I had a stroke while riding my bike in April 05. I lost use
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that could help a disabled and broke Biker
get back in the wind with a trike or a bike with a side
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FAIRBANKS -- Fairbanks police say a 28-year-old motorcyclist died
after crashing during an apparent high-speed race.Police identified the
victim as Nathan Gray, a member of the Alaska Air National Guard.
Police Sgt. Gary Yamamoto said Gray looked to have been racing a
driver of a car westbound on the Johansen Expressway late on the night
of May 8 when his motorcycle left the road.
Yamamoto said it appeared Gray was driving at more than 100 miles
per hour when the motorcycle left the road at a small curve and
demolished about 150 feet of fencing.
Yamamoto declined to identify the other driver but says information
about the accident has been sent to state attorneys for possible
charges.
As the 2009 Spring Harley Rally began winding down Saturday,
some bikers said they won't be back.
"This is not a bike rally. It's nothing like it's even been
before. There's nothing here for anybody," said Wally Lupton who's
attended the rallies for about 15 years.
At the Myrtle Beach Mall just north of the Myrtle Beach city
limits and closer to North Myrtle Beach, the crowds were decent but
not like they were in years past.
"This is probably the slowest, maybe worst, years ever," said
Floid Moses from Virginia.
Moses, like others, blame Myrtle Beach's 15 anti-rally laws and
what they call overzealous policing along the Grand Strand.
"As soon as you cross what they call the blue line, there's a
cop sitting there wanting to write you a ticket," explained Lupton.
Rick Senter from York, SC, feels the same way.
"This is what we look for for recreation ... not (to) come down
and be persecuted by the police or by a real whacked-out mayor,"
Senter said.
A lot of bikers have expressed angry sentiments toward Myrtle
Beach and even some its residents, but not all bikers hold a grudge.
"The truth is there's a lot of things that go on that the
average person don't want to see or hear at the biker rally. So we
just have to take it in stride and if they don't want us down there
we'll come on up to North Myrtle. They want us up here, so here we
are," said biker Tameria Janowski.
But the smaller crowds and limited vending and tougher laws in
Myrtle Beach are too much for some of the bikers to handle, and they
say they'll look for better venues.
"I think next year you'll see everybody bypassing this and going
to Daytona or Biketoberfest."
DELTA, B.C. - A former Hamilton man once charged in the murders of
Lynn Gilbank and her husband Fred has now been charged with
conspiracy to commit murder in a Vancouver gang case.
John William Croitoru, who wrestled under the name “Johnny K-9,” was
charged Friday along with four other people, all reported to be
members of the UN Gang.
Soroush Ansari, Dilun Heng, Daniel Russell and Yong Sung John Lee
were also charged with conspiracy to commit murder.
Last month, three other alleged members of the gang were charged
with conspiracy.
“Certainly, it (the charges) has a profound effect on the leadership
of the group,” said Corporal Dale Carr, of the Integrated Homicide
Investigation Team.
Police allege the group conspired to murder Jonathan, James and
Jarrod Bacon.
In the past, gang investigators have said the three brothers are the
leaders of the Red Scorpions, a rival gang police have implicated in
the murders of six men in a Surrey apartment in 2007.
Two of the men killed were innocent bystanders in the wrong place at
the wrong time.
Carr described the five men who were charged as “front-line
soldiers” and “key leaders.”
Croitoru moved to Vancouver and began working as a bodyguard after
first degree murder charges in the deaths of the Gilbanks were
withdrawn in 2006.
Croitoru, a former president of Satan’s Choice biker gang, was
charged in the slayings along with Andre Gravelle. Charges for both
men were withdrawn as the preliminary hearing in the case was about
to begin.
The Gilbanks were discovered shot to death in their upscale Ancaster
home in November 1998. Their murders remain unsolved.
I first caught a glimpse of the haunted ranch over 50 years
ago.
I can still remember it like it was yesterday. Myself and two
pals, Willie Schmidt and Frank Angelostro, had just flushed a
big jack rabbit out of a tight, heavily brushed dry creek bed.
Its time on earth wasn't long in my eyes.
I had a double barreled 12 gauge plus my .22 six shot Ruger
pistol. When I was a teen, you could buy a Thompson .45 cal
canister fed at any gun show as long as you had a co signer. I
usually never missed what I aimed at. Not that I was such a good
shot though.
This shotgun was pretty old when I picked it up and well used.
Most of the time, when you touched one trigger, both barrels
would go off. The only good thing about that is no one ever
wanted to borrow it.
Frank had a semi auto .16 gauge. He was actually a pretty good
shot for real. Numero uno was Willy. His favorite gun was a
single shot Benjamin pump pellet rifle, .177 gauge. Since Willy
usually ate his kills, he didn't want the meat shot full of
buckshot.
At 14 years old, I just blasted away and left 'em to the
coyotes. Not after this day. Something really odd happened. Even
years later out of High school, it would come up during half
times at super bowl parties or some such gathering.
As the bit jack rabbit left the creek, all of us climbed up the
sandy banks of the creek to get first shot. I was on the left by
myself so I hit the top first. Frank was ahead of Willy but had
been pulled backwards by his belt so Willy could blow past him.
A common ruse.
Laughing, I glance at the struggle then snap my shot gun up to
my shoulder while pulling it tight, ready for the double report.
I make a quick scan over an empty field, finger on the trigger.
Some twitching ears catch my attention. I look down and there's
the rabbit. Not four feet in front of me.
I would have had to back up to drop the barrel to nail him.
I didn't though. Neither did my companions. We all stared in
disbelief at the frozen pose of this big jack. He had stopped in
mid stride, and was posing like a statue. Stone stock still. I
had never seen such a thing. I could see in my buddies' eyes,
they were as astounded also.
I take a step closer to the rabbit. I now can see his muscles
rippling under his patchy fur down his back and into his legs.
This guy wanted to burn rubber, but couldn't for some reason. I
end up pushing it with one of my wing tipped toes. The spell
breaks in a nano second. The rabbit has 'U' turned and hit light
speed into the brush behind me.
We all remarked on the strange behavior of the jack, then went
back to blasting whatever moved. We saw zero after the jack
fiasco. We head back to Willy's old 62 Ford one ton pickup.
While retelling this story at a party a while later, an older
guy working the keg spigot over hears me. He wonders if the
place I was talking about was up past Hierba Road up into the
National Forest. I say, "Well, yeah, it sure was!"
He then says in a low voice, "Did you get up to the ranch
house?" I shake my head no. He motions for us all to put our
plastic cups up so he can top 'em all off, then takes over
telling the story I had started.
After the first minute, I sat down and listened with everyone
else, my story already forgotten. Old Mr. Parker gave us the low
down. It seems this particular canyon had always been bad luck.
Didn't matter who took the place over, everyone ended up packing
up and getting out. Some didn't even pack.
The original owners had tried setting up a hog farm. After
building a ranch house, a small barn and some hog pens, they
brought in some special order swine to breed, then slaughter and
sell. This was in the late 1800s. The new owners quit going into
Aqua Dulce to make their land payments to a man holding the
deed, so, the owner went out to foreclose.
The gate to the long twisting driveway was locked. The deed
holder honked his car horn a few times then climbed over the
gate to proceed on foot up to the house. He had only heard about
the improvements. Since the payments had been regular up until
this point, he had sort of forgotten about the land. From some
of his own problems with the place, he was glad to forget.
Almost to the top of a slight rise to the top of the dirt road,
he tells the Sheriff later that he knew something was wrong.
Then, glancing to his left, he could see the tops of the tall,
yellowed weeds growing along the rim of the dried creek,
starting to move like a ripple towards him.
At first the dried stalks just sort of shook in short bursts.
Then, a long ripple like a gust of wind would cause. There was
no wind. The man forgot all about the late payment. He said he
just wanted to get back to his car and get as far from the place
as quick as he could possibly pull it off.
The next morning the Sheriff's rescue team drove up in three
vehicles. They cut the lock and drove on up to the house. No one
was there. Their beat up Buick was there. The people weren't.
The Sheriff's came back with some search and rescue dogs. The
dogs jumped out of the man's panel truck, then, fought with each
other to get right back in. The trainer/owner tried treats. He
tried stern commands. Nope. No deal.
The dogs wanted nothing to do with the place.
As Mr. Parker took a swig of his beer, my mind shot back to the
way the rabbit had froze. I was getting a little freaked out. I
wasn't alone. One girl takes off. She's heard enough. The rest
of us stayed.
After a new round of foamy refills, Parker continues. "So, the
place was avoided by one and all. It had so many for sale signs
blown into the taller and taller weeds and over growth, they
started to make a fence, and that's no lie!"
I did some mental calculations. That place had been deserted for
almost 70 years before we stumbled on it? I interrupt Parker
with a blurted, "You mean to say it's been empty for over six
decades? That just can't be!"
Parker now looks right at me as he continued. "I didn't say
that. I said locals avoided it. Plenty of people tried to take
that place over as an abandoned property. More than a few times,
biker gangs would hear about it and tear up the fields on their
big Harley Hogs, throwing beer cans all over the place and
shooting up people's mailboxes and such. Rough tough tattooed
ruffians with skinny speed freak girlfriends hanging off the
rear fenders as they roared down to the local market then back
to the ranch. They never stayed long. Rumors of killings, ritual
deals, all kinds of stories. No one really knew for sure, but
one thing was certain. No one ever stayed for long."
One of the kid's parents was heading for the kitchen. Parker
spots him and fills him in on our conversation. He had his own
story on the place. In about five minutes, we had 10 more people
all wanting to throw in their own tales of the haunted ranch.
The one that shook me up the most was the hog story. Not a
Harley hog, nope, the real deal. Real hogs.
It seems the well known version of the beginnings is pretty much
true. After the new owners had their pictures on milk cartons,
the stories became crazier and stranger. An investigator for
some bank taking over the property had been reported missing,
not too long after the latest biker gang had once again. Left in
a hurry.
Now, here it was over a hundred years later, Sheriffs were again
on a search. They found the man. He was still alive. He was up
on the half collapsed old farm house roof, but alive. The
Sheriffs start to get out of their vehicles. Our man on the roof
shouts for them to come out packing.
They laugh then yell back, "Yeah, why is that buddy?"
A sudden flash out of the ruined barn, almost completely covered
with weeds gives them their answer. Covering the gap from the
ruins to the overgrown brush, the quick glimpse was all the cops
needed to see why the man was up on the roof. It was a wild hog.
A really big, wild hog.
Later on at the Half Way House Cafe, all agreed, especially the
adjuster, was the length of those pearly white tusks. They had
to have been two feet long, if not longer. Curved back towards
the pig's eyes, they then jutted out horizontally like mini
scimitars.
When word got out of a giant hog up in the Sierra Pelonas,
people came from all over to take a crack at nailing him.
Usually, they would start out from the site of the old farm. The
only thing they received from the canyon was bad luck. Cars
wouldn't start. Anything electrical would fail sooner or later.
Infestations like plagues would cover the surrounding foothills
around it. From ticks and fleas one year, to migrating
Tarantulas, walking in one direction as one mind. Up into the
forest. Anywhere but the ranch. Even spiders could sense the
place was bad.
No one ever spotted any giant hog up there again as far as I
know. I live eight miles from the place. It's never even crossed
my mind to go back up there. Better to leave well enough alone.
Naturally, my boys will most likely take a hike up that way to
look around, just to show me up. Have fun guys. If you spot a
paralyzed jack rabbit, best call it a day.
The Colorado Springs man who designed the black and
white POW/MIA flag flown everywhere from federal
buildings to Harley-Davidson fenders died Thursday at
his home.
Newt Heisley was 88.
"Newt wanted no hoopla. All he wants is a celebration,"
his fiancee, Donna R. Allison, said.
That's what he'll get on Flag Day, June 14, from 1-4
p.m. at the American Legion Post 38 in Security. The
public is invited. He will be entombed at Shrine of
Remembrance next to his wife of 61 years, Margaret
"Bunny", who died in 2005.
The prolific image he sketched in pencil in 1971 has the
silhouette of a man under a guard tower and behind
barbed wire. It's a symbolic reminder that not every
soldier returned from the war in Vietnam.
The flag flew over the White House when President Ronald
Reagan marked the first POW/MIA Recognition Day. Biker
groups adopted the flag, tattooing the image on their
bodies, patching it on jackets and flying it from their
bumpers.
Newt Heisley sported the image on his hat, lapel and
license plate.
"Everyone knew it was Newt's flag," Allison said. "He
would personally sign them for people, that's what he
would do for years."
He never dreamed it would be a national icon. He was
simply "the ad guy" around town.
"He was just working for an ad agency. He came
up with the rendition of the flag," said his son,
James Heisley. "At first he was almost embarrassed,
but he got kind of used to it. It defined his life."
Newt Heisley was proud of what the flag meant. He
was a C-46 transport pilot in World War II in the
Pacific.
"It was typical to present it in black-and-white and
his idea was to go back and do some color," James
Heisley said. "They came and looked at it and said,
‘That's it.'"
Newt Heisley worked in advertising for 25 years in
big Manhattan agencies before moving to Colorado
Springs to start an his own advertising firm.
"He decided there had to be greener pastures," James
Heisley said. "He almost took a job in Bermuda, but
my mom was a little leery of living on an island.
They said, ‘Let's head West and see what we can
see.' They were on the way to California and pulled
into a hotel room in Colorado Springs in the dark.
In the morning he saw Pikes Peak and said, ‘Bunny,
we aren't going any further.'"
He retired from Heisley Design and Advertising in
1987.
"He didn't expect to get any recognition. If he had
a nickel for every time that image appeared, he and
I'd be multi-multi millionaires," James Heisley
said. "Newt always said it was better as public
image."
He also is survived by another son, Jeffrey N., who
modeled for the silhouette on the flag;
daughters-in-law Susan Heisley and Deborah Heisley;
and granddaughter Sara Heisley.
Saturday’s
weather wasn’t the greatest, but it
wasn’t enough to stop nearly a thousand bikers
from hitting the road for a good cause.
The 6th Annual Wausau Firefighters Ride for
the Muscular Dystrophy Association kicked off
early Saturday morning and despite the cold
temperatures, the firefighters say they have
seen their biggest turnout yet.
"This means a lot. I'm just glad we can all
come together to help the kids with muscular
dystrophy. We assist them with getting
wheelchairs as well as getting them off to
camp,” said firefighter Andy Adrian, who
organizes the ride. “There's not a Harley person
out here right now who wouldn't help those kids
out."
"We like to ride no matter what, but when
the proceeds go to a worthy cause like MDA, it's
better yet,” said Alan Fannin, a biker from
Crandon who came down for the MDA Ride.
If riding on a motorcycle during less than
perfect weather isn’t for you, you can still
help out the Muscular Dystrophy Association.
For just a $5 donation to the MDA, you can
take part in all the food, raffles and live
entertainment you can handle until midnight
Saturday.
The festivities are being held at Harley
Davidson of Wausau.
Frank'sBikerNews
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