Free Web Hosting Provider - Web Hosting - E-commerce - High Speed Internet - Free Web Page
Search the Web

Welcome!

Close

Would you like to make this site your homepage? It's fast and easy...

Yes, Please make this my home page!

No Thanks

  Don't show this to me again.

Close

03/26/2010

Back to Home Page

---

Biker dies after crash during race with car

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.

---

Some bikers say 'farewell, Myrtle Beach!'

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."

---

Johnny K-9 charged with conspiracy to murder

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.

---

Haunted Ranch: 3, Biker Gang: 0

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.

---

10th Annual Riding Into History

ST. AUGUSTINE, FL--- Hundreds rev up their engines for the 10th Annual "Riding Into History".

Saturday morning motorcycles roared through the First Coast. The annual ride raises money for the Buddy Check 12 program.

The theme was the "Classic American Motorcycle". Everything from Indianas, Hendersons to Harleys were proudly displayed at the event.

More than 200 bikers and their babes rode from downtown St. Augustine to the World Golf Village where the event was held.

The festivities included custom bike painting, a mini chopper auctioned off from Chopper City, and a Biker Ball.

In the past "Riding Into History" has raised over $170 thousand dollars for Buddy Check 12.

---

Springs man, famous for POW flag design, dies

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.

---

Nearly a Thousand Bikers Ride for the MDA

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.