Chapter One - My Outlaw Biker Club

It all began in the spring of 2006. 

          I didn’t know that anything was about to begin. 

          I sure didn’t know that anything would change.

          I didn’t know what direction I would take in the years that remain in my life.  I’m sixty-eight years old.  You tell me how much time I have left. 

          I have no idea where my motorcycle club is headed.  We are a bunch of losers going nowhere.

          Not one of my biker brothers can tell you where he will be or what he will be doing five years from now.  Ask them for their life plan and you get a blank look. 

          Query their life plans and they are apt to laugh, “Life plan?  What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?” 

          I guess I am resigned to more of the same for me and the club.

          I have always been happiest when I was looking forward to something good.  There is nothing in my future that looks good.

          Most of my brothers in the club are unemployed and dumb.  They have no future.

          I only joined the club because I thought it would help my motorcycle repair and parts business. 

          It did help. 

          My shop appeals to all bikers, mainly those who ride Harleys.  The shop is located on Highway 322 which is also known as Horseshoe Pike.  The shop is in Honey Brook, Pennsylvania which is about forty miles west of Philadelphia.  Honey Brook is the beginning of Amish and Mennonite farmland. 

          This bountiful rolling farm land is bordered by Reading to the north, Lancaster to south, Harrisburg to the west and I476 to the east. 

          The farms are twenty to sixty acres and are laid out geometrically.  The land is orderly.  There is no clutter and no power lines.  The Amish shun electricity and gasoline powered vehicles and even their farm equipment is manually operated or drawn by horses.

           Each farm features a white painted farmhouse, white barns, white silos, white outbuildings and white fences. 

          There are orderly vegetable gardens and annual flower gardens.  Many of vegetable gardens are at least one acre.

          The flower gardens are smaller but they are a profusion of color with zinnias, sunflowers, cosmos, petunias, pansies, marigolds and geraniums all blooming sequentially and begin with the pansies in early spring.  Visitors marvel at the absence of weeds.

          The Amish and Mennonite families are large with many hands to tend the gardens, to do weeding, picking and pruning.  Children as young as three are master weed pullers.  They happily work in the hot summer sun to rid their gardens of the unwanted intruders.

          The Amish and Mennonite money crops are corn, soybeans, tobacco, peaches, melons, beets, potatoes, hay, wheat and barley.  Old Order Amish raise these crops without modern gasoline powered equipment.  Instead the equipment is drawn with large strong plow horses or mules.  They own no automobiles, motorcycles or trucks.  For personal transportation, they use black carriages drawn by one horse or a team of two horses.  Depending on the job, however, farm equipment is pulled by teams of horses ranging from two to as many as nine.

          Dozens of Amish and Mennonites in their carriages pass my shop daily.  Their children on bicycles also pass my shop pumping hard up the modest incline going west but coasting when they return headed east.  The bicycles have large baskets on the front handlebars and back fender.  These baskets are used to tote eggs, vegetables and baked goods to their roadside stands or to restaurants and bakeries that line the highway.

          My customers, on the other hand, come roaring down route 322 on Harleys with their factory installed mufflers removed and replaced with straight pipes.  These bikes are deafening, especially when contrasted with the soft whirring of a teenage Amish girl’s quiet peddling.  They are deafening when compared to anything.  The boys tease me when they see me on my beautiful blue Harley Fat Boy and hear its soft growl with its mufflers intact.

          The bikers scare the bejeebers out of the tourists who are crawling along to take in the scenery, vegetable stands, antique shops and Amish men and women in their black carriages.

          My shop, Goat’s Chopper Barn, is a factory authorized Harley Davidson parts retailer.  We sell no T shirts or biker bric a brac.   

          We perform repairs with three factory trained mechanics.  One is Amish, one is Mennonite and one is a Methodist.  None of them smoke, drink or chase women.  They all have families and make more than $1,500 per week even on bad weeks.  These guys can completely rebuild a bike or build a custom bike from scratch.

          We have won numerous bike show awards thanks to my guys.  Bikers come from all over for their service or heavy rebuild jobs.  No matter how small the job, we apply an embossed gold and black decal to the right side of the tank.  The decal simply says “Goat’s”.  Bikers throughout the U.S. know that decal and what it means.

          We store bikes in the winter in our 25,000 square foot steel prefab barn.  If we have any used bikes for sale, we store them in the barn. 

          All of this good patronage pays the bills, the men, Lois, our bookkeeper and receptionist, and me.  Lois is my niece and has worked for me for twenty-one years.  She’s married to my mechanic, the Methodist.

          I live in a 2002 Vanguard mobile home.  It’s 24’ by 60’ and it sits behind the shop and in front of the barn.  I suppose my depression comes from my loneliness.  It gets real lonely at night in my mobile home.  It’s lonely in the morning while I cook my breakfast.  I am a world class egg cook and I rotate between beautiful three egg omelets, soft boiled eggs, poached eggs, eggs sunny side up, eggs over easy and scrambled eggs.  I plan the eggs the night before to give myself something to look forward to.  But then it’s lonely until Lois and the men arrive for work.

          Regular, dependable companionship is a good thing.  It’s an important thing, at least for me.  It’s not my style to hire a whore to come over just for sex.  I’m too old for that stuff and I never hired one when I was young.  If I couldn’t legitimately woo a young lady, I had no regrets.  Companionship is way more than sex.  It’s eating together.  It’s idle conversation.  It’s looking at one another.  It’s holding hands.  Maybe it’s just taking a walk.  It’s cleaning up together.  It’s watching a little TV together.  It’s nursing each other when you are sick.  You can’t do all that with a whore.

          If I’m going to live to age eighty, I must find some good stuff to seek.  I can’t remain static or I’m likely to die.

          I keep three German Shepherds, a Doberman and a Rottweiler.  Lois and the men help me care for the dogs and the vet comes to me.  The dogs are trained to attack on our orders. 

          They are also trained to patrol the grounds at night and we have never had any burglaries or trouble from some of the worst characters in these parts.  Not even the Pagans or the Hell’s Angels give me any trouble.  Both of the big clubs are totally respectful on my property.  They tease me about my loser club and both of the big clubs have promised jokingly to protect us.  But everybody respects my dogs.   

          There are biker clubs, like the Pagans and Hells Angels that proclaim they are outlaws.  And they truly are outside the law.  According to many sources including the press and court records, they are good a breaking some laws.  On the other hand, although they can be brutal, they have also performed many charitable acts.  The outlaws represent one per cent of all the biker clubs.  The other 99% are, for the most part, law-abiding clubs.

          The 99% thrive on image.  Denim jeans, vests, Harley-Davidson black T shirts with black leather jackets.  They decorate their outfits with dangling chrome chains, many sewn on patches, necklaces, bracelets, do rags and/or various black caps. 

          Their bodies are adorned with many tattoos and piercings.  Radical haircuts, moustaches and beards set them apart from Protestant business casual suburbanites.

          Once a 99% biker has cultivated his individual image which, although very personal, must be consistent with the general biker standards described in the previous paragraph, only then are they prepared for the human warmth and pleasure of camaraderie.  These are relationships based on the thrill of riding the back roads and sharing the common language of motorcycles.

          The other one percent has some of the characteristics they share with the ninety-nine percent but have others that include crime, felonies and misdemeanors, jail time and disdain for law enforcement. 

          The most notable and infamous one-per-center outlaw clubs are Hell’s Angels, Pagans, Warlocks, Banditos, Sons of Silence and the Outlaws.  These clubs control territories, usually entire states. 

          The state(s) or territory that a club controls is named on their jacket back patches and is called the bottom rocker.  The top rocker is the club’s name.  The club’s logo is in between the top and bottom rocker patches.  Other clubs that trespass on claimed territory are subject to brutality that has been well-developed and ready for immediate delivery. 

          Some outlaw clubs are famous for battling with pipes and chains.  Others use baseball bats.  Some have exotic practices like tying up opponents in blankets so they are blind, can’t move and then beating them with fists or bats.

           The letters “MC” will appear somewhere on the bikers’ jackets to denote “motorcycle club”.  No club is known as a gang and they strongly object to any reference to “gangs”.

          The big clubs all have multiple chapters.  Their memberships number in the hundreds and even the thousands.  Some of the law abiding and outlaw clubs have newsletters, magazines and web sites.

          Some law enforcement agencies refer to the “Big Four” outlaw clubs as the Pagans, Hells Angels, Outlaws and Banditos.

          It has been reported, back in the 1950’s, that a member of the press asked the American Motorcyclist Association to comment on the highly publicized Hollister, California biker rampage and the response was that 99% of motorcyclists were upright law-abiding citizens, and the other one percent were outlaws.  Thus was born the term "one- percenter”.  The term led to the creation of a “1%” patch worn on the colors of clubs who consider themselves outlaws.

          Our club is supposed to be an outlaw biker club.  We have declared ourselves “one-percenters”.  We pretend.  We are not included on any lists maintained by law enforcement agencies.  Other outlaw clubs laugh at our one-percenter patches.  We have attended a couple of biker rallies and, at one event, big outlaw club members ripped off our one-percenter patches, stomped on them, doused them with gasoline and gleefully watched them burn.

          In short, we get no respect.

          We are long on swagger.  We are talented at loudly and spontaneously reciting our fictional machismo accomplishments.  We do it in bars when there are babes present.  Most of them don’t take us seriously because our lies are flawed and obviously made-up. 

          Speaking of flawed made-up lies, our club rules require the ownership of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.  Two of our members, the twin brothers, Heckle and Jeckle, don’t ride Harleys.  They ride Kawasaki bikes they bought used for $600 each.  The boys clumsily removed the Kawasaki emblems and attached Harley-Davidson logos found at a junkyard.  Heckle drilled three holes in his gas tank to affix the metal Harley emblem and now his tank leaks if he forgets and fills it above the holes. 

          We let the twins continue as members despite their feeble sham because they pay their dues and are good at cleaning the clubhouse toilets.  

          It’s been estimated that there are ten million motorcyclists in America.  I heard there are two hundred million riders worldwide.  I read somewhere that there are thirty-three motorcycles per 1,000 people here in America. 

          If the one-percenter thing is correct, it means there are about 10,000 outlaw bikers in America. 

          We only have twenty-three members and prospects in our club.  Well, actually three are not yet “patched” members.  Those three are prospects who have not been formally patched in to the club. 

          We only have one club and we don’t claim any territory because the Pagans claim Pennsylvania and we don’t want them fire-bombing our clubhouse or coming over and kicking our asses. 

          So, we just sort of lay low and feel sorry for ourselves.  If any outlaw biker club could use some self-esteem, it’s us.  If we could only learn to respect ourselves, we might earn the respect of other clubs.

          We need group psychotherapy.  Now there’s a scene.  Twenty-three of us sitting in a circle with our shrink helping us examine our neuroses.

          The group therapy might lead us to a new beginning.  I’m thinking that I can help shape a new future for this bunch of dufusses.         Yeah. 

          Maybe that’s what I have to look forward to; fixing this dysfunctional club. 

          My shop takes care of itself.  Lois keeps up with the money and my three mechanics are so totally committed to excellence that there are never any complaints.  They can all estimate jobs better than me and they remember to add a nice profit which adds up and then we all share at the end of the year.  I have $100,000 credit line with Harley Davidson Parts Department in Milwaukee, so my folks can call up there and order whatever we need from a screw to a $5,000 motor.

          So, I’ll spend a little more time with the club and maybe I won’t feel so lonely and forlorn.  I’ve got no girlfriend so I may as well try to straighten out this motley crew. 

I called Lois about the origin of Motley Crew.  She can use the PC better than anybody I know and she knows all about the Internet.  She called back in 20 minutes and said, “Goat, Eugene O'Neill first wrote about Motley Crewe in The Iceman Cometh, a famous play.  Here’s what he wrote.  What would you do without me, you old goat.  I have to be your favorite niece; I’ll read it to you.
What is it?  It's the No Chance Saloon.  It's a Bedrock Bar.  The End of the Line Cafe'.  The Bottom of the Sea Rathskeller!  Don't you notice the beautiful calm in the atmosphere?  That's because it's the last harbor.  No one here has to worry about where they're going next, because there is no farther they can go."

          “Perfect!  That’s perfect.  That sounds like my loser club.  And you are my favorite niece.  You are my young brains helping my old worn out brain.  I’ll call you later.”
“Wait a minute Goat. Motley Crew is a band.  I looked them up and they spell it Motley Crüe.  They’ve got some great music.  Some of it seems to fit you and the club.  I’ll play one song I’ve downloaded.  They’ve got a great song, Kickstart My Heart.  Listen while I play some of it.”

           

“When I get high
I get high on speed
Top fuel funny car's
A drug for me

My heart, my heart
Kickstart my heart

Always got the cops
Coming after me
Custom built bike
Doing 103

My heart, my heart
Kickstart my heart

Ooh, are you ready girls?
Ooh, are you ready now?

Ooh, yeah
Kickstart my heart
Give it a start
Ooh, yeah, baby

Ooh, yeah
Kickstart my heart
Hope it never stops
Ooh, yeah, baby

Skydive naked
From an aeroplane
Or a lady with a
Body from outerspace

My heart, my heart
Kickstart my heart

Say I got trouble
Trouble in my eyes
I'm just looking for
Another good time

My heart, my heart
Kickstart my heart”

          Now there’s a beginning.  That’s what I need; a kickstart for my heart.