Magic Times

by Kirk “Hardtail” Willard

I think every motorcycle ride I go on I appreciate for one reason or another but once in a great while a ride becomes truly magic. The story I am about to share comes from a time nearly 30 years ago some might say before we knew better, some might not.

The day started like a lot of Saturdays in the summer in central Illinois where bikers gathered for a ride along the river at the crack of noon at Gig’s house in the center of our small town. For some unknown reason this day’s showing was quite large. We had a couple of knuckleheads, a couple panheads, a lot of beautiful shovelheads, a couple bikes with sidecars, several “new” evo’s and even a Servicar. It was a great day for a ride, the weather was perfect we had no “tools” on the ride, everyone was truly enjoying the day with each other and our machines, along the river ride. As any all-day rides tend to go, people dropped out for one reason or another and at about dark time what was left of our now much smaller group ended up at a Mexican restaurant for dinner where the fun and fellowship continued. Kind of at the same time the 5 of us that were left at about midnight decided we should make our way home for last call at our favorite biker bar in our town, We had one last round of tequila and out we went. It was one of those rare nights when you could still ride comfortably in a t-shirt even at midnight. So, the five of us headed toward the interstate for the ride home. Without a word spoke or even a nod all five of us twisted the wick hard on the ramp and off we went. Even today I am not sure why but in the hour ride home on the interstate I don’t recall encountering a single cage or semi. There we were five across flying down the interstate, long hair and beards flowing free in the wind. It was Gig, Eyeball, Hoss, Buck and a Hardtail thrown in for good measure on two beautiful custom and built-up shovelheads, a full on stroker evo and two other heavily massaged evo’s; I don’t think I’ll ever forget the melody those five bikes created blasting handlebar to handlebar across the Illinois plains on that warm and crisp night. Too soon it seemed we hit the turnoff into our town, we parked as well as the Seattle Cossacks would have, and we headed into Brothers Two for the nightcap. Strange maybe, but not one of us said a word about what we just experienced, we finished up, gave the good bro’s nod as we parted, and just like that we went home, each of us basking in the magic time.

From time to time someone will ask me why I have dedicated nearly 40 years of my life to motorcyclists’ rights and why the fire burns as bright as it did when I first got involved in this movement to fight for my rights when my chopper was confiscated just because they thought they could. It’s for the magic time.