Sammy’s Kids

Yeah, you can milk three hundred, you betcha. For weeks even, if you’re good. But do Hippie Boy and Dirtbag look like dairy farmers? I don’t think so. No, sir, you won’t find them squeezing on a buck like the withered teat of a dried-up old moo cow: Hippie Boy and Dirtbag were bred for the good life. Make that the fine life, as in when the homies say, “Yo, my man, how’s it?” to which they reply, “It is fine, daddy-o, it is fiiine,” then slide their wraparounds into place, stomp on the pedal, and feel themselves pushed by the loving hand of God’s own acceleration deep into the blood-red leather of an Eldorado convertible, the ghosts of Frank and Dean and Sammy singing in the exhaust and that funny little tickle in their stomachs knowing the boys in the Exxon boardroom are smiling down on them as another of the nation’s nonrenewable resources goes up in smoke. Yessir. Uh-huh. Dig it.

The conceit, hatched at Bike magazine in the mid-nineties, is to travel dirt cheap, go at least one hundred miles from home, and return with an epic tale of mountain biking and other hijinks. So, Hippie Boy and Dirtbag have somewhat of a problem, what you might call an incongruency, given a max of three hundred dollars and this mission from above: How do you go big with nothing but pocket change?

Dirtbag hatches a plan. “Check it out, Hippie Boy. We drive to Vegas. We ride in the desert. At the end of the day, we go into the city, walk into a casino, lay everything we have on red or black at the roulette wheel, and let the gods decide our fate. One bet, all or nothing. If we lose, we come home. If we win, we Do Vegas—fancy dinners, Wayne Newton, fat cigars, polyester suits, the whole glitzy Circus Circus enchilada.”

“I don’t know, man. I hate Vegas.”

“Think of the desert, buddy. The sage. The full moon. So much singletrack you’ll get dizzy.”

“I always lose in Vegas.”

“Me too. But so what…it’s not our money.”

There is only one rule: The three hundred dollars cover everything, from food to gas to water to the bet. There will be no cheating. No timeouts, no special Calvinball safety zones. The office peanut gallery has already accused Hippie Boy and Dirtbag of erecting safety nets, stashing away emergency food, credit cards, and, in general, plotting to ease the pain should they lose. But Hippie Boy and Dirtbag are nothing if not honorable men, more honorable than most of the peanut gallery, in fact, and there will be no cheating.

They leave early on a Wednesday morning. Before they even hit the freeway, however, a cloud of suspicious behavior appears: Dirtbag discovers that Hippie Boy is packing thirty bucks of his own money. This seems a clear violation of the rules, and Dirtbag rides him. Hippie Boy protests it’s strictly to buy a Jimi Hendrix poker chip at the new Hard Rock Casino. Dirtbag doesn’t care. “But it’s Jimi,” pleads Hippie Boy. Dirtbag grinds him some more, relenting only when Hippie Boy admits he’s buying the chip to send to a Girl in Another State Who He Really Likes. (Dirtbag is a softie where romance is concerned.) “But if I see you sneaking a latte with that cash, yer walkin’ home.”

The problem resolved, onto the freeway they roll. A framed photo of Sammy Davis Jr. provides divine guidance from the dash. The Pulp Fiction soundtrack spins in the stereo as they leave the Sprawl and climb out of the L.A. Basin.

There are only four topics of discussion: The Pulp Fiction Soundtrack Rocks, What’ll We Do if We Win, What’ll We Do if We Lose, and Which Way Do We Bet? Neither Hippie Boy nor Dirtbag wants to talk much about winning—it’s too likely to jinx them. Losing seems a lot more likely, but if they lose there’s only one option: ride bikes in the desert till the food runs out, then come home.

A side discussion called How Much Do We Bet? develops. Thus far, they’ve spent eighteen dollars for gas and eight dollars at Price Club for fifteen bagels, a giant jar of jelly, and a case of Top Ramen. Figure on another five for water plus fifty dollars for enough gas to drive around Vegas and then get home. But then Dirtbag gets to thinking, and he says, “You know, Hippie Boy, it’d be lame of us to set aside gas money to get home. If we’re gonna do this right, we should bet every penny we have. If we win, we win bigger. If we lose, we lose bigger.”

A grin crosses Hippie Boy’s face. “That means if we lose, we’ll have to beg for gas money to get home…panhandling at the Bun Boy in Baker…okay, sure, right on. Dig it. I’m in.”

Just as all roads lead to Rome, all threads of discussion bring them back to the number one question at hand, the question that when answered will set in motion a series of events leading to Hippie Boy and Dirtbag becoming the Rulers of Las Vegas or the Unwashed Scumbag Losers of the Eastern Mojave. The question, in other words, do you bet on red or black?

A poll found the Bike office split pretty much evenly. The boss wanted red. The ad weasel wanted red. Rob wanted red. The groovy art directors wanted black. Instincts led both Hippie Boy and Dirtbag to black, but they knew deep in their hearts that the decision would be made for them, the signs would be there if only they knew how to read them.

Hippie Boy genuflected at the photo on the dash. “Sammy, tell us, my man. You’re Black. Does that mean we go black? But your eyes are red. Should we bet red?”

“How can both eyes be red, Hippie Boy? One’s glass.”

“I don’t know, but they are. C’mon, Sammy, guide us. Give your loving pilgrims some direction.”

Sammy is silent, but five hours after leaving home and just before hitting a typically gnarly Vegas traffic jam, the boys have enough direction on their own to head north on Nevada 26, toward Red Rocks and Death Valley. Lacking tea leaves, tarot cards, or the entrails of sheep, they search the landscape for red or black omens. The Led Zep CD has “Black Dog” on it, but, then, too, there’s the Red Hot Chili Peppers disc. In a two-dog town called Blue Diamond, they stop for a quick game of hoops. Hippie Boy drives for the basket and crashes into Dirtbag. Three invisible referees call “charge” and Dirtbag crumples to the ground with a sore wrist and bright red blood spilling from his upper lip. Is the minor drawing of blood the obvious bad sign—or is it somehow a good sign, a necessary sacrifice to the gods of luck?

The Mojave is crisscrossed with singletrack, wild horse trails, and old mining roads, and a short time later, the boys find themselves in Cottonwood Valley, saddled and ready to climb a narrow track up a scrubby arroyo. Although the desert surrounding Vegas is vast, it is this region on the western side of the city that sees the most riding from Vegas dwellers. On any given day, weekend or otherwise, you’ll pass five or six or ten other riders, and on this Wednesday afternoon there are still chalk course-markings from a race the previous weekend.

Leaving the truck, Hippie Boy and Dirtbag rattle and bounce their way across rocky flats to the entrance of the wash. Once in its sheltering arms, the trail carves sinuous esses up a gradual climb. Rocky, technical sections give way to a smoother, buffed luge run. The earth turns from a chalky tan to a rich, fiery red, and then the trail crests on a high plateau thick with Joshua trees. Middle ring leads to big ring, and the boys haul ass in the rolling terrain, dodging spiky chollas, bunny-hopping the odd section of razor rocks, and keeping on guard against sudden fallaways into sandy flood channels.

Even with all the awesome riding, however, their minds are on other things. Like, Red or black? And Will we win or lose?

It’s a short ride, just ninety minutes, and then Hippie Boy and Dirtbag are back at the truck in the middle of the deserted desert valley, the sky turning to dusk. In post-ride bliss, they crank tunes and dance to “Jungle Boogie,” surfing the heavy bass line and adrenaline anticipation of the coming bet. Win or lose, it’s a rush just thinking about it.

On the thirty-mile drive into Vegas, it comes to them.

“You know, Dirtbag, it really wasn’t a good thing that you split your lip…”

“Yeah…and black was our first choice. And we both agreed on it. And if we don’t agree on everything, we’re sure to lose…”

“Black is good.”

“Black is good. Nighttime is black. And Doc Martens. And new knobbies. And espresso beans.”

“Black is good.”

“Black, then.”

“Black indeed.”

“But where to place the bet? Some scummy old casino downtown? Caesar’s? The Hard Rock? Or the Luxor?”

They peer through the insect-splattered windshield at the Vegas skyline. The Luxor pyramid rises against the neon glow, a shaft of white light projecting into the heavens from its peak.

“Have you noticed, Hippie Boy, that the Luxor is black?” says Dirtbag.

“I have.”

“To the Luxor, then.”

“To the Luxor!”

Dirtbag sits in the truck with his eyes closed, beneath a sign that says, “Guest Check-In Only. 30-Minute Parking.” He is visualizing losing because he really wants to win and he knows they won’t. Hippie Boy wants to win, but this Vegas thing is so alien to him that, in some ways, he couldn’t care less. Dirtbag, he knows losing can be a soul-crusher, especially with the whole world watching. So he pictures the little ball falling into red and says to himself, “Ramen tastes good. Bagels taste good.”

They have agreed that there is a series of linked events that will lead them to winning. They have agreed that there will be no thinking involved, no wandering the tables for the right “feel.” First table, first opportunity to bet. All on black. Each event leads seamlessly to the next, which leads to winning.

They stride through the casino, straight to the cashier’s cage. After topping off the tank and buying water, they now have two hundred forty-eight dollars. Dirtbag shoves the bills at the cashier and pulls back the stack of chips. “I have to take a leak,” he says. “Is that gonna throw off the chain of events that leads to us winning?”

“I have to go, too,” says Hippie Boy, “so we still agree on everything.”

Coming out of the men’s room, Dirtbag hands the chips to Hippie Boy. “You better touch these.” Hippie Boy takes them, then hands them back.

They return to the first table they saw. There is one bettor. The roulette wheel slows, the ball falls into black. Uh-oh. They exchange a glance, and Hippie Boy hesitates. Dirtbag says, “First table, first chance to bet.” He firmly places the chips on black and stands next to the wheel. Hippie Boy aligns himself at the far end.

The croupier spins the wheel, then the ball in the opposite direction. It is a white blur, then it slows and bounces around the wheel. Hippie Boy and Dirtbag are surprisingly calm—no sweaty palms or pounding heart. The ball lands in 14 Red, then rattles once against each fret before jumping into 2 Black. The momentum of the wheel rolls it against the far fret, and it climbs the tiny wall dividing it from 0, which is, of course, green. It pauses for a nanosecond, then gravity says, “Freeze, sucka,” and the ball falls back into 2 Black. Hippie Boy is so excited he reaches for the chips before the croupier can pay off the bet.

They strut out of the Luxor less than ten minutes after they walked in, four hundred ninety-six dollars burning in their pockets. The night air smells sweet, and Dirtbag raises his arms in triumph and shouts, “We rule! We are the kings of Vegas! Yes! We won! Me! Hippie Boy! We! Won!”

“Oh, baby, you dig it the most.”

They grab a quick dinner—In-N-Out Burger, Hippie Boy’s choice—and, the truck well-supplied with drinks and munchies bought with their newfound cash, aim again at Cottonwood Valley. Pulp Fiction is still playing, and the front seat is filled with a sense of satisfaction, relief, and joy. Headlights splash across the pale sage moonscape as they creep along a rutted dirt road that climbs to a saddle between two valleys. Once at the high point, they get out of the truck, brace against the cold west wind, and stare at the lights of Vegas thirty miles to the east. Hippie Boy busies himself with wood for a fire, and Dirtbag peers through binoculars at an odd green light splashed against a mountainside to the west. The pale green shimmers as if under water, and then, just as it dawns on Dirtbag that it’s one of the lasers projected from the Vegas Hilton so far away, Hippie Boy hisses under his breath: “Horses! Wild horses!”

They are ghostly shapes in the night, a herd of eight or ten gliding silently as shadows just thirty yards from the camp. There is snorting as two of the horses raise up against one another, hooves flashing dully in the moonlight. (“And she ran calling Wi-i-i—ild-fiiire…”) The alpha wins, and the loser gallops away. The herd moves closer to the boys, and one curious horse comes within about twenty feet of Hippie Boy. He stands there sniffing at the wind, the horse that is, and then turns back to the herd, which as if on signal moves slowly across the saddle and down the steep hillside to the south. Late in the night, when the campfire is just embers, the horses can still be seen in the valley below, still moving silently in the pale fishbelly light. It is magical and mystical in a way perhaps only Stevie Nicks would understand.

There is more riding in the morning, great and glorious riding through a desert putting on its best show—the spring bloom—but the boys hardly notice. They have a new mission: Time to Do Vegas.

It starts with lunch at a funky cafe in the older part of town, a hidden courtyard operation decorated in post-modernist boho chic. From there, they roll down Charleston Avenue, trolling the thrift stores. Dirtbag scores big at the first one, grabbing a pair of white vinyl loafers for six dollars, but his luck soon turns bad and, after four fruitless hours of searching, he settles for a baby blue knit polo shirt, misfitting tan poly pants, and a porkpie hat. On the other hand, Hippie Boy’s fortune skyrockets: At thrift store number two, he finds a cream polyester leisure suit that fits him like it was tailored. Shiny burgundy-colored, gold-buckled loafers are next. Finally, he discovers a patterned brown shirt and gold chains. In just one afternoon, he has made the transformation from Hippie Boy to King of Vegas. Dirtbag follows in his wake, unworthy.

The evening begins with big plans—huge plans—but quickly degenerates at a seedy Mexican restaurant. Hippie Boy orders rum, and Dirtbag shovels chips in his mouth at an alarming pace. Someone calls out, “Guacamole, more guacamole!” Hours later, they stumble out into a frightening wind, ready to barf and in no mood for Wayne Newton.

The Hard Rock revives them. For one, there is classic rock piped through the casino, and not classic rock in that crappy Billy Joel-Bob-Seger-We’re-Old-But-Think-We-Still-Rock sorta way but in the Beatles-Cream-Rolling Stones way. You know. For two, the crowd is young and hip and kinda grooves on the boys’ poly thing and, while only the truly rich or truly dumb can do Vegas without feeling incredibly self-conscious, this takes self-consciousness to a new level, so it’s better when someone’s in on the joke. For three, the Neville Brothers are playing on a little stage just behind some closed doors and, while the show is sold out, you can hear the band every time the doors open.

It turns out the Hard Rock will take your money as fast as any other casino, and it does. Hippie Boy buys his Hendrix chip, and they hit the road for Caesar’s Palace, but not before a stylish young woman comes up to Hippie Boy and gushes, “I never thought I’d say this, but you look amazing in polyester.”

It’s true. He does.

The rest of the night is a haze of expensive cigars, free drinks, blackjack, bad lounge acts, and stupid, devil-may-care betting as the boys stumble from casino to casino. A weirdly psychedelic rush of images blurs past: the high-seas pirate battle at Treasure Island, the erupting volcano at the Mirage, the talking statues at Caesar’s, and, most strange, a replica of Oz and the Yellow Brick Road at the MGM Grand, which you enter by walking through a lion’s mouth and exiting through its butt.

By two, the stash of cash has pretty much evaporated, and the night isn’t far behind. Sometime far after three they head back to Cottonwood Valley. In the morning, they will discover more sublime singletrack. They will rest in an oasis of fragrant yellow, purple, and red flowers. They will scramble a thousand feet up the rusty rock ramparts and gaze half the way to Hoover Dam. Finally, they will head home and, in the light of the setting sun, spend the last of their winnings riding the giant roller coaster at State Line. For now, though, they park the truck in a sea of sage, throw sleeping bags on the ground, and crawl in. Dirtbag lies on his back, looking through bleary eyes at the shimmering light of the Milky Way, visible even with the full moon.

“Goodnight, Hippie Boy,” he croaks with cigar breath.

Hippie Boy’s gold chains clink as he rolls over. “Goodnight, Dirtbag.”

This story first ran in Bike magazine.