"Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack."The first time I heard that saying it hit me harder than the floor the night before. I woke up to lime-green walls, a motel comforter as a bed, and shag carpet stuck to my face. The room was stuffed with people I knew and some I didn't. The ride to get here was long, but the night and early morning hours at a bar with not enough pool tables and more than enough tequila were longer.
The first guy that came into focus was a new face, but his motto rang true in my head, louder than I would have wanted. "Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack."
I made my way home after some undercooked eggs and see ya laters. The cool wind on the way back was the only thing keeping my eyes open. A few hours later I arrived at home, tossed my gear on the lounger, and passed out.
The mail woke me up. I sorted through big mattress sales, past due bills, and some freelance work, something I needed. Hell, I always need it. I pulled out some photos and the info on the bike. It was black, had old-school lines, and some blood-red wheels, not bad.
I reheated some coffee from the day before and saddled up to my typewriter - yeah, a typewriter, archaic, prehistoric, but I've never lost a story yet. I started her up after burning my tongue on a quick gulp of caffeine and jumped in. "The new '05 Steed Bronco bucks harder than a $20 crack whore." That page went straight in the trash. "New for 2005, Steed's 300-SM Bronco peels down the road on a 300-series Avon Super Venom..." Take three. "With an old-school backbone and some new-school additions, the '05 Steed Bronco keeps everyone happy."
Maybe my head was still too cloudy, cause my fingers were typing up the worst shit I had ever seen in print. Even a dime-store ad rep could do better. The phone rang and I let my machine answer.
"BEEP...I really need to see that story soon. We gotta get this issue to press in the next week. Call me back when you get this."
Crap. That meant Greg wanted it yesterday. I dropped my ass down and decided to try again. I looked at the photo from the company, Steed Motorcycle Co., and studied the 38-degree rake in the neck and the 2-inch stretch in the downtubes. It was definitely a pretty bike. It had lines that reminded me of old rides I had in my 20s. And the DNA Springer up front that gripped the 21-inch, 80-spoke wheel was one of a hundred that most of us chopped into our bikes in the '70s. It's low, lean look made me want to take a test ride to Vegas, stopping off any time I saw on open stretch to the right or left of the main road.
I needed more info, so I ran down the street to my buddy's shop and borrowed his long-distance line - my phone couldn't call Arizona, or even the Jack in the Box on the corner. John Covington, Steed's owner, answered the phone after a relay through his secretary. He laid down the basics. The bike, which was based on a 250 rigid bobber custom they made in 2001, was stripped of all the excesses and given all-day-ride comfort. The frame, a Steed 300 Monoglide, spares riders from frequent visits to a back-cracker with a Steed Spade swingarm and monoshock suspension.
After spending nine months to modify and redesign the chassis, they slapped one of the first Avon 300s out back. Everything on the bike is set up differently. Combine this with a low seat height and a nice lean angle, and you get the feel of a sport bike in the corners. The smooth ride comes from the hidden shock absorber under the seat. This makes it that much easier to adjust the compression, rebound, and dampening to any riding condition. Shit, a day-old monkey with his head twisted backwards could figure it out.
The muscle behind this horse is a 111-inch Steed All-American drivetrain. I imagined the slow curves of Northern California and my old lady waiting back home to treat me right in all the key spots, giving me, and the bike, a little more go. The Baker six-speed right-side drive would transfer me from the lows to the highs with ease. And the Steed Over 'n Under, Down 'n Outs exhaust, white-wrapped like my last cast, would spit out the miles between my driveway and my destination.
All the parts are Steed's, from the fenders, to the tank, to the foot controls. The paint, laid down by Chuck, one of Steed's guys, was bare PPG Pitch Black, highlighted by some red pinstriping from Ron Dutch, another Steed employee. All the painted pieces were strapped down to the matching powdercoated frame.
And then there was the meaty 300 sitting out back. Wide enough to sleep on and fat enough to give Richard Simmons a stroke, the Avon works with the numbers of the frame to give the rider more control in leans to the left and right.
I gave John a thanks, hung up, and threw the phone back onto the receiver. All the specs were in place, all the puzzles pieces matched, it was time to start over. I tapped the keys some more and hoped for the best.
With all thousand or so words in place, I dropped the story into the mail and headed off to meet some of my brothers at a quiet bar close enough to the beach to smell the salt and suntans. It was time to overfill the sack again.