Know some good stories or know somebody that has some good stories from the days when anyone who rode a bike was considered an outlaw? Change the names to protect the guilty and send them to:Street Chopper
Life and Times
2400 East Katella, 11th floor
Anaheim, CA 92806
Just Another Weekend
In the early '70s, most of us were young vets trying to get back in a society that didn't want us. It was the bikes we rode that brought us together. A brotherhood was formed. We rode like there was no tomorrow. Each new day brought a breath of life with unknown territory, which we were use to. No worldly cares to hold us back about work or family, just open roads and our bikes. The bikes were built to function, not for show. High bars, drag bars, low to the ground with enough clearance to haul around those S turns and splitting lanes when need be. Our weekends were sometimes weeks on end.
Saturday morning was blue skies with the smell of salt in the air, with six bikes cruising down to the local pool hall for a couple of games and a beer 'till we met up with the rest of the guys. We pulled into the parking lot and the rest of the guys' bikes in front were parked in a row against the curb. Then, all of a sudden, people were coming out of the pool hall like cattle in a stampede. As I looked up I saw Big Craig laughing with pool stick in hand yelling, "I told them not to mess with us." I knew right then this would be no mellow weekend. As the rest of us rushed to the entrance, inside the bar were bar stools and beer bottles flying. Big Craig came over to me still laughing, "I think his eye fell out." This was it, hell was breaking out. Then, I looked up and could see the barmaid on the phone. I rushed over and pulled the phone from the wall. I was too late. In the background of all the noise you could hear the sounds of police cars getting louder, which meant they would be here soon. That was trouble for us, because this whole episode would look like our fault, even though we did not start anything, just fixing an argument that started over a bad game of pool.
As we walked out into the blinding sunlight, the parking lot was filling up with curious bystanders. It was time to hit the road, this was supposed to be a safe place for us.
Our bikes were built for speed and to maneuver in and out of traffic. Loud pipes help a lot in the beach traffic. We were hauling ass towards the beach, where we could out run the Law Dogs better, with the small roads and alleys down there. Looking in my rear view mirror all I saw was yellow pursuit lights flashing. We split off in different directions at once. This would cause confusion to this game we were in. All at once there were 12 bikes moving in different directions. We were all laughing out loud, some normal weekend this turned out to be.
I turned right with Dennis, both bikes heading towards the beach alleys. As luck would have it, we headed into a dead end street. Now what? We looked around and the sirens were getting louder. We saw a garage door open, and we blasted inside.
There stood this old guy in his makeshift woodshop. With his "What the?" look on his face. We looked at him, told him to stay quiet. He just stood there looking at us like we were from a different planet. We told him the story with some lies and stayed for a few hours till things cooled off. He turned out all right. We drank a few beers and had to listen to his stories of his crazy days, but that was cool.
Finally we had had enough, and we went back into the blinding sun. My head was still hammering from the night before. Everything looked all right to take our next escape into the crowded streets of summer. Both of us pulled our bikes into the alley and thanked the old woodworker. As we kicked our bikes over, it was the first time I wished those upsweep the fishtails were not so loud. I knew right then I was bringing attention to us, but nothing happened. We eased into traffic wondering the whole time if everyone made it out. We headed south to Redondo Beach thinking the rest of the guys were down at a local bar that we hung out sometimes.
Sure enough their were 10 bikes in front of the Four Aces bar. Everyone made it. By now the sun was going down. We walked into the dark and dingy bar, enjoying the smell of cheap beer, just the way we liked it. All we heard was laughter, the whole crew was at the bar drinking pitchers of beer. Roger was telling his tale of how he out ran a Hermosa Beach motor cop. He was turning left on that old Knucklehead, sliding on the gravel on the high side of the road, looking back at the motor cop, and the pig went down when he hit the gravel. Roger got off his bike and was laughing at the downed officer as he lifted the bike off of the poor bastard, then he took off like a bullet to avoid retaliation.