Anyone going to Moped Army BBQ in Kalamazoo?

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Edward

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I'm packing up for another motored bike adventure this weekend in Kalamazoo to represent the homebuilt crowd, running with the 300+ mopeds that show up. A little wiser for my experience last year, bicycle fix a flat, and spare tubes :D Without my GF to guard the airconditioned motel room and complain about the heat :P Traveling light yea!
 
Not even, its going to be close making it by Sat with my Dodge truck. I did 101 miles on a Stingray and its not for the faint of heart.
 
I survived the journey to K-zoo I am happy to report. I arrived on Sat. morning and checked in at the Knights Inn and as I unloaded my bike and luggage a full blown gang war gun battle erupted with projectiles flying everywhere. But this is the Moped Army so the projectiles are little rubber or plastic balls being fired from plastic single shot or some motorized plastic mac-10 machine pistols and the gangs are the Hells Satans, Peddy Cash,the not Mission 23 guys, Creatures of the Loin,and assorted others. Some of the long term residents ($1000 a month? WTF) colorful characters in their own right, mutter nervously and flee the scene. I choose to take a badly needed shower before the cops show up. When I re-emerge the cops have not arrived and the far eastern management persons have wisely decided to just keep behind the counter and raking in the cash. The scene of mopeds roaring and sputter popping around the swirling groups of happy twenty somethings in the defacto uniform of t-shirts and jeans with 2-stroke oil stains. Occasionally
the sounds of happy chatter are punctated by the pop or rattle of another gangland hit and the screams of victim, the volume changing with the proximity to the muzzle. One is demonstrated on a beer can at point blank and surprizes not a few when it rips through.
 
Edward said:
I survived the journey to K-zoo I am happy to report. I arrived on Sat. morning and checked in at the Knights Inn and as I unloaded my bike and luggage a full blown gang war gun battle erupted with projectiles flying everywhere. But this is the Moped Army so the projectiles are little rubber or plastic balls being fired from plastic single shot or some motorized plastic mac-10 machine pistols and the gangs are the Hells Satans, Peddy Cash,the not Mission 23 guys, Creatures of the Loin,and assorted others. Some of the long term residents ($1000 a month? WTF) colorful characters in their own right, mutter nervously and flee the scene. I choose to take a badly needed shower before the cops show up. When I re-emerge the cops have not arrived and the far eastern management persons have wisely decided to just keep behind the counter and raking in the cash. The scene of mopeds roaring and sputter popping around the swirling groups of happy twenty somethings in the defacto uniform of t-shirts and jeans with 2-stroke oil stains. Occasionally
the sounds of happy chatter are punctated by the pop or rattle of another gangland hit and the screams of victim, the volume changing with the proximity to the muzzle. One is demonstrated on a beer can at point blank and surprizes not a few when it rips through.
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Those are Airsoft Pistols and rifles, they are hella fun to shoot at your buddys, they hurt as bad as or worse than a paintball gun.
 
I'm recognized by a few of the Peddy Cash people but luckily don't know anyone well enough to get "capped". I tend to fixing some of the small things I hadn't gotten to on my OCC Pacific, the carb had come loose on my conduit intake, the 2-stroke dissolved the copper sealant and copper wire packing and I didn't want to go lean.
I have recently joined a moped gang in Kansas City, the Breakfast Mafia.We are not currently members of the Moped Army and the events of Sat. and Sun. are MA only by custom and implication, this is not strictly enforced but trying to blend in and go with the flow was my intent while representing the Breakfast Mafia. With this in mind I began to notice the natives were getting restless, the wrenching took on a more fevered pitch, jackets and helmets began appearing, along with a number of smoke bombs. Beers were guzzled, peices tucked into jackets and backpacks, engines to start and rev. The Army was on the move.
 
Nobody seems to know whats going on, but I'm rushing to get my helmet strapped on, cause I'm going. Then in snatches of conversations I hear 1977. Hell yea. I turn on the petcock, tickle the carb, set the choke and pedal like crazy, pop the clutch and follow a group out onto Westnedge then left down the hill to Park braking with my right pedal and left foot. Then pedal assist up the small hill on Park as peds fly by me, then it levels out and the 24 tooth sprocket comes into her own. I tuck in tight and the Grube starts a deep waaa and the rear tire starts singinging zing zing. I blow by some of the stock bikes, while kitted Puch's fly by me like greyhounds. When I get to 1977 Mopeds there are mopeds like locusts, covering the sidewalk side by side down the block. The mood here is more Woodstock than the Altamont back at the Knights Inn. I run into Simon King and have a nice conversation with him before a reporter ala Hunter Thompson sidles in and Simon goes into the "script of "How Simon met Dan " and the whys and hows. The reporter mentions a party tonight and asks about the potential debauchery. Simon clearly is not entirely comfortable with the darker side of the new MA, but then what parent doesn't worry about their kid and their new tatooed friends. Mental note :Must Attend This Party At All Costs.
 
The rumor of a group ride sweeps through the crowd, as I notice once again no one directly knows what is going on, especially if they are from Kalamazoo. Helmets start appearing on heads and I follow suit, I pedal into the street and she fires right off. I guesstimate about 150 peds follow suit. Most of the feedback on my bike is favorable, mostly questions about what the hell is it? The tension builds as the sheer volume of raucous sound bouncing off the buildings and street begins to soak into your brain. This is what its all about, the oneness of the pack, an arm sweep and blaat of rising rpm at the front sweeps rearward to the center where I am and the pack rolls forward in a convulsion of white blue smoke and sound. At the first stop sign the front riders hesitate timidly at first. Two peds sweep to either side and the riders stop and hold up the oncoming cars and trucks as the pack hestitates then rolls through. By the second stop sign the execution is flawless and the pack speeds through like an unstoppable tsunami.
 
Just as we get to full speed, the front of the pack sweeps left into a gas station parking lot. I apply brakes and lean into the staion. Some begin to pump fuel into their tanks and the ritual measuring and mixing of the 2-stroke oil begins. Cigarettes, drinks, and snacks get purchased by some, while I begin to sweat about how much fuel I have and just how long a ride is this going to be. Betting that the oil mix @ 20:1 in the fuel I have in the tank should be safe to be dilluted with a splash of gas, I squeeze in a couple of gushes and immediately begin to doubt and worry about my lower end bearings.Oh crap! all this way and I'm about to lunch my engine.
 
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