US 3: Pick Up and Shake Down

Mel is definitely not a morning person. In fact, he regards anything before 9am as unreasonable and personally offensive; a vexation to his spirit, he says. I, on the other hand, am definitely a morning person; and on this particular morning I was going to pick up and shake down the Deuce.

So, by the time he was ready to emerge on Sunday morning, I’d been to Starbucks for an Americano; smoked a couple of cigarettes; and watched the faint glow over the horizon develop into a full blown, spectacular desert sunrise. Once the sun was up, I stubbed out my cigarette; left the top floor of the car park building; and made my way back to ground level, through the hotel foyer, and into Jack’s Irish Pub. 

Jack’s Irish Pub

Now Jack’s taps a fairly good ale once the sun is over the yard-arm. But, from 6am, it also brews a reasonably acceptable Columbian. I sauntered in to order a long black and found that I was the only customer. Easing myself onto a bar stool, I started a conversation with the barista while he worked on making the brew. We covered the usual ground: what had brought me to Vegas; what had brought him to the Palace Station Hotel; marital status; kids and grandkids; and, the usual kind of chit chat that anyone might engage in early in the morning when no-one else was around. 

It turned out the barista’s name was Chuck, and he’d worked at the hotel for longer than he wanted to remember. When Frank Fertitta had opened the establishment originally known as The Casino back in 1976, he’d been a foundation junior staff member. Over the years since, he had seen it all – well most of it anyway. He’d been there in ’92 when thieves held up the Cashier’s Cage; when the accommodation tower had caught fire in 1998 as a result of a lightning strike; and’ he’d been there when O. J. Simpson had demanded, allegedly with menace, the return of his Sports Memorabilia. 

Now, I had no idea about the Cashier Cage hold-up or the fire but, I’d heard about O. J. Simpson –  so I asked him about it.

The O J Simpson back story

On September 13, 2007, Chuck said, a group led by OJ forced entry to a Palace Station Hotel room. Bruce Fromong, a sports memorabilia dealer, later testified that the group broke into his room and stole memorabilia at gunpoint. I asked a truckload of questions and we re-lived the details of the incident for over an hour.

According to Chuck, the backstory was that Alfred Beardsley [a memorabilia dealer] contacted Tom Riccio [another memorabilia dealer] about a collection of O. J. Simpson Memorabilia he had. Riccio subsequently told OJ about the items. Claiming that these items were stolen from him, OJ and Riccio devised a plan to get the goods back. Already in Vegas for a wedding, OJ used the opportunity to recruit some of the wedding guests for his operation. According to reports, the robbery was planned at the Palms Resort. 

After a pre-wedding dinner, OJ and five accomplices entered the Palace Station Hotel room at around 7.30 pm; and he ordered his group not to allow anyone to leave. OJ and Beardsley argued over where the memorabilia had come from and during this stand-off, it is alleged that Michael McClinton [an accomplice] threatened Fromong at gunpoint. OJ’s group then stuffed memorabilia into pillowcases and returned to the Palms Casino Resort.

Arrest and charges

The Sheriff’s Office arrested OJ three days later; and, he admitted taking items, which he claimed had been stolen from him. However, he denied the allegation that he had broken into the room or carried weapons. Subsequent legal proceedings took a little over a year. But, on October 3, 2008 – thirteen years after he was acquitted of the murders of his ex-wife and Ronald Goldman – the court found O. J. Simpson guilty of all twelve charges and sentenced him to thirty-three years in prison. According to Chuck, OJ was still serving that sentence right there in Vegas at the very time I was drinking coffee and chatting in Jack’s Irish Pub. Interesting eh? Well, I thought so and, you see, it is true – what goes on in Vegas, Stays in Las Vegas.

Well, things don’t always go according to plan, do they? What I’d planned to do was to get a coffee; and, find a table to give attention to a large, fold-out map that detailed US Interstates and Highways. But, after an hour sitting on a bar stool and yarning with Chuck, my road map was still folded; and, I hadn’t advanced any further with actual road trip planning. Not to worry, we had a day in hand. And, if all else failed, we would just have to work things out as we went along.

Sunday morning coming down

It had now gone seven o’clock. Guests were beginning to emerge. And, I was pretty sure that some time fairly soon I would become an impediment to Chuck’s getting his job done. So, I ordered another two coffees, wished Chuck a great day and headed out in search of a Breakfast Restaurant. Right after Mel emerged, the first thing he’d want would be something to eat.

As for the rest of the day, our agenda involved riding out to Henderson to pick up the Deuce. There, I would settle the balance owing so that I could collect my motorcycle: the 2003 Hundredth Anniversary Softail Deuce. Other activities for the day were not so much a plan as a loose collection of possibilities. Included was the notion that we would take a ride out to the ranges as a shake down trial. That being done, we had allowed for a bit of kick back and relax time. Some rest and jet-lag recovery time for me, and cooling down time after the blistering ride for Mel.

US Motorcycle Registration . . . not easy or fun

While on the subject of shake-down riding, I probably ought to mention a problem that had been nagging away at me like a dull but persistent headache. You see, although the United States is generally a very welcoming and friendly place, and the business of acquiring a motorcycle pretty straight forward, the same cannot be said for the formalities of motor vehicle registration. This is remarkably fraught with inconsistent advice and frustrating complexity. 

Prior to our arrival we’d sought and received a range of advice  in this regard, including:

• A motorcycle purchase in the US carries with it permission to ride from point of purchase to the point of export;
• Temporary Tags [Registration Plates], good for 30 days, are available in most States, but must be renewed if riding in the US for longer than 30 days;
• All you need is to carry Insurance, Purchase Documentation and Certificate of Title.

Taking advice . . . but which advice?

The problem with the first piece of advice was that I’d purchased my motorcycle in Henderson. Sure we intended to end our trip in Los Angeles; but we planned to ride a bunch of US States before handing our bikes in for shipping. As an alternative, the temporary Tag option seemed reasonable in theory. In practise, the Tag application process would have to be repeated several times; who knew where we would be when I would need to renew the Tag.

I’d arranged insurance coverage before leaving Australia and, after settling the deal with George, I would have ownership documentation. But this wouldn’t provide me with a Tag [Registration Plate] and I felt uneasy about cruising the US without one.

Mel’s Lowrider was not a problem. It had current registration, complete with tag, from Delaware where he’d sourced the motorcycle. My Deuce, on the other hand, had not been registered for several years; and had neither tag nor registration. It had previously been owned by an older gentleman who’d suffered a stroke and was no longer able to ride. He’d kept the motorcycle for a few years in the hope that he’d recover enough to ride again. But, as the years slipped by, it became clear that a miracle was not likely. Ultimately, he’d decided to sell at around the same time I decided to buy.

When all else fails . . .

I knew all this, and had become increasingly worried about what I was going to do about registration. Being stuck out in the Mojave with a motorcycle I couldn’t legally ride, was the last thing I wanted.

In the end, and in case all else failed, I’d unscrewed the Queensland registration plate from my 15th Anniversary Fatboy and slipped this into my T-Bag just before leaving Australia. Not exactly legal, I know, but a workable solution nonetheless – I thought.

Of course, I could have circumvented this whole issue by simply arranging the hire of a Harley through Eagle Rider. But, I’d checked rates online and discovered that I could buy a good used Harley Davidson for less than it would cost to hire a motorcycle for eight weeks. I hadn’t thought about the problem of registration until after I’d completed the purchase of the motorcycle through Ebay.

In any case, I was in Vegas; it was Sunday; and, I was scheduled to pick up the Deuce that day.

Pick up and shake down time

After watching the sunrise from the top floor of the Casino carpark building; taking a leisurely wander through the Hotel Casino complex; engaging in an extended but informative conversation with Chuck; I headed back, with two fresh coffees in hand, to the room to see if Mel had surfaced.

He had and, after a long shower and a strong coffee, was almost ready to be civil. We ventured out for breakfast and headed directly for the restaurant I’d found earlier.

I guess there was not a big call for breakfast in a Casino at this time on a Sunday morning; we seemed to be the only takers. Our meal consisted of house coffee [barely drinkable], eggs [fried, scrambled, or poached], fried tomatoes, baked diced potatoes, hash browns, stewed peaches and orange juice: certainly nothing to complain about at $9.50 a piece – Outstanding!

Out to Henderson

Breakfast done, we climbed aboard Mel’s Lowrider; found Interstate 15; and, rode briefly south before taking the exit to I-215 East towards Henderson. 

Sited in Clark County, Henderson is located about sixteen miles [26 kilometres] south east of Las Vegas and is the second largest city in Nevada. With an estimated population of a little over three hundred thousand it is, for most practical purposes, part of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Area.

The city itself began life as a township during the Second World War following construction of the Basic Magnesium Plant. During the war, this plant expanded quickly; it supplied the War Department with most of the magnesium required for incendiary munition casings, aircraft frames and engine blocks. At the height of war production, the plant consumed twenty-five percent of the Hoover Dam’s power output.

George and the Deuce

In any case, my cell phone app efficiently delivered us to George’s place. His home was a neat, fairly recently built, solidly middle-America bungalow complete with a neatly landscaped, desert-themed front garden. And right there, in the driveway outside the double garage was a truly magnificent 2003 100th Anniversary Softail Deuce; its chrome glinting in the desert sun. 

George turned out to be a wiry, sandy-haired, forty something guy. He had just a hint of Southern drawl, an easy smile and a rock solid handshake. And, just as we rolled to a stop and shut down, he was striding along the front path towards the Deuce. Clearly, he’d heard us coming

‘Come inside boys . . . take a load off. It’s too hot to be out here in the sun.’

Mel settled into a recliner with a cold drink. George and I sat at the table to work through ownership and transfer documents; Bill of Sale, expired Registration and Ownership Title. The previous owner had handed in the Deuce’s tag, and there was no chance that I could arrange for a tag that day. So, I hauled out the Queensland Number Plate from my backpack and screwed it into place. I’d completed paperwork for the pick up, now for the shake down.

A shake down ride

It was almost midday by the time we were done. We’d checked the Deuce over; settled the outstanding money owed; signed transfer documentation; and had coffee. We sat around for a while and canvassed a whole range of conversational topics; what we were doing in the US and where we might head for a shake down ride. After leaving George’s place, we followed his directions and for a short stint headed north. We found Northshore Road which, he said, would skirt Lake Mead and take us into the mountains.

The sky was cloudless; the colour of very faded denim. A heat haze hovered in the distance as we headed east towards the high country. The Lowrider and Deuce thumped in easy unison as we leaned into the first sweeping curve that announced the beginning of our ascent into the mountains east of Vegas. Everything that George had said about the Deuce appeared to be right on the money. The previous owner had clearly loved the bike; it had 3,500 miles on the clock and was pristine, and carefully tended; and with the exception of its Vance and Hines Pipes and High-Flow Filter, completely original.

We cracked open our throttles as the road climbed through bare, craggy slopes and listened to the hearty rumble of a couple of big V-Twins echo off canyon walls. Ah . . . but there is nothing quite as satisfying as the sound of a set of Vance and Hines on a Harley under load. 

A shack in the mountains

Nearing the top of the range, we swept into a slow left-hander and almost missed, on the right, several trucks and a dozen or so motorcycles in an unsealed parking area cut into the slope. We eased back on the throttles, turned in and left our motorcycles leaning on their stands. 

On a rise above the parking lot, picnic tables and benches crouched in all the shaded spots. An adobe and corrugated iron shack looked as if it had lurched to a temporary stop on the slope. And, from that shack boomed the unmistakable bump and grind of a four-piece belting out a very creditable rendition of Basin Street Blues.

We entered the gloom. Almost concealed at the dark end of the room, stretched a bar where we ordered a couple of Cokes. Signed dollar bills had been pinned on every piece of available wall space; so we signed a dollar bill too, and pinned it to the wall near the bar.  

Trent Carlini does Elvis

We left the relative cool of the mountainside corrugated iron roofed shack-bar some time around mid-afternoon and headed back to the shimmering heat of the plain.

On arrival back at our ‘digs’ we noticed a flier for an Elvis Tribute Show at the Las Vegas Hotel [previously Las Vegas Hilton]. Given that we’d done the Strip and Fremont Street the previous night, we decided to take in the show and possibly even grab a bite to eat at the hotel buffet afterwards. Both Mel and I were Elvis tragics from way back

Now, just as a bit of an aside – because I’m just full of useless information. On July 31 1969, the real Elvis performed at this Hotel [initially known as the International and, later rebranded as the Hilton] the first show in a season that was to run for seven years and included 636 sold out shows.

That being said, Trent Carlini as Elvis was impressive. His appearance, facial features, movement and voice were all amazingly accurate facsimiles of the original: great value for money and thoroughly entertaining.   

Afterwards, we wandered around the gaming floor and visited the spectacular pool deck. In the end, though, opted for a return to our hotel; to get some food from the Buffet, and give some attention to packing for the road.

Just a thought . . .

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas

Click to continue reading: US 4 Northward through the Mojave to Utah