With me, it started on a highway somewhere in LA, when I was probably in the 3rd grade. It was the early '60s. My mom and dad, who were and are fine upstanding citizens, had no interest in motorcycles. As a matter of fact, they were dead set against them. My dad had been a medic in WW II and had patched up many a rider who had been, as he said repeatedly, “Shot off his motorcycle.” Later arguments about that, when I was a teenager, politicking for permission to buy my first motorcycle, always centered around whether or not I thought I was going to get shot off my bike.
It was in late summer, and my parents were taking the family from one forgotten place to another, somewhere in the LA basin. It was on the night side of dusk. I was in my usual spot, parked in the backseat next to my brother, dividing my time between surreptitiously poking him in the ribs and watching traffic and scenery as my dad navigated the old station wagon through snarls and knots. Suddenly, my dad visibly tensed and said, “Oh my god.”
This phrase was usually the indicator that another driver had done something stupid. It was usually followed by a lot of child-proof muttering under Dad’s breath, as my mom stared, pretending not to notice the veiled obscenities, out the side window. The other driver’s real or perceived violation corresponded directly to the length and loudness of the muttering.
Occasionally, when some fool did something particularly starkly illegal, or annoying, my dad would say “S.O.B.” loud enough for us kids to hear. Though he didn’t think I knew what that mean, I had been thoroughly trained in the dark underbelly of the English language by the older boys on the school playground. An “S.O.B.” from my dad, usually brought the same grin to my face I’d get when I heard any references to the “good parts” of the human body or its functions.
I was always intrigued by the idiots my dad managed to avoid, saving us from certain death, so, hearing the cue, I started looking around to see what miscreant had violated our personal space this time. I’d always check to see where dad was looking, to I too could glare at the idiot who had perpetrated the act, no doubt wilting him with my 8 year-old outrage. I noticed dad was looking into the rear-view mirror, so I turned in my seat to see what was behind us.
It was an odd sight I had never seen before. As they got closer, the roar of their rides reached us, and they looked as if they were going to run us down like the Mongols on horseback ran down enemies. Dark, hairy, riders, leathers and vests fluttering in the wind, hanging on high handlebars, while their women hanging on behind them.
They were all menace, and all adventure, these riders. In the dusky light they looked like they had just sprung from the gates of some medieval fortress. Dark beings on dark rides, all leather, steel, noise, and adrenalin. In those days, bikes were all business, rarely painted with candy-apple excess, or dipped intact in chromer’s vats. These machines looked more like machines of war. All dark colors. All business.
With fear and excitement (my mother’s fear, my own excitement) I stared at these denizens out the back window of our car as they approached. Dozens of them streamed past us on both sides, riding as if they were headed to a battle of world-shaking proportion, grim and focused on their destination at some unguessable, mysterious point over the horizon. As they passed, their pipes barked and their engines roared, as they swooped in and out, barely missing our plodding station wagon and each other. They ignored us as they went past. We were inconsequential to them. Not part of their world. They parted as they went around us, and grouped back together in front. We were forgotten. Another shuffling beast of burden in their past.
After a few moments they had passed us, leaving the stench of burnt oil and fuel. The bark of their straight pipes still filled my ears. And I knew. At that point, in my 8-year-old mind, I knew. Someday, I would ride with them. I would ride to that mysterious destination and find out what was there. I would join those riders, and learn their secrets. Someday, I knew, I too would fly along, wind in my face and nothing but freedom ahead of me…..I had the bug….
Hiwayman
NorCal
Here's some more photographic art from the Master, Buck Lovell. He was once the editor of HOT BIKE.
Check the prints for sale below in the Bikernet Black Market.
–Bandit
