Day Two
Total mileage and the potential for roadside misery was heavily frontloaded on the inaugural Gypsy Run. Knowing the longest riding was behind them, the 30 guys who slept under the stars took their time getting on the road. Before heading east, a dozen Runners followed my chase truck to a breakfast caf for big plates of greasy meat and scrambled eggs. After packing up and topping off, we headed 75 miles east to the Blue Mountain Campground in Saugerties, NY. Saugerties is where we met up with Truth's Choppahead crew from Bean Town. According to a member of the Boston posse, Saugerties boasted a friendly gentlemen's club outside of town. After cooling their bones in the campground's Doughboy pool and gorging themselves on burgers and beer at a local watering hole, our growing pack converged at The Ace of Clubs, the friendliest flesh palace in upstate New York. A gregarious fellow named Ed managed the Ace of Clubs, and he made the three-dozen bikers who occupied every stool in the house feel very welcome. After some gentle prodding from Billdozer, Ed let Chris Collins ride his bike into the bar for an impromptu photo session with one of the ladies. While digital cameras flashed and ice melted in raised glasses, a few shadier Gypsies ponied up for more intimate entertainment in the VIP lounge. Sometime after 3 a.m. Saturday morning, Choppahead and the Boston crew over revved their way back to the Blue Mountain Campground in a haze of glory.
Marcus Dairy
On their last day of riding, our 40-man pack fragmented into three groups near the Taconic Parkway. One third of the pack followed New York resident TBear and leather crafter Duane Ballard to an aeronautical museum in Rheinebeck, NY. Those who remained in the pack ahead of my chase truck followed Fritz to western Connecticut, then headed south on Highway 7 to Danbury. The smallest of the three groups followed Sean Marcus down the Taconic Parkway for free eats at his family's dairy. The complimentary grub at Marcus Dairy was a strong motivator, and everyone arrived in time to enjoy Sean's and fellow rider Todd's hospitality. After three days in the saddle and two nights under the stars, the crew I chased was ready for a hot shower. Even in the plush confines of my velour captain's chair, this filthy mother trucker was ready for a real bed.
Go West
On Sunday morning, everyone on the first Gypsy Run swapped man-hugs and hit the highway. Because he volunteered his personal rig for our East Coast adventure, Bill earned the privilege of flying home. After dropping off Bill and Greaser Mike at their respective destinations in Gotham City, Chris and I headed west on the Verazzano Narrows Bridge for the 60-hour non-stop drive home. The death toll after our 6,000-mile trek included four trailer tires, an air conditioner, and a set of rear brakes. Our new friend and fellow Gypsy Runner "Doctor" Paul Benway lost his favorite leather jacket somewhere along the way, but some honest Gypsy will no doubt return it when he finds it. That's the thing about rides like the Gypsy Run: it isn't the roads that make them great, it's the riders. Every one of the men who committed time, money and energy to the first Gypsy Run contributed significantly to its value and spirit. After spending time with Charlie, Mike, Todd, Jersey Darrin, Walt, Ed, TBear, Dr. Benway, Sean Marcus, and so many others, I left the Big Apple wishing I'd packed my jackboots and joined the ride.