It’s Bike Week in AZ. And next week, too! Hoo Hah! Seems every week it’s bike week somewhere, right? Another fine idea mutates into a burlesque of itself.

Here in splendid North Scottsdale bikers from every dental office, accounting firm, roofing contractor, and welding supply distributor from here to Chicago are donning their leather vests, pasting on their tattoos, and fixing what’s left of their hair.

In Laughlin Nevada/Bullhead City AZ garrisons of highway patrol officers from both states are girding for the real bikers who'll be showing up for the River Run next week. The Annual River Run is where serious bikers settle old scores and create new issues that will turn into old scores.

There are no serious bikers in North Scottsdale. They’re baby boomers doing what we baby boomers do best—recreating by re-creating our youth.

Here’s North Scottsdale’s Bike Week in a nutshell: At the Road Apple Resort Suites (caveat emptor on the free breakfast buffet, boys!), which is down the street from the office, two large vehicle haulers unloaded 100, or so, scooters from a Chicago contingent who flew down to meet their bikes.

What in the name of Sonny Barger is that all about? A bunch of dudes from CHI send their bikes to AZ to save themselves the trouble of riding their bikes? The North Scottsdale Bike Week featured other cool stuff like baby boomer girls wearing mid-riff barring, Harley tank tops with their daughters, or granddaughters, low-slung Levis. The gals had plenty extra humanity, gut-wise and pelvis-wise, that didn’t fit into their jeans or tank tops. I don’t mind pictures of grannies wearing nothing but chaps in Daytona, but this is my neighborhood girls.

The Laughlin/Bullhead River is something quite different. People ride their bikes there. Nasty dudes sporting their colors ride there. Dudes bring their hardware. Dudes bring their business. Dudes kill other dudes.

Laughlin Nevada is an assortment of casinos stuck on the opposite side of the Colorado River from Bullhead City, AZ. Laughlin has everything Vegas has except for everything. It’s equidistant from LA and PHX. The only way to get there is through the stinking desert. Dudes are hot, tired, dusty, and thirsty when they arrive—bad moods get worse as people jockey for position on the road, at the bar, and within the bad-guy hierarchy.

Eventually, thirsts get quenched. Tempers flare. Bikes roar. People die. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it should be. That’s the life chosen. It beats guys who ship their bikes to avoid the hassles and hardships of the life.