join the brood.
“One,” he replies. “I flew.”
Big Daddy and Little Mama invite us back to heir Winnebago to do a little blow. Ketch whispers to me she doesn’t want to get geeked up and risk getting raped by Big Mama and Little Daddy.
“Big Daddy,” I correct her. “And Little Mama.”
“Details,” she shrugs. “Little Mama weighs 180, easy. Besides, she’s just trying to suck my dick for free Olympics shit.”
We beg off, although I’m disappointed. A couple of bumps wouldn’t have been a bad lick. Ketch gives Little Mama a slip of paper with a wrong number and says, “Now call me, you guys.”
They disappear down the street for their Winnebago while I watch their asses get smaller and smaller. I think about their stash longingly but am quickly distracted by a legless man in a wheelchair. Motorcycles aren’t the only two-wheeled vehicles here.
Every survivor of every motorcycle crash is here, I’m certain. And they look so damn happy to be here, rolling around, legless, crippled. They’d get back on a bike and do it all over again, that’s what their faces say, all smiles.
“Have you noticed how many people there are in wheelchairs?” I ask Ketch.
“Have you noticed how the restaurants are all empty?” Ketch asks. “They’re probably all geeking. I bet they’re all doing crystal meth and blow behind the scenes.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I swear, I bet I’ve seen 20 people in wheelchairs in the last hour. I saw a couple of people on walkers. Canes, too.”
“Life in the fast lane,” Ketch says.
“Check it out,” I say, nudging her.
A chick in a thong bikini walking around in spiked high heels, smiling as the bikers whoop and holler. This is her gig – no bike, just tits and ass. She’s white as a sheet and has cellulite dimples in her ass cheeks. Busting out and proud of it.
We’re nursing angry hangovers. Strolling down the beach, smoking a joint, a 1967 Camaro SS with a personalized tag that reads DARLING slows to a creep beside us.
“Hey, babies,” the driver says. “Y’all know the difference between parsley and pussy?”
“You got me,” I say, knowing something good is coming.
“Nobody eats parsley,” he guffaws.
“Ketch passes the joint to him and says, “I do.”
“Do what?” he asks, dragging slow and deep.
“Eat parsley,” she says. “I juice it with spinach and carrots. Good diuretic.”
“You sure got some nice titties,” he leers at Ketch’s bikini top. This guy doesn’t have a juicer.
“Go on,” she says. He finally thunders off.
We want to ride so we flag over some phat Harleys and spend an hour rolling up and down the beach with Big Pete and Rex from Hartford, Connecticut.
All that steel vibrating between our legs gets us worked up. We’re swearing we’re gonna get Harleys. Not the little pussy ones for chicks, either. The big motherfuckers that build up your quadriceps. This year. For sure. Gotta do it. Damn. Awesome. They’re the shit. We’re hooked now.
Junkies for the strangling grown.
Back at The Bank…
We came here to drink the sun away. Beer’s flowing, black leather and sweat smells funky and almost sexy. Almost. If I stayed here long enough I’d start getting used to the lurid, steamy gazes and think I was getting turned on.
And fuck, maybe I would; you never know until you get there.
There are a lot of fat-assed girls wearing too-tight jeans. You can see their fat squeezed in the denim like vacuum-packed peanuts. Chunky chicks in white-leather jackets with fringe hanging off the sleeves do a corny boogie on the dance floor.
All these people look like they eat beef jerky and pussy, and lots of it. The older women look worn out, skin loose like a pair of testicles, and just as discolored. A hard life and poor nutrition have robbed them of a pretty middle age. But they don’t seem to care. They don’t exhibit any overt self-consciousness. They’re women who get beat up and can throw a damn good punch themselves.
There are the bikers, and then there are motorcycle enthusiasts...
You can tell them apart. The enthusiasts have the crisp, neat Harley windbreakers instead of the tattered leathers. They might sell insurance while their more rugged counterparts might be high steel men, pipe fitters, or mechanics.
We’ve scammed a couple of chairs at a table with a guy from Boston, eyes glassy and blissful. “First year down,” he says with a nod.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” he says passionately.
“What do you like about it,” I press.
“The madness,” he says, turning back to the band and his beer.
A head-bobbing crowd fills the dimly lit blues bar. A Stevie Ray Vaughn clone on the stage sets the