I promised a story about the Biker Burnout Bar.

When I was Construction Girl, I learned that Construction Boys like to talk about their tools: why theirs are better than everybody else’s, how much better they are at using them. Biker Dudes are the same way about their bikes. They love to talk about how powerful their engines are and how great they can drive. They love the technical terms with the double meanings, which leads me to the name of the Biker Burnout Bar that I visited in Myrtle Beach.

SB&B stands for Suck, Bang & Blow, which refers to one of Bike Week’s favorite pastimes. At this large recreational facility, bikers have a few locations to mount their bikes and spin their tires until they explode. The engines suck in a lot of air, the engine bangs until the tire blows. Fun huh?

One of the Biker Dudes in my party said, “Do you know how much those tires cost?” So I’m thinking the bikers blowing their tires were either
a. riding on tires that needed replaced anyway
b. rich urban bikers or
c. too drunk to make solid financial decisions


I was not informed of the technical meaning of the bar’s name when I arrived. I knew it was a biker bar and I was trying to blend in. I was wearing jean capris and black sandals, which by the way, are not ideal for riding. My black sleeveless t-shirt had a Grateful Dead skeleton riding a motorcycle. I thought I might not look too suburban since I was riding in on Uncle Johnny’s Harley.

The traffic lined up down the street to get into the parking lot. The roar of engines coming in combined with the bikers burning out was deafening. We parked in an ocean of chrome and fiberglass and I hoped I looked more confident than I felt. Peggy, who was dismounting a few rows over “pssted” my attention and nodded in the direction of a young woman also dismounting in our quadrant of the motorcycle sea. Here was something you don’t see every day.

This Biker Chick was wearing leather riding chaps – and not much else: a thong and bra. I bet she was chilly riding in. I made a mental note not to sit down in this joint. Judging from the firmness of her ass I would say she had not yet become a mother. I suddenly felt like a prude in a turtleneck. Boy have I lived a sheltered life. I knew my feminist sensibilities were somewhere inside me gasping for breath, but my curiosity kept her tucked away – that and I didn’t want to piss off my ride home.

We gathered and entered this warehouse that claimed to be the biggest biker bar everywhere. Biker Chick was there for work. Apparently this employer didn’t want to waste money on uniforms for their waitresses. The menu and the uniform might have been indicative of their IQ’s since they only served 4 choices of domestic beer and peanuts. That was it. I don’t think any of the patrons were there to discuss philosophy anyway. I shouldn’t assume their IQ’s were low. Maybe they were smart because I bet they made quite a bit of cash.

Although several mini bars were available, there was a crowd gathered tightly around one. Men were holding their cameras above their heads to get pictures of a man who must have been misbehaving. The waitress was making an example of him. He was on all fours on the bar and she, in her work uniform, was spanking him with a riding crop. I can’t imagine his offense, but I was going to try not to commit any such violations.

We listened to a band called “Highway to Hell,” who did not seem at all concerned with our religious convictions. The crowd was packed in tight around the stage and the prevalent dance step consisted of bouncing with your beer bottle in the air. Up in the front was a woman who looked a lot like my mom. To my left was a boy who wore the facial expression that I hoped I was masking: slack jaw, raised eyebrows, eyes wide. There was a wide range of ages and barely any mix of races.

When I was about totally deaf, Peggy and I decide to slip out to the ladies room. There were two: one bank of port-a-potties near the front door and another in the back of the parking lot behind all the vendors. The closer bank had a heap of hundreds of beer bottles at the entrance and a line pretty long. Peggy & I decided to take a chance on the back lot and see if we could regain any of our hearing.

Negotiating the river of incoming and outgoing bikes, we took in the sights. Any bike accessory, any t-shirt with the f-word on it, and any fried food was available. Many women were wearing the same outfit as the waitresses even though they did not have the same build as the hired girls. They apparently didn’t care and neither did their boyfriends. I surely wasn’t going to share my opinion. I certainly wasn’t going to risk flirting with anyone’s boyfriend.

The facilities in the back were as high class as port-a-potties can get. They had attendants who kept each seat clean and had a table of hand sanitizers out front. How civilized! I tipped big.

On my way back in I picked up a few accessories to help me blend in. I’m looking forward to wearing them again to get my money’s worth. The ride out was considerably warmer than the ride in. It might have even been because of my new jacket.