The Ozarks 1983

 By Kim "Loudmouth" Peterson

Back when life was a breeze, when the world enjoyed a regular flow. When April showers brought May flowers and the Earth spun in its normal orbit. When making it to a scooter run or rally was the biggest thing on a bro’s calendar. And here we were, on a late night in May of 1983, Frank Kaisler, magazine editor, and myself, the loudmouth Cub, Editorial Assistant, photographer and writer for Easyriders, In The Wind, and whatever other new titles the bean-counting suits upstairs dreamt up with in their never-ending pursuit of finding new ways to make themselves more dough on the sweat of our brow and backs. Sequestered in my office on top of the world, at the Easyriders Ranch on Mulholland Highway in the Santa Monica Mountains above Malibu, live Grateful Dead blasting inside and outside, as we mapped out our itinerary for covering a Memorial Day Weekend at Lake of the Ozarks in the Show Me state of maudlin Missouri. Frenchie’s ol’ man, Jumpin’ Jerry, would be here at 5 a.m. in a Flyaway van, for our pickup and delivery to LAX. From there it was a direct flight to Kansas City, Missouri.

Tex Campbell, Managing Editor and resident wordsmith at Easyriders, had been contacted by a longtime scooter tramp pal of his. In a short conversation, he told Tex about a big annual wingding, held at a lake deep in the heart of Mizzou. And, based on that scrap of information — BAM ZOOM — we were on it like bluebonnet. Neither Frank or I, had been in the Heartland of America. So what? Bikers partying was reason enough for us. So, we dutifully marched on, ready to spread the hate and discontent, as our brother paisan, Rip, had so eloquently said upon meeting our hosts to new lands.

It wasn’t but an hour and a half after picking up a Dodge Diplomat rental car at MCI, that we were ripping through luggage in search of a Rand-McNally map of Missouri, to find out where the hell we were. Luckily, out there on a soon-to-be-dark two-laner in a forest, before we could find the bastard (or finish the joint), a pack of bikes, loaded for bear, came rumbling by, and while there was no chance of catching the flying wizards of the Heartland, the run truck that followed would work.

We ended up at a campground called Novicky’s Hideout (triple A approved for gangsters on the run, we assumed), and went about setting up camp for ourselves. It was spartan, to a fault. It ended up being the front and back seats of the Diplomat. Worked out good for the sympathy vote and eventual tent-sharing. Until the ol’ man arrived back in camp…early. Which, after pulling out a spliff of homegrown indica from Cal, proved to be the welcome mat for a longtime friendship between Kelly, Hammer and me.

Four days later, Frank and I headed back to the airport, missed our flight, but not the girls at a strip joint deep in the heart of the Lake Of The Ozarks forest. We came, they showed. ’Nuf said.

—Loudmouth Pete