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Was a biker

No maKING money in the markets

HDM

Hello News coming soon

Laughlin 2004 Revisited

Laughlin is the flip side of the coin as compared to Laconia. Where colors are welcome in Laconia, the only color co-ordinated group this year at the Laughlin Bike Week were the local law enforcement agencies.

Huss had flown in early to Las Vegas and was met by Jay ___ whom he met last year in Sturgis. Jay had graciously offered Huss a 2002 Low Rider for the week to explore Nevada, Arizona, and California.

Last trip our photohog rode across a couple snow covered mountain passes to reach Laughlin, so the idea of skipping the chilling part and getting right to the warm weather riding sounded great to him. Arriving a week early gave our northern rider time to tour a chunk of Arizona and Nevada. Here they partied til the sun came up in exoticlocales like the Cottontail Ranch.

Two years ago Huss barely missed getting locked down in the notorious "crime Scene" at Harrah's. Unlucky guests and patrons were sequestered for 12 hours while the mayhem was investigated. From the great numbers of officers posted on every street corner, it was clear they were keeping a tight rein on the bikers this year.
In fact, there were such great numbers of COPS, that it was detrimental to the overall enjoyment of the local sights. Is there peace in the valley, you know it, but at what expense.

Arriving in Laughlin on Thursday night, they found the atmosphere so restricting that they returned to Las Vegas the same night and decided to ride to the coast instead of returning to Laughlin. Huss tells us that stretch after stretch of motorcycle heaven can be found along the Cali coastline, but be prepared for expensive meals and such. In ourwriter's opinion, still a better value than gambling in the desert.

CCRyder

Stories from Harley Davidson Man

Attached is the article which was sent to me by another Marine who
taught me how to fly the Chinook. It is a real tearjerker. Insure
you have the time to read the entire at one sitting. I need not
explain this for it stands on its own words.

"365 Days" by Donald Glasser and "We Were Soldiers Once and Young" by
LTC Hal Moore are two very good Vietnam era books that should interest
your father.

Please have a safe deployment and come home in one piece. I know you
make your parents and family members proud for what you do. Do take
care of your Marines and thank you for your service.

Jerry Sommers

CW4, ILARNG

1:11 PM

Bill:

I do not know whether I sent this to you or not. I will call customs
and inquire about traveling, import, export with a weapon from Kuwait
thru Europe. You may have problems in Germany.

Jerry

TAKING CHANCE

Chance Phelps was wearing his Saint Christopher medal when he was killed
on Good Friday. Eight days later, I handed the medallion to his mother.
I didn't know Chance before he died. Today, I miss him.
Over a year ago, I volunteered to escort the remains of Marines killed
in Iraq should the need arise. The military provides a uniformed escort
for all casualties to ensure they are delivered safely to the next of
kin and are treated with dignity and respect along the way.

Thankfully, I hadn't been called on to be an escort since Operation
Iraqi Freedom began. The first few weeks of April, however, had been a
tough month for the Marines. On the Monday after Easter I was reviewing
Department of Defense press releases when I saw that a Private First
Class Chance Phelps was killed in action outside of Baghdad. The press
release listed his hometown-the same town I'm from. I notified our
Battalion adjutant and told him that, should the duty to escort PFC
Phelps fall to our Battalion, I would take him.

I didn't hear back the rest of Monday and all day Tuesday until 1800.
The Battalion duty NCO called my cell phone and said I needed to be
ready to leave for Dover Air Force Base at 1900 in order to escort the
remains of PFC Phelps.

Before leaving for Dover I called the major who had the task of
informing Phelps's parents of his death. The major said the funeral was
going to be in Dubois, Wyoming. (It turned out that PFC Phelps only
lived in my hometown for his senior year of high school.) I had never
been to Wyoming and had never heard of Dubois.
With two other escorts from Quantico, got to Dover AFB at 2330 on
Tuesday night. First thing on Wednesday we reported to the mortuary at
the base. In the escort lounge there were about half a dozen Army
soldiers and about an equal number of Marines waiting to meet up with
"their" remains for departure. PFC Phelps was not ready, however, and I
was told to come back on Thursday. Now, at Dover with nothing to do and
a solemn mission ahead, I began to get depressed.

I was wondering about Chance Phelps. I didn't know anything about him;
not even what he looked like. I wondered about his family and what it
would be like to meet them. I did pushups in my room until I couldn't do
any more.

On Thursday morning I reported back to the mortuary. This time there was
a new group of Army escorts and a couple of the Marines who had been
there Wednesday. There was also an Air Force captain there to escort his
brother home to San Diego.

We received a brief covering our duties, the proper handling of the
remains, the procedures for draping a flag over a casket, and of course,
the paperwork attendant to our task. We were shown pictures of the
shipping container and told that each one contained, in addition to the
casket, a flag. I was given an extra flag since Phelps's parents were
divorced. This way they would each get one. I didn't like the idea of
stuffing the flag into my luggage but I couldn't see carrying a large
flag, folded for presentation to the next of kin, through an airport
while in my Alpha uniform. It barely fit into my suitcase.

It turned out that I was the last escort to leave on Thursday. This
meant that I repeatedly got to participate in the small ceremonies that
mark all departures from the Dover AFB mortuary.

Most of the remains are taken from Dover AFB by hearse to the airport in
Philadelphia for air transport to their final destination. When the
remains of a service member are loaded onto a hearse and ready to leave
the Dover mortuary, there is an announcement made over the building's
intercom system. With the announcement, all service members working at
the mortuary, regardless of service branch, stop work and form up along
the driveway to render a slow ceremonial salute as the hearse departs.
Escorts also participated in each formation until it was their time to
leave.

On this day there were some civilian workers doing construction on the
mortuary grounds. As each hearse passed, they would stoop working and
place their hard hats over their hearts. This was my first sign that my
mission with PFC Phelps was larger than the Marine Corps and that his
family and friends were not grieving alone.

Eventually I was the last escort remaining in the lounge. The Marine
Master Gunnery Sergeant in charge of the Marine liaison there came to
see me. He had Chance Phelps's personal effects. He removed each item; a
large watch, a wooden cross with a lanyard, two loose dog tags, two dog
tags on a chain, and a Saint Christopher medal on a silver chain.
Although we had been briefed that we might be carrying some personal
effects of the deceased, this set me aback. Holding his personal
effects, I was starting to get to know Chance Phelps.

Finally we were ready. I grabbed my bags and went outside. I was
somewhat startled when I saw the shipping container, loaded
three-quarters of the way in to the back of a black Chevy Suburban that
had been modified to carry such cargo. This was the first time I saw my
"cargo" and I was surprised at how large the shipping container was. The
Master Gunnery Sergeant and I verified that the name on the container
was Phelps's then they pushed him the rest of the way in and we left.
Now it was PFC Chance Phelps's turn to receive the military-and
construction workers'-honors. He was finally moving towards home.

As I chatted with the driver on the hour-long trip to Philadelphia, it
became clear that he considered it an honor to be able to contribute in
getting Chance home. He offered his sympathy to the family. I was glad
to finally be moving yet apprehensive about what things would be like at
the airport. I didn't want this package to be treated like ordinary
cargo yet I knew that the simple logistics of moving around a box this
large would have to overrule my preferences.

When we got to the Northwest Airlines cargo terminal at the Philadelphia
airport, the cargo handler and hearse driver pulled the shipping
container onto a loading bay while I stood to the side and executed a
slow salute. Once Chance was safely in the cargo area, and I was
satisfied that he would be treated with due care and respect, the hearse
driver drove me over to the passenger terminal and dropped me off.

As I walked up to the ticketing counter in my uniform, a Northwest
employee started to ask me if I knew how to use the automated boarding
pass dispenser. Before she could finish another ticketing agent
interrupted her. He told me to go straight to the counter then explained
to the woman that I was a military escort. She seemed embarrassed. The
woman behind the counter already had tears in her eyes as I was pulling
out my government travel voucher. She struggled to find words but
managed to express her sympathy for the family and thank me for my
service. She upgraded my ticket to first class.

After clearing security, I was met by another Northwest Airline employee
at the gate. She told me a representative from cargo would be up to take
me down to the tarmac to observe the movement and loading of PFC Phelps.
I hadn't really told any of them what my mission was but they all knew.

When the man from the cargo crew met me, he, too, struggled for words.
On the tarmac, he told me stories of his childhood as a military brat
and repeatedly told me that he was sorry for my loss. I was starting to
understand that, even here in Philadelphia, far away from Chance's
hometown, people were mourning with his family.

On the tarmac, the cargo crew was silent except for occasional
instructions to each other. I stood to the side and saluted as the
conveyor moved Chance to the aircraft. I was relieved when he was
finally settled into place. The rest of the bags were loaded and I
watched them shut the cargo bay door before heading back up to board the
aircraft.

One of the pilots had taken my carry-on bag himself and had it stored
next to the cockpit door so he could watch it while I was on the tarmac.
As I boarded the plane, I could tell immediately that the flight
attendants had already been informed of my mission. They seemed a little
choked up as they led me to my seat.

About 45 minutes into our flight I still hadn't spoken to anyone expect
to tell the first class flight attendant that I would prefer water. I
was surprised when the flight attendant from the back of the plane
suddenly appeared and leaned down to grab my hands. She said, "I want
you to have this" as she pushed a small gold crucifix, with a relief of
Jesus, into my hand. It was her lapel pin and it looked somewhat worn. I
suspected it had been hers for quite some time. That was the only thing
she said to me the entire flight.
When we landed in Minneapolis, I was the first one off the plane. The
pilot himself escorted me straight down the side stairs of the exit
tunnel to the tarmac. The cargo crew there already knew what was on this
plane. They were unloading some of the luggage when an Army sergeant, a
fellow escort who had left Dover earlier that day, appeared next to me.
His "cargo" was going to be loaded onto my plane for its continuing leg.
We stood side-by-side in the dark and executed a slow salute as Chance
was removed from the plane. The cargo crew at Minneapolis kept Phelps's
shipping case separate from all the other luggage as they waited to take
us to the cargo area. I waited with the soldier and we saluted together
as his fallen comrade was loaded onto the plane.

My trip with Chance was going to be somewhat unusual in that we were
going to have an overnight stopover. We had a late start out of Dover
and there was just too much traveling ahead of us to continue on that
day. (We still had a flight from Minneapolis to Billings, Montana, then
a five-hour drive to the funeral home. That was to be followed by a
90-minute drive to Chance's hometown.)

I was concerned about leaving him overnight in the Minneapolis cargo
area. My ten-minute ride from the tarmac to the cargo holding area eased
my apprehension. Just as in Philadelphia, the cargo guys in Minneapolis
were extremely respectful and seemed honored to do their part. While
talking with them, I learned that the cargo supervisor for Northwest
Airlines at the Minneapolis airport is a Lieutenant Colonel in the
Marine Corps Reserves. They called him for me and let me talk to him.

Once I was satisfied that all would be okay for the night, I asked one
of the cargo crew if he would take me back to the terminal so that I
could catch my hotel's shuttle. Instead, he drove me straight to the
hotel himself. At the hotel, the Lieutenant Colonel called me and said
he would personally pick me up in the morning and bring me back to the
cargo area.

Before leaving the airport, I had told the cargo crew that I wanted to
come back to the cargo area in the morning rather than go straight to
the passenger terminal. I felt bad for leaving Chance overnight and
wanted to see the shipping container where I had left it for the night.
It was fine.

The Lieutenant Colonel made a few phone calls then drove me around to
the passenger terminal. I was met again by a man from the cargo crew and
escorted down to the tarmac. The pilot of the plane joined me as I
waited for them to bring Chance from the cargo area. The pilot and I
talked of his service in the Air Force and how he missed it.

I saluted as Chance was moved up the conveyor and onto the plane. It was
to be a while before the luggage was to be loaded so the pilot took me
up to the board the plane where I could watch the tarmac from a window.
With no other passengers yet on board, I talked with the flight
attendants and one of the cargo guys. He had been in the Navy and one of
the attendants had been in the Air Force. Everywhere I went, people were
continuing to tell me their relationship to the military. After all the
baggage was aboard, I went back down to the tarmac, inspected the cargo
bay, and watched them secure the door.

When we arrived at Billings, I was again the first off the plane. This
time Chance's shipping container was the first item out of the cargo
hold. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton,
Wyoming to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a
brother.

We moved Chance to a secluded cargo area. Now it was time for me to
remove the shipping container and drape the flag over the casket. I had
predicted that this would choke me up but I found I was more concerned
with proper flag etiquette than the solemnity of the moment. Once the
flag was in place, I stood by and saluted as Chance was loaded onto the
van from the funeral home. I was thankful that we were in a small
airport and the event seemed to go mostly unnoticed. I picked up my
rental car and followed Chance for five hours until we reached Riverton.
During the long trip I imagined how my meeting with Chance's parents
would go. I was very nervous about that.

When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I had my first face-to-face
meeting with the Casualty Assistance Call Officer. It had been his duty
to inform the family of Chance's death. He was on the
Inspector/Instructor staff of an infantry company in Salt Lake City,
Utah and I knew he had had a difficult week.

Inside I gave the funeral director some of the paperwork from Dover and
discussed the plan for the next day. The service was to be at 1400 in
the high school gymnasium up in Dubois, population about 900, some 90
miles away. Eventually, we had covered everything. The CACO had some
items that the family wanted to be inserted into the casket and I felt I
needed to inspect Chance's uniform to ensure everything was proper.
Although it was going to be a closed casket funeral, I still wanted to
ensure his uniform was squared away.

Earlier in the day I wasn't sure how I'd handle this moment. Suddenly,
the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance Phelps. His
uniform was immaculate-a tribute to the professionalism of the Marines
at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship
badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for
over 17 years, including a combat tour, and was wearing eight ribbons.
This Private First Class, with less than a year in the Corps, had
already earned six.

The next morning, I wore my dress blues and followed the hearse for the
trip up to Dubois. This was the most difficult leg of our trip for me. I
was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents and hoping I
would find the right words as I presented them with Chance's personal
effects.

We got to the high school gym about four hours before the service was to
begin. The gym floor was covered with folding chairs neatly lined in
rows. There were a few townspeople making final preparations when I
stood next to the hearse and saluted as Chance was moved out of the
hearse. The sight of a flag-draped coffin was overwhelming to some of
the ladies.

We moved Chance into the gym to the place of honor. A Marine sergeant,
the command representative from Chance's battalion, met me at the gym.
His eyes were watery as he relieved me of watching Chance so that I
could go eat lunch and find my hotel.

At the restaurant, the table had a flier announcing Chance's service.
Dubois High School gym; two o' clock. It also said that the family would
be accepting donations so that they could buy flak vests to send to
troops in Iraq.

I drove back to the gym at a quarter after one. I could've walked-you
could walk to just about anywhere in Dubois in ten minutes. I had
planned to find a quiet room where I could take his things out of their
pouch and untangle the chain of the Saint Christopher medal from the dog
tag chains and arrange everything before his parents came in. I had
twice before removed the items from the pouch to ensure they were all
there-even though there was no chance anything could've fallen out. Each
time, the two chains had been quite tangled. I didn't want to be
fumbling around trying to untangle them in front of his parents. Our
meeting, however, didn't go as expected.

I practically bumped into Chance's step-mom accidentally and our
introductions began in the noisy hallway outside the gym. In short order
I had met Chance's step-mom and father followed by his step-dad and, at
last, his mom. I didn't know how to express to these people my sympathy
for their loss and my gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they
were repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my
service. I was humbled beyond words.

I told them that I had some of Chance's things and asked if we could try
to find a quiet place. The five of us ended up in what appeared to be a
computer lab-not what I had envisioned for this occasion.
After we had arranged five chairs around a small table, I told them
about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was treated with
respect, dignity, and honor. I told them about the staff at Dover and
all the folks at Northwest Airlines. I tried to convey how the entire
Nation, from Dover to Philadelphia, to Minneapolis, to Billings, and
Riverton expressed grief and sympathy over their loss.

Finally, it was time to open the pouch. The first item I happened to
pull out was Chance's large watch. It was still set to Baghdad time.
Next were the lanyard and the wooden cross. Then the dog tags and the
Saint Christopher medal. This time the chains were not tangled. Once all
of his items were laid out on the table, I told his mom that I had one
other item to give them. I retrieved the flight attendant's crucifix
from my pocket and told its story. I set that on the table and excused
myself. When I next saw Chance's mom, she was wearing the crucifix on
her lapel.

By 1400 most of the seats on the gym floor were filled and people were
finding seats in the fixed bleachers high above the gym floor. There
were a surprising number of people in military uniform. Many Marines had
come up from Salt Lake City. Men from various VFW posts and the Marine
Corps League occupied multiple rows of folding chairs. We all stood as
Chance's family took their seats in the front.

It turned out the Chance's sister, a Petty Officer in the Navy, worked
for a Rear Admiral-the Chief of Naval Intelligence-at the Pentagon. The
Admiral had brought many of the sailors on his staff with him to Dubois
pay respects to Chance and support his sister. After a few songs and
some words from a Navy Chaplain, the Admiral took the microphone and
told us how Chance had died.

Chance was an artillery cannoneer and his unit was acting as provisional
military police outside of Baghdad. Chance had volunteered to man a .50
caliber machine gun in the turret of the leading vehicle in a convoy.
The convoy came under intense fire but Chance stayed true to his post
and returned fire with the big gun, covering the rest of the convoy,
until he was fatally wounded.

Then the commander of the local VFW post read some of the letters Chance
had written home. In letters to his mom he talked of the mosquitoes and
the heat. In letters to his stepfather he told of the dangers of convoy
operations and of receiving fire.

The service was a fitting tribute to this hero. When it was over, we
stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family following. The
casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the mile-long trip
from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the
cemetery. I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high
school. I found my car and joined Chance's convoy.

The town seemingly went from the gym to the street. All along the route,
the people had lined the street and were waving small American flags.
The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the
last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts, spaced about 20 feet
apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I
could look up and back and see the enormity of our procession. I
wondered how many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say,
Detroit or Los Angeles-probably not as many as were here in little
Dubois, Wyoming.

The carriage stopped about 15 yards from the grave and the military pall
bearers and the family waited until the men of the VFW and Marine Corps
league were formed up and schools busses had arrived carrying many of
the people from the procession route. Once the entire crowd was in
place, the pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket
from the caisson. As I had done all week, I came to attention and
executed a slow ceremonial salute as Chance was being transferred from
one mode of transport to another.

From Dover to Philadelphia; Philadelphia to Minneapolis; Minneapolis to
Billings; Billings to Riverton; and Riverton to Dubois we had been
together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final 15 yards, I was
choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow
still alive.

Then they put him down above his grave. He had stopped moving.

Although my mission had been officially complete once I turned him over
to the funeral director at the Billings airport, it was his placement at
his grave that really concluded it in my mind. Now, he was home to stay
and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless.

The chaplain said some words that I couldn't hear and two Marines
removed the flag from the casket and slowly folded it for presentation
to his mother. When the ceremony was over, Chance's father placed a
ribbon from his service in Vietnam on Chance's casket. His mother
approached the casket and took something from her blouse and put it on
the casket. I later saw that it was the flight attendant's crucifix.
Eventually friends of Chance's moved closer to the grave. A young man
put a can of Coppenhagen on the casket and many others left flowers.

Finally, we all went back to the gym for a reception. There was enough
food to feed the entire population for a few days. In one corner of the
gym there was a table set up with lots of pictures of Chance and some of
his sports awards. People were continually approaching me and the other
Marines to thank us for our service. Almost all of them had some story
to tell about their connection to the military. About an hour into the
reception, I had the impression that every man in Wyoming had, at one
time or another, been in the service.

It seemed like every time I saw Chance's mom she was hugging a different
well wisher. As time passed, I began to hear people laughing. We were
starting to heal.

After a few hours at the gym, I went back to the hotel to change out of
my dress blues. The local VFW post had invited everyone over to
"celebrate Chance's life." The Post was on the other end of town from my
hotel and the drive took less than two minutes. The crowd was somewhat
smaller than what had been at the gym but the Post was packed.

Marines were playing pool at the two tables near the entrance and most
of the VFW members were at the bar or around the tables in the bar area.
The largest room in the Post was a banquet/dinning/dancing area and it
was now called "The Chance Phelps Room." Above the entry were two items:
a large portrait of Chance in his dress blues and the Eagle, Globe, &
Anchor. In one corner of the room there was another memorial to Chance.
There were candles burning around another picture of him in his blues.
On the table surrounding his photo were his Purple Heart citation and
his Purple Heart medal. There was also a framed copy of an excerpt from
the Congressional Record. This was an elegant tribute to Chance Phelps
delivered on the floor of the United States House of Representatives by
Congressman Scott McInnis of Colorado. Above it all was a television
that was playing a photo montage of Chance's life from small boy to
proud Marine.

I did not buy a drink that night. As had been happening all day, indeed
all week, people were thanking me for my service and for bringing Chance
home. Now, in addition to words and handshakes, they were thanking me
with beer. I fell in with the men who had handled the horses and
horse-drawn carriage. I learned that they had worked through the night
to groom and prepare the horses for Chance's last ride. They were all
very grateful that they were able to contribute.

After a while we all gathered in the Chance Phelps room for the formal
dedication. The Post commander told us of how Chance had been so looking
forward to becoming a Life Member of the VFW. Now, in the Chance Phelps
Room of the Dubois, Wyoming post, he would be an eternal member. We all
raised our beers and the Chance Phelps room was christened.

Later, as I was walking toward the pool tables, a Staff Sergeant form
the Reserve unit in Salt Lake grabbed me and said, "Sir, you gotta hear
this." There were two other Marines with him and he told the younger
one, a Lance Corporal, to tell me his story. The Staff Sergeant said the
Lance Corporal was normally too shy and modest to tell it but now he'd
had enough beer to overcome his usual tendencies.

As the Lance Corporal started to talk, an older man joined our circle.
He wore a baseball cap that indicated he had been with the 1st Marine
Division in Korea. Earlier in the evening he had told me about one of
his former commanding officers; a Colonel Puller.

So, there I was, standing in a circle with three Marines recently
returned from fighting with the 1st Marine Division in Iraq and one not
so recently returned from fighting with the 1st Marine Division in
Korea. I, who had fought with the 1st Marine Division in Kuwait, was
about to gain a new insight into our Corps.

The young Lance Corporal began to tell us his story. At that moment, in
this circle of current and former Marines, the differences in our ages
and ranks dissipated-we were all simply Marines.

His squad had been on a patrol through a city street. They had taken
small arms fire and had literally dodged an RPG round that sailed
between two Marines. At one point they received fire from behind a wall
and had neutralized the sniper with a SMAW round. The back blast of the
SMAW, however, kicked up a substantial rock that hammered the Lance
Corporal in the thigh; only missing his groin because he had reflexively
turned his body sideways at the shot.

Their squad had suffered some wounded and was receiving more sniper fire
when suddenly he was hit in the head by an AK-47 round. I was stunned as
he told us how he felt like a baseball bat had been slammed into his
head. He had spun around and fell unconscious. When he came to, he had a
severe scalp wound but his Kevlar helmet had saved his life. He
continued with his unit for a few days before realizing he was suffering
the effects of a severe concussion.

As I stood there in the circle with the old man and the other Marines,
the Staff Sergeant finished the story. He told of how this Lance
Corporal had begged and pleaded with the Battalion surgeon to let him
stay with his unit. In the end, the doctor said there was just no way-he
had suffered a severe and traumatic head wound and would have to be
med'evaced.

The Marine Corps is a special fraternity. There are moments when we are
reminded of this. Interestingly, those moments don't always happen at
awards ceremonies or in dress blues at Birthday Balls. I have found,
rather, that they occur at unexpected times and places: next to a loaded
moving van at Camp Lejeune's base housing, in a dirty CP tent in
northern Saudi Arabia, and in a smoky VFW post in western Wyoming.

After the story was done, the Lance Corporal stepped over to the old
man, put his arm over the man's shoulder and told him that he, the
Korean War vet, was his hero. The two of them stood there with their
arms over each other's shoulders and we were all silent for a moment.
When they let go, I told the Lance Corporal that there were recruits
down on the yellow footprints tonight that would soon be learning his
story.

I was finished drinking beer and telling stories. I found Chance's
father and shook his hand one more time. Chance's mom had already left
and I deeply regretted not being able to tell her goodbye.

I left Dubois in the morning before sunrise for my long drive back to
Billings. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his final post.
Now he was on the high ground overlooking his town.

I miss him.

Regards,
LtCol Strobl

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DoD Identifies Marine Casualties

The Department of Defense announced today the death of
three Marines who were supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Pfc. Eric A. Ayon, 26, of Arleta, Calif., died April 9
from hostile fire in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was assigned to 2nd
Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I Marine
Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton, Calif.

Pfc. Chance R. Phelps, 19, of Clifton, Colo., died April 9
from hostile fire in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was assigned to 3rd
Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I Marine
Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton, Calif.

Lance Cpl. John T. Sims Jr., 21, of Alexander City, Ala.,
died April 10 from hostile fire in Al Anbar Province, Iraq. He was
assigned to 2nd Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, I
Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Pendleton, Calif.

For further information related to this release, contact
the Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton Public Affairs Office at (760)
725-5044.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CC Ryder ; The World of Wheels

Running From the Devil
CCRyder

Back last February, a couple of good old boys from Red Deer Alberta, loaded their winters handy work into their trailer and hauled the load to the 2004 World of Wheels in Calgary. A total of four bikes were hauled to Calgary and four classes were won giving the guys plenty of hardware to return home with.

Bob Plunket owns this soft tail chopper, and hails from Delborne, Alberta. The ‘04’ World of Wheels was the first show Bob ever entered the bike, and won the ISCA North American Custom class. He has been hauling in trophies at every show since. At Slack Alice’s in Penticton, he had the Best Radical coming 2nd overall behind Roger Goldammer.

Poorboyz Choppers out of Red Deer did the build over a period of six months. Bob showed up on Poorboyz doorstep with a frame, motor and a dream. He pretty well knew exactly what he wanted so it was up to Warren’s crew to match his visions to reality.

He wanted an every day rider that could still win the shows. To accommodate handling he didn’t want an extreme front end, hence the nineteen inch Hallcraft front wheel instead of a twenty-one inch, and a 180 series Avon in the rear instead of a wider tire. This allows the driveline to remain in the centre of the frame, which relates to better handling.
The rake is only two degrees over stock, which kicks the front end out slightly, but retains the handling.

Bob Plunket 403-357-9869
Home 403-749-3697

CC Ryder The Road Hog

In light of the recent rash of motorcycle fatalities I’ve decided to share this story in hopes that I may raise some awareness.
After touring most of the continent I am very accustomed to being pulled over when passing through small town America. Although it doesn’t occur so much in the summer, in the off season I have often been tag teamed by various law enforcement agencies. Usually they just want to know who is on their turf. Most are even friendly about it but I do recall this one sheriff in Kansas who showed me the quickest way out of his state. Two years ago in I woke up a sleeping officer with my pipes who chased me down the road and ranted on about me going thru a yellow/red light. When he asked me what it was, I calmly replied, “Whatever you say it was”. That was all he needed to continue his rant, but after seeing another cruiser go down the road with lights flashing, he decided that he had better things to do and returned my paperwork. Before departing he actually told me,

“I better not catch you in my town again”.

One sunny day a few weeks ago, I had just passed small town Alberta when I noticed a RCMP cruiser heading my way. Having ridden a Harley for many years I’m never surprised when pulled over for no apparent reason. Today was no different. After we passed on the roadway I checked my mirror to see the cruiser pull a u-turn, hit the flashing lights and quickly close the distance between us.
I will say at this time that the officer remained cool but polite throughout the conversation. The standard questions followed. Where are you headed? Where are you from and so on? He then went on to inform me that a complaint had been "called in" regarding the speed I was traveling and the fact that I had forced a car over to the shoulder.
Mystified as I was I asked him if he was sure he had the right bike. Oh yes, he explained, the caller made mention of the out of state plate and its origin. He further informed me that the caller in question said I had passed on a solid line, was going between 140 – 150 kph, and they still managed to take note of the foreign plate. Truly amazing.
They also said that because of my unsafe passing, I forced a lady coming the other way off to the shoulder. Furthermore the officer informed me that the caller was willing to attend court. I produced the appropriate paperwork and the officer retired to his cruiser. As I watched him on his cell phone (must have been speaking with the caller) a second cruiser pulled up and this officer conferred with the first before returning to his cruiser to simply sit there.
When the officer returned to my bike with paperwork in hand I jokingly added,

“That sure was a long time to write a warning ticket”. Again he mentioned the caller but told me that he was only going to give me a ticket for doing 119 kph in a 100 kph zone, such generosity, seeing that I was traveling behind two vehicles when I noticed him coming and made a point of maintaining a speed of 110 kph from then till he pulled me over. Basically I thought at that speed I was safe. He had also put on his lights as soon as he turned so I found it difficult to see how he could have clocked or caught me on radar at any speed (especially with two large flat targets for his radar to find before my small bike).
I informed him that I write occasionally and presented him with a free copy of the latest issues featuring my writing. I explained to him that I do not pass on solid lines as I feel they are there for our safety. I further went on to explain that in fact I do hug the center line for a variety of reasons. First, you are more visible to the vehicle in front of you. Second, by hugging the center of the road, I know when cars coming my way see me. They should move over a few inches out of basic survival instinct, if they don’t move than they are day dreaming or whatever it is they do instead of paying attention to the road. Quite often I will be leading a group of bikes and this style of riding helps protect everybody. My next point was that after waiting for an opportunity to pass, most motorcyclists will do it quickly. The rule of thumb is you should pass within five seconds, or you are taking too long.
Finally I mentioned that possibly the operator of the vehicle I was supposed to have pushed off the road was gabbing on the phone. So may not have been paying the attention they should have been and got a start when they suddenly noticed for the first time, a large black motorcycle encroaching on their space. Obviously the caller was on a cell phone as they were driving given the fact that the RCMP was able to attend this serious call within minutes.

Usually I would have pictures to go with this story but after receiving the ticket I politely asked the officer if he would pose in a picture for me. He didn’t think that was a good idea. In fact, he forbade me to take any pictures at all. Talk about ‘police state’. I made mention that I had pictures of law enforcement officers from all over the continent.
They are all available for viewing at http://www.harleydavidsonman.com. This seemed to have no effect on the officer and he further explained to me that although he appreciated the magazine, I was not going to take any pictures of the two cruisers sitting with lights flashing, he had no way of knowing where they would end up. The manner in which he said this left me with the impression that he meant outlaw bikers, not a magazine or newspaper.

Who can blame him though, I mean, I was riding a Harley, right?

I briefly considered furthering my cause but seeing that the officers had me out numbered two to one, and they had guns, I decided to keep my thoughts and camera to my self. Of course, if I had been thinking, I would have shot first and asked questions later.
As I was putting my paperwork away I bent over (way over), to view my license plate, which is tucked under the luggage rack. Straightening up, the thought crossed my mind as to how a vehicle that I had allegedly passed so quickly and dangerously, yet the caller was still able to identify the origin of my plate. I personally find that extremely difficult to fathom but it must be because cops don’t lie, do they?
The people of Alberta should sleep well at night knowing how quickly their police force responds to complaints on the road, and with such force. Unfortunately I think that the response may not have been so quick if I had been in a car or even on a Japanese style bike. Maybe they thought I was a lone outlaw biker and one gun wouldn’t be enough.
Normally I would let this slide but with the recent head on collision involving motorcycles I felt compiled to write this letter. I felt that if I could raise the awareness of travelers, both on two wheels and four, maybe I can save a life down the road. If you are riding two wheels you always have to be aware of your surroundings because in any collision; you lose. Even experienced riders take a couple weeks to get in the groove.
If you are in a cage, for God’s sake, get off the phone or spend fifty dollars to purchase hands–free set up. It is amazing how many people talk constantly on the phone while driving. If the police want something to crack down on, that would be my first choice.
Just yesterday I had a small truck with tinted windows jump in front of me and belch a cloud of black smoke trying to pick up speed to pass. When I pulled up beside the truck I saw a teenage girl with her left arm casually resting on the door and a phone in her ear. Looking over I visualized this girl sitting in her room gabbing on the phone and could not help feeling that was where she belonged. I waited til she finally took notice of me and sadly shook my head. She was totally indifferent to the collision she could have easily caused. Many people briefly check their mirrors for large objects and change lanes without really looking.
I’m not writing this to whine or bitch but hopefully save a life down the road. We reintroduce motorcycles every year at this time and we all have to be more aware, not only on our roads, but on the farms, in the playgrounds, on the water, and where ever mechanical equipment comes into play.

CCRyder

The Bow Valley HOG Chapter

October in Bow Valley

The Bow Valley HOG Chapter had a busy month in October. As always, the Sunday brunches at Kane’s Harley Diner, which is followed by a ride, and Wednesday night stomps at Canada’s #1 honky-tonk, The Ranchman’s, were well attended. Some members originally had problems with Wednesday’s location but being a country boy myself, and owning horses since childhood, I had no such prejudices.

I started out on horses, as a young child my Dad would put me on the back of his Quarter horse for day rides. I remember clinging to the back lip of his saddle praying I wouldn’t loose my grip and go flying off as ‘Pride’ cantered down the trails. After Grade 2, Dad got me my own horse, and for years to follow, ‘Nipper’ was my main companion during the long days of summer.

When the need for speed exceeded what my horse could offer, I moved up to mechanical horses. So for me, the transition from one to the other was natural evolution. Happily, the two groups have blended very peacefully and the Chapter has even picked up a few new members along the way.

Shawn, the bar manager, and the staff of stunningly beautiful cowgirls make every effort to show true western hospitality to all. As noticed on page 17 of the Oct. issue of Can Biker, pretty girls can sure look great in old cowboy hats. Free food and drink, as well as secure parking, has helped make Wednesday nights a popular gathering.

Fittingly, Cowboy (chapter director) and his wife Bev, hosted the fall BBQ. Over a hundred bikes showed and many members camped out on the acreage. In true biker style, some of us just partied ‘all night long’. Sunday saw lots of action during the bike rodeo and Bev even got most of the kids involved, with games like the ‘egg toss’.

I thought I’d have a good chance to win the ‘slow race’ since I’m still riding a 1980 Honda Custom 900 to all the HOG events (why, you ask). My luck wasn’t with me, as I hit a slow speed wobble (believe it) and was beat by an old nemesis, Gerry. To rub it in, he also kicked my ass in the keg push final.

The same weekend saw some of the more responsible members volunteer for a highway cleanup and I heard they could have used a little more manpower. With limited help, they still managed to finish in time to catch most of the games.

The next weekend saw the annual fall poker run have some of the best weather we’ve had in years. No rain, hail, or sub zero temperatures, just sunshine and a little wind. Being a Johnny come lately, I have over the years got in the habit of riding with Mick Cawthorn, the owner of Kane’s H-D.

After everyone else has departed, we head out, and see how many we can pass. Even though Mick offered me a new H-D to ride for the day, I opted to stay with my trusty vintage jap bike. I like to let the naive tease me at the frequent stops, then blow by them with nary a wave in the 3 digit speeds. This usually shuts them up pretty good.

October 18, saw many of us gather for the Calgary Stampeders final home game of the year. This is another long time tradition. Since bikes get free parking, it is advantageous to ride to the games and some of us have been known to ride in extreme weather, myself included. The theory is, if the players can hack 3 hours on the field, we should be able to ride to the field. Every game, someone cooks up their specialty for the tail-gate party, which often gets rocking so much that a few always seem to miss most of the game.


JD Boyd

CCRyder April Showers

April Showers
By JD Boyd

Well, I finally did it, finally reached my limitations, or should I say the limits of my Dunlop 401’s. Although much of my time is spent in Calgary I regularly travel to the family farm an hour north of the city. Usually one doesn’t have to be overly concerned about weather changes when heading out for a mere hour ride. Crossfield boasts the highest elevation between Calgary and Edmonton. Because of this, the weather often changes abruptly at this point. The high land mass causes approaching clouds to dump the moisture they have built up within their silver lining.

Approaching the Crossfield area, I pulled over to take a shot of the threatening grey clouds that consumed the sky in front of me. By the next overpass I was forced to pull over to don my winter gear and plug in. Coming out from under the overpass I was immediately running through an inch of slush. Fair enough I thought, and headed up an exit the wrong way. Once I can’t keep up to the flow of traffic on the main highway, I prefer to travel the secondary roads. The winds are usually less and it decreases the chances of getting rear ended by some high-speed cage.

After traveling this corridor for a decade one would think that I know how drastic the changes can be and act accordingly. That means having enough intelligence to turn around and head back to Calgary when the going gets tough. In my case, when the going gets tough, I slow down, but seldom turn around.

Unfortunately God gifted me with more stubbornness than brains and also made me just a little bit chauvinistic. So when one old woman starts throwing that dirty weather at me, I merely pull my bandanna a little higher over my face, slouch slightly more in the seat, and squint my eyes to protect them from as many direct hits of hail/snow/rain as possible.

Many times my traveling companions and I have been caught in torrential downpours. Interestingly, I always seem to be alone when I get caught in these Alberta snowstorms. I wonder? Anyhoo, we always continue onward even when other vehicles are pulled over. Why you ask. Very often the dump is isolated to the cloud you are under so the simple thing to do is keep moving.

So here I am, the beak of my leather ball cap pulled down and my head tilted towards the oncoming wind. The tricky part is that you can’t see through a snow covered windshield so you have to raise your head just enough to have a clear line of sight over the shield while at the same time trying to protect your eyes.

I wasn’t making bad time cause I was keeping the ½ ton in front of me in sight. He must have been drunk though, his tracks were all over the place and at one point did a nice fish tail towards the ditch. Then I thought, maybe it’s getting icy. The slush was near three inches over most of the road but I found if I stayed in the tracks before me the resistance to the front wheel was much less.

Things were going along just hunky-dory when the front wheel caught the edge of the tracks, and away I went. Now, I’ve pulled many 360’s over the years, but never on the side of a Harley. As a kid we used to practise dropping our bikes and sliding to a stop. The Classic is even more stable than my old Honda 90 Trail, that extra 600 lbs. keeps your momentum going straight and smooth, no bouncing around.

I just held on and enjoyed the slide. It was much like spinning down the hill on your Mother’s washer lid as a kid. The FLH even stayed to the centre of the road. By the time she came to a stop we were facing the other direction so I quickly jumped off and started waving to the truck slowly bearing down on me. Since I was blocking the whole road he had little choice but to help me get the beast upright.

There was so much snow and slush on the road that the only damage was to the soft lowers, and a displaced mirror. The fairing may be scratched but in the chill of the moment I never noticed. I did however take the time to get the camera out of the tour pak and snap a shot of the upright bike standing next to the spot where we stopped sliding.

I got turned around again and slowly continued on my way. The Snow Belt is only about 20 miles wide and I was hoping that the fierce weather would soon be behind me. One mile down the road I came to the junction of Hwy #791 and looking to my right, I saw the farm house where last May I was forced to abandon the Classic because 8 inches of snow had fallen in 10 miles of travel. I knew if I could get another 10 miles, I should be home free.

Heading north again now I came upon a tractor unit hauling a large farm implement, sitting on the shoulder contemplating the deep coulee in front of him. As I pulled around I noticed him smile and shake his head. I was tempted to tell him that after this next coulee the road would start to clear but I decided to leave him to his astonishment as I disappeared over the crest into the coulee below.

Moral of the story is that the Dunlop tires are as earning of their fine reputation now as they were thirty years ago when I used nothing but Dunlop TT100’s on my motorcycles. For the average rider, these are all you’ll ever need. Personally though, I’m thinking of having a set studded for next spring’s commuting.

Visit JD at www.ccryder.com

Harley Davidson Man Calgary H.O.G.

Jason Thorne (L) and Kenny Yoho fly over a jump

Jason Thorne (L) and Kenny Yoho fly over a jump at a bar in Samsula, Florida during Bike Week in Daytona Beach, Florida March 9, 2005. The annual ten-day event attracts motorcyclists of all varieties with over 500,000 expected this year. REUTERS/Rick Wilking

Pepper

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