I was pulled over recently. While standing on the concrete curb of a city street, a brother rode past at double the speed limit, his straight pipes making the cop’s door rattle. The rider held the throttle open with impunity, barely lifting an eyebrow as he jammed through the traffic unencumbered, disappearing in the crowded lanes and neon of the night. Suddenly I was reminded of New Years night nearly 33 years ago, 1970.
I was working in a shop in North Long Beach and going to college. My first wife worked in a gift shop and studied her religion incessantly. I was the depraved devil living with an angel who wept each time I threw a leg over my black stroker. It was behind a doobie filled with shear evil that I rode away from our tiny duplex behind a north Long Beach home, on a New Years Eve, to meet up with a pack from the shop.
Life was loose in that era and getting more entangled with the nefarious side. Yet progressive custom shops held similar aspects to today’s bike building industry. There were two partners in this crazed stucco shack. One was George, the businessman who ultimately worked for Bellflower, California Harley. He was an affable dude who was the wheeler-dealer. The builder/fab man worked within the same promotional criteria as many builders today. Each year he built something completely wild to use as a publicity device. Half the year he rode it primered while he tinkered and saved the big bucks for chrome and paint. Then he unleashed it on the public through bike shows and custom bike magazines.
I was a young grunt who was just learning how to turn wrenches and rake frames. George didn’t seem to ride much, but his partner (I can’t remember the wild man’s name) partied every night. He was riding a rigid, raked Shovel with three tubes welded to the top of the frame for gas tanks. Looked like a rocket ship. The rest of the gang were customers and two of them were Los Angeles County Sheriffs. We didn’t smoke dope around them, but that’s as far as behavior restrictions went.
They both rode rigids with straight pipes. One rider ran big diameter short straights. On the freeway at night at high speeds the glistening chromed exhaust spewed flames and the roar of a locomotive. The only difference between them and us was their clean faces and short hair. Their lack of respect for the law was stacked higher than my own. I knew that if I pulled half the pranks they did, I would be writing this shit from San Quentin. There was only about ten of us who rode toward Pasadena that night behind several beers and some stinky Red Mountain wine. We took the joints out back as the cops readied their bikes. Pasadena wasn’t any more than 25 miles away, but we partied until the evening and rolled onto Colorado Boulevard in the city of Roses at curfew, about 10 p.m. Wide downtown slabs of concrete were vibrating with hotrods, low riders and bikers. The parking strip adjacent to the multiple lanes and wide sidewalks was strewn with reflective markers and people camping on the streets, on yards in front of homes and businesses. The streets were streaming with anxious partygoers waiting for the New Year, the Rose Parade and the Rose Bowl game the following day. We split lanes popping wheelies and catching light patio furniture used to mark off group spots with our pegs, snapping the aluminum tubing skyward, scaring citizens who screamed their dismay at our backs as we weaved further into the traffic.
Each street that intersected Colorado Boulevard was blocked off. There was no cross traffic. We pulled our bikes onto one of these dead-ended streets and lined the curbs on each side of the intersection with our smoldering scooters. We ducked behind the retail buildings and scored a 50-gallon drum, which we rolled into the center of the street and set ablaze. Some of the guys bought more booze and the party began. I wasn’t much of a drinker at the time. I smoked weed and avoided chemicals. These cops were big drinkers and started to share their cheap wine with citizens who dared cross the street at our intersection. A couple of guys backed their bikes up against the crosswalk and performed burnouts racing up the street. The crack of the exhaust between the buildings was thundering. The cops offered college couples drinks from their bottles. As the night wore closer to the end of the year, the wine turned rowdy and if a straight turned one of the cops down, when offered a drink, the cop smacked ’em. Some got away, some fought back.
I knew lose cannons when I saw ’em and had experienced their rowdy behavior on other occasions. (I might tell you about it some time.) I didn’t cotton for fuckin’ with citizens for no reason. I moved up the street from the melee in the crosswalk and watched the bikes racing up the street into the residential area behind Colorado Boulevard. Another rider came over and sat on the cold curb next to me and lit up a reefer. He passed it to me and we started to reflect on the night and the bastards with the badges. As we did, we noticed a black van turn onto the street a couple of blocks up. The van was the size of a UPS truck and completely black. As it turned no headlights were visible. It was backing down the concrete center of the street toward the brightly lit intersection. The closer it came, the more imposing it became.
I looked at my pal and he looked at me as we sat on the curb passing the glowing joint back and forth. As the van neared, he put it out and stuffed the roach in his vest. We sat there as still as two mummies as the dark vehicle stopped and the rear doors sprung open. A battalion of SWAT members poured forth into the street right along side of us. We knew there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. We couldn’t get to our bikes since they were trapped at the end of the street on either side, and I wasn’t leaving without my stroker. I just watched as this slick crew of fully armored men in black uniforms, with night sticks, headgear and shields lined up in formation, weapons at the ready.
The air was gone, the wind washed from the party sails. The drunken officers standing with half empty bottles of wine in their bloody gloves realized the gig was up. The SWAT team didn’t move, didn’t question, and didn’t send an emissary forward to negotiate a settlement. They just stood there at attention, fully armed, weapons in hand, face masks in place as still as steel girders in a building.
Even the fire in the 50-gallon drum went out and the riders began to disperse into the crowd. We sat there on the cold concrete and watched with stoned amazement as the party fire went out and the evil doers disappeared. As abruptly as the SWAT team arrived, they disappeared marching back into the massive black van. The door shut with the clang of a cell door without so much as a word, and the truck pulled away down the dark street.
We mustered, fired our bikes and slipped away like whipped puppies fearful of the returning rolling battleship. Once out of town, the shear violent nature returned and the night roared on to another party spot. I don’t remember when I rolled home, but I survived to attack another year.
–Bandit
