Buffalo Don

I’ll toss out another story from the cobweb laden depths that I call my memory. This one is a bit longer……..

This one goes back to the 4th of July weekend of 1993. The summer of ’93 was one that out of 16 weekend, we had rain 13-14 of them. What a lovely riding season. Anyway, this one kind of involves my pal Dario again. We planned to camp out the holiday weekend at Cedar Point County Campground in East Hampton. We had to reserve the lots in March since they go fast; especially the weekend of July 4th. As you can predict the weekend was another rainy one. Although there was a slight chance of it being partially clear, that went all to crap with a hurricane/tropical storm heading up the coast. Never the less, we were going.

I was leaving from work in Westchester on Friday afternoon and Dario, his girlfriend and other friend were heading out from Nassau County. I originally thought I would be in East Hampton around 8pm. I had to keep in mind that it was a Friday of a holiday weekend and if you ever headed out to eastern Long Island on the southern fork you’d know the amount of traffic congestion there is and the average pace of 10-15 mph. Things started off bad real early on Friday. Due to situations at work, I needed to stay later. Normally I would be able to make up some time riding and not worrying too much about traffic jams (my safety approach to riding really wasn’t honed in back then), but now the weather reports were stating that the storm was picking up speed on the water and was moving faster towards the island. Lovely.

I finally left work around 6pm and the rain was starting to come fairly heaving already. It took me over an hour to make it over the bridge to Queens, so much for darting through traffic. By then all my rain gear failed and I was already drenched. So I pulled over for some gas (the mileage on a Sporty with a 2.2 gallon tank was certainly limited) and opted to take off the gear since it was useless. So dressed in wet black leather from head to toe, a wannabe helmet and small clear glasses, I head onto the Long Island Expressway with the Sporty loaded up with wet camping gear. After 4 more hours of riding through massive waves created from passing cars, the constant downpour, and a mouthful of wet road dirt I made it the campgrounds. Pulling up the entrance at about 11pm I was met by a county parks officer. Seeing a bike pull up in this weather and hour along with the thunder of my straight pipes probably put him on a level of being on guard for anything.

“Can I help you?” was the first words from him. I told him that I was there to meet friends and had a lot reserved. He then stated that he was sorry, but I couldn’t come into the campgrounds. WHAT??? I asked him if was because I was riding a bike and he told me that no one can entry the site after 10pm. You’ve got to be kidding, I have a reservation. Sorry, county rules. Not sure what to do at this point, I tossed a line of BS at him hoping it would work. “I just spent riding in the rain for 10 hours from Buffalo to get here and you are telling me I can’t go in because I’m about an hour late?.” Once again sorry, county rules prevailed. After a couple of more rounds, I realized I had no chance of winning. Could you at least go to the site and tell my friends I’m here. Sorry, we only would go to a site if there was an emergency. What the hell is this I thought? Inches of water around me, almost midnight, soaking wet and no place to stay; so I started up the bike, rev’d the snots out of it figuring my friends would hear me from a far and headed down the road. So it’s midnight on the Friday of a holiday weekend in the Hampton’s, what’s the chance of finding a room at this hour? And find one that didn’t require a mortgage to sleep in? Slim that's for sure. So I figured I would find a remote spot on the side of the road, toss up my small tent and spend the night there. But before I do that, I could get some “dry time” in a bar until about 4:30 am, plus have a drink or two. The roads lead me to the next town over, Amagansett.

I pulled up a parked in front of a night club called Stephens Talk House with a rumble that echoed through the streets. As I got of my bike and removed my helmet, I noticed the guys at the door were staring me up. They seemed to have a look of concern as I was walking up the planked ramp to the entrance; probably for good reason. Here I am large logging boots, black leather pants, vintage road worn biker jacket, hair down to the middle of my back (dark, with blonde and eggplant colored streaks) matted and a face dirtied from road crap, just looking like I've been laying in muddy water for weeks. “Can I help you?” was muttered from the one bouncer. Here we go again, the first time someone asked me this evening, the results weren’t to good. “Yeah, you got a towel?” I responded. When he answered no, I told him that the bar inside would be able to help me then. As I started to walk past him he said to me that they don’t want any trouble – give me break. I’m to damn tired and wet to be a problem. As I walked in it felt the same as when the boys in the movie Animal House walked into the club to see Otis Day & the Knights.Time stopped, things got real quiet and the room was looking right at me. As I scanned the club all I saw was 20 something year olds wearing plaid patterned shorts and polo shirts, each with some sort of little animal emblem on the chest – I just entered yuppie hell. As I headed to the bar, folks cleared a path to let me by. They looked at me like the one of bad ass bikers that were in the end of the Weird Science movie. I ordered a beer and just hung out listening to the band a checking out the scene. Not my normal kind of hangout. I found out later that this club was one of the bigger hot spots for the area money folks. Entertainers like Billy Joel and others would regularly stop in a play with no notice, that didn’t happen that night though.

After a short time a couple of people came up to me and start conversation. I’m guessing thatthey either lost a bet or failed at paper, rock, scissors and their friends dared them to speak to me. Conversation was typical for strangers and started off with where you’re from. I told them my story about not being allowed into the campground and one asked “so you’re from Buffalo?” Don’t know if they didn’t hear me correctly over the music or just weren’t paying attention, but instead of dealing with explaining it all over again, I said yeah. As the night went on more people were talking to me, it was kind of like meet the alien night for all the Hamptonettes. As the evening tickedaway, more conversation and jokes were told as well as more beer flowed then some yahoo decide that we all needed shots of Yukon Jack & lime (aka snakebites). The band kept playing, folks were drinking, dancing and having a great time and I somehow was in the middle of everything. There still are a few blank spots, but I do remember even being on the stage singing backup and roaring up the crowd – funny what some hops, barley and Yukon will do to you. By the end of the night …errr morning I somehow was transformed from a psycho looking weirdo to the center of attention, almost rockstar status. Certainly hard to figure knowing how shy I am (wink). Finally it was time to go, not by our choice - the staff. As I walked outside with a few of my new found friends, we noticed that it was starting to get light, the rain had stopped for now but things were still overcast. One of the crew offered that I could crash at the place he and his friends had, all I needed to do was give him a ride there. So being a little safety conscious (but not smart enough to stay off the bike), I told him to wear my helmet to be safe (what an oxymoron that was). I started up the Sporty and the two of us roared through the streets setting off every car alarm we passed. How or why we weren’t stopped by the police, I have no idea. We travel through a few different dark back roads to his place, went inside and crashed.

We I finally opened my eyes; I was staring at unfamiliar carpet strands. I stood up a bit too quickly because it seemed what little blood was left in my head, rushed to my feet instantly. Wow the signs were all there; my mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage, I was dizzy as all hell, stomach turning, muscles aching and dry mouthed. Yup there was no doubt I was seriously mugged by a bunch of St. Paulie Girls. Finding my way to the frig, I opened it to look for some relief. I found that everything had been labeled by name with masking tape and marker; definitely a house rented by a group of kids. So to be fair, I had a drink from each one, had myself a smoke then grabbed my helmet and headed outside. Damn it – still raining. So I mounted my wet iron steed and just started riding with no idea where I was or where I was heading. After 30 minutes or so I found my way back to the center of East Hampton; now I had some bearings and pointed myself back to the campground that blocked my entrance last night to finally meet up with my friends. Since it was daylight, rolling through the gates for the campground was no longer an issue. Following the lot numbers I came to the site where we were to meet but much to my surprise the lots were empty. As I shut down the bike I just sat there and stared for a moment when some guy asked me if I was looking for the bikers that were here last night. Yes and where are they? He told me that they packed it up about an hour ago stating they had enough and were going home. What the F*** was my first thought, had enough? I’m out there burning brain cells to stay in town and they leave? Now the payphone/answering machine game starts. Once again cell phones were rare back then and those who had them had mucho dollars, plus the phones themselves were the size of a shoebox.

Realizing that I am now stranded in the rain again and brutally hung over, I decide to try to find a room somewhere. After a dozen calls, it’s obvious that even though it’s pouring rain it didn’t stop everyone from using their booked rooms for the holiday weekend. As a last resort I call the local Chamber of Business and asked if they knew of any available rooms. This was something I remember someone telling me that they do occasionally keep listings of rooms that are vacant in the area. I lucked out, there was a small 3 bedroom B&B that had a room available. I called immediately and got the room and for a cheap rate considering everything going on. After following the directions, I meet the folks who own the house; of course I had to tell them my story and why I needed the room onshort notice (I did leave most of the partying stuff out). They then showed me my room and said that there was a shared bathroom at he the end of the hall with a shower and tube. I was also informed that the other occupants were out all day whale watching. Right about now a shower or bath sound great. Grabbed my towels and partially wet but clean clothes and headed down the wallpapered hall. It was a neat old farm house that was very much pulled out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I opened the door to the bathroom and saw the biggest cast iron bathtub on clawed feet I have ever seen. You could have done laps in it. I’m there! Soaking in the hot water made me realize how achy all my muscles and joints were from boththe riding and the self inflicted damage I put myself through. After what seemed to be over an hour, I went to my room climbed into the giant canopy bed and crashed for some time.

Waking up, I once again had that “where the hell am I” feeling before things started to focus in my brain. With nothing else to do, and now partially rested, I got dressed and headed to town. I once again left a message on my friend’s machine, telling him I found a room and was going into town for some eat’s. I pulled up to a tavern called the Grill, made my way to the bar ordered a beer and some food. It was a nice place, very rustic looking with a rows of patio doors that opened to a seating area on the street. I don't think there are too many places in town that weren't nice. As I was eating the phone on the bar rang, the bartender picked it up and after stating “The Grill” was just listening until I heard him reply “oh, you’re looking for that biker from Buffalo” and handed me the phone. I asked who would be calling me and he said that the person on the phone was looking for someone riding a Harley and you’re the only biker in town this weekend that everybody knows of – Grrrrreat. It was my friend Dario. He was trying to get a trailer to come out and pick me up. I told him not to worry about and that I have a place to stay. Besides it was already 9pm. Time sure fly’s when you’re in a semi comma.

As I left the Grill it was still raining with no sign of letting up. Well since I only know of the Grill and Stephens, might as well head there. Trying to pull upquietly this time was like being as smooth as a whisper that could blow the leaves off a tree. Didn’t work well, but at this point who cares? I headed up the ramped entrance once again and saw the same bouncer at he door. This time I was greeted with a Hey Don, How’s it going? Shit that can’t be good, he knows my name. As I walked into the bar, I was suddenly greeted like Norm on Cheers with a group yelling “HEY IT’S BUFFALO DON!” What the F*** did I do last night? Now I am not the best with names, but this time I couldn’t even remember these people’s faces. It’s like I never meet them – bad sign. To spare you some of the details, I’ll just sum it up as a night for them to remember, because I certainly didn’t. I just went by the stories they told me, pretty amazing stuff. So I spent the night BS-ing and turning down shots everyone felt they owed me (obviously had more than my share the night before). The night seemed to end with less causalities and I actually headed to my room before the bar closed, probably a good thing.

Sunday morning came; I had some cigs and coffee for breakfast and started to roll home. Damn I was sore. That ride on the L.I.E. was painful, but at least it wasn’t raining, overcast but dry for now. On the way home I saw a plywood sign off the road saying that there was bungee jumping off the next exit. What the hell might as well check it out. Once I found the spot I saw it was a crane set over a pond and guys were jumping and bouncing away. Out of curiosity I went and ask how much it cost. $25, wanna try it? Not realizing that my cerebral cells were not at full operating mode, I answered- sure. So they put me into the caged platform and as the crane was lifting us (me and the “assistant”) I was getting the body harness put on and was given instructions – not one word I heard. The guy then tells me to just jump at the count of three. I leaped before he finished two. Scared shitless I go falling to the ground where suddenly I'm snapped backed by the bungee. I bounce for a few more times then they lower me to the earth. The one guy all psych’d up goes to me “wasn’t that just cool?” I responded by throwing up where I stood and answered NO. This dumbass activity certainly made riding that much more enjoyable. What was I thinking? Oh that’s right; I was temporarily brain dead when I left East Hampton. Well that should be it, just a suffering ride home – wrong! I was just about to head to the bridge to get off the island when I notice another bike parked under a overpass with its rider sitting on the guardrail. I pulled over to see if he needed any help. He told me that the weatherband radio just sent out an alert about a possible tornado in the area. What else do I need to deal with? He suggested I wait under the cover with him until things passed. Within minutes the sky darkened like midnight and winds were gusting out of nowhere. All the garbage and sand was blowing around making it hard to see when SLAM – a huge burst of wind blew over both our bikes. I just stood there shaking my head saying I surrender!!!! What the hell did I do to pay this price for the weekend? We picked up our rides and after about forty minutes things started to calm down. Only a couple of scratches, nothing serious resulted from their knock down. We said goodbye, ride safe and headed our ways. I did find out later that there was no tornado, just excessively high winds came through – that’s for sure.

The rest of my ride home was uneventful (finally) and I spent the whole day Monday just lying around recouping. And so ended the wild rampage of the one time Buffalo Don; hoping the name and weekend would rest in peace. I was told some time later by a friend who would visit the same area on a regular basis that he overheard some folks talking about this wildman that was from Buffalo. Hearing the story from me already, he thought it was best to keep his mouth shut and not let anybody know he knew me – smart move