RUDIMENTS, pt. 48
Making Cars
Much later now, sometime by the
year 1990, I got mixed up with
other things. It all sort of just
happened and I guess I let it alone
to be, or to develop, or to run its
course. Until death do me part,
sorta'. Motorcycles; runs; the
darker underside of Biker stuff.
Which included only the sunnier
side of alcohol. Recreational drunk
driving, we often called it. If you
wanted to make the day last longer,
you rode real fast, just to stay ahead
of the intruding line of evening. It
was very lyrical, suffused with meaning
and romanticism about time and place.
The only problem? Try telling that to
10 or 12 other Bikers out alongside you.
It never works. No one ever knew what
the heck I was ever talking about, nor,
actually, what I really ever was. Conflict
time again : fact was I'd gotten involved,
deeply, in something that wasn't really
part of me. I was in water that wasn't
mine, and sometimes that swamp got
pretty deep. No matter. I saw eye to
eye with very many very cool people,
some of whom are already dead, or still
road-maimed. Survival sometimes
writes its own definition and calls
its own shots.
-
I tried journalism. Got paid for that.
I tried motorcycle journalism; got paid
for that. I had a small, weekly history
column in about 5 local weekly papers
around my area. Forbes publications.
That part of it was OK because at least
I'd found a way to be still dealing with
the 'word' - language, writing. I'd
occasionally spout off about something
that would cause me trouble, and I'd
have to explain or back-pedal, though
I managed never to do an abject 'apology.'
The motorcycle world, (OK, OK, the
hardcore 'Biker' world), was tough;
many of those guys meant some real
bad-ass business; while others ended up
to just be pansy-assed, along for the
ride, fun and quick glory of showing
off. Remember, they let anybody buy
a motorcycle; it's only later that the
end-run performance and follow-through
shows differences between people. Lots
of stories there. If I live ten more years,
maybe I'll get to them.
-
One thing I did do, I learned a lot about
bars and drinking. Mostly, bikes and bars
shared more than just the initial letter 'b'.
They just go together. Six hours of ripping
around somewhere, tearing across a
landscape or in between tall buildings
just ends you up in a biker bar, somewhere.
Like 'somewhere' being wherever you land.
Whether it's the Gulch Tavern out by New
Hope, or some shit-hole in Doylestown
or Trenton, or anything along the Jersey
Shore, or the Pic-a-lilly in the Pine Barrens,
or the Pioneer in Iselin, NJ, later replaced
by the ever inglorious Maple Tree Tavern,
or the Red Apple Rest, in Sloatsburg NY.
And in New York City, every street had
two places of renown, for sure. New
York City on a motorcycle was just rude
anarchy. Total. I no longer know what
it's like there in those situations, but we
had, simply, no rules. That applied to speed,
lights, sidewalks, noise and parking. The
stupid owners of these places never stopped
anyone from anything, because they wanted
the trade. The Biker trade was a glory hole -
booze bought and served fast and furious,
all those tips and checks; dumb-assed
fraternities of boozers eventually also
paying up to eat whatever slop you'd feed
them. I probably could have bought a
mansion with the money I wasted on
bullshit antics. And not just me, believe
me. I knew a hundred people at the drop
of a hat, or beanie helmet anyway. And that
was getting to the place you got; you still
had to get home. That was tricky sometimes.
There were fights, run-ins, escapades, cops,
civilians, marshalls, assholes, fools, and, of
course, us. The little know aspects of hard
road-biker stuff are, a bit, as follows : sometimes
you ride armed, or with knives. It happens.
There are times when you're pulling along
somewhere and law enforcement gets a
hint that you all might be a good pullover.
On any premise : speed, noise, handlebar
heights, the 'way' you were riding, as a
group or singly, an equipment check, some
crap about your helmet being legal or not,
inspection, registration, ID numbers matching
the bike and the paperwork, who you're with,
where you're headed, where you're coming
from, why, how long, ooops! better check
that saddlebag, or those. What are you
carrying? Then they move you off, to the
side, do a pat-down, search, empty your
pockets, please...Endless, chicken-shit
and mostly bogus law-enforcement play
acting. Then they check for warrants, or
find a knife on someone's belt, or a gun
in a boot even. It just goes on, and it's
legalistic shadow-play mostly. But it
could be serious too. Big trouble in little
China, so to speak, let alone the stupid-ass
breathalyzer. From the biker-angle, I never
understood what being a cop was about.
Who would ever want that? Pension and
guns and living off tax-salaries and big-ass
police union stuff, that's one thing, but
where are the principles? There was so
much bad and illegal regular stuff going
on in every police station and town hall
that simply got covered over, because the
perps were the law, that to see them hang
their soggy belts over our heads never
made any sense to me. They're sworn
to uphold the law, and the laws and the
upholders are crooked swindlers, so
where did that leave us? I went more
than once to outlaw club parties in NYC,
and elsewhere too, for reasons of like
'Support Party For' or 'Defense Fund For'
and it would always be someone named
like 'Animal' or something. What did Animal
do? Why are we here? 'He's in jail, he killed
a cop.' Gulp. Oh boy, yeah Jeez, thanks for
telling me. The lines were all crazy, and they
connected, illicitly, to a million other things.
Then, to make it even weirder, 20 years later
I'm working the book store at Princeton
University and I keep getting books to
send to prisoners, Trenton, Philadelphia,
and the like. They had some Prison Literacy
program or something going for all the
do-gooders to send books to prisoners. All
these half-assed famous people, Cornel West,
Chris Hedges, they're all the time sending
books to this Abu Jamal guy doing life or
death row or its equivalent, in a Philadelphia
prison. I ask, 'what did he do?' Killed a cop,
comes the answer. Full circle on that one -
the first time a crazed 1% Biker Club NY
guy, and the second time the high-roller
academic goofballs in an elitist town. You
figure it. Who draws what line and what
matter is it? Cop or Good?
-
Bikers kill each other more than they kill
others really, so the whole subject sucked.
I got myself pummeled once or twice, for
different things by different sides. It was
psychotic nightmare stuff and I was getting
it for a while from every angle. Two things
maybe I learned. The first one was, don't
commit. One guy wanted me to join his
big time Jersey club, but with the forewarning
that it was for life, and if I ever screwed
anything up he'd be held responsible since
he was the one bringing me in. Be forewarned,
I was told, he'd have to kill me. This guy lived
beneath the Goethals Bridge, was known to be
quite mad, had already done time in and out
for very violent shit, he carried firearms like
they were Chiclets, and walked with a cane,
more like a mallet, that was deadly. Very
gingerly, yes, me, working my way
backwards on that one. And that was
not the only instance of this stuff. The
second lesson was, don't have money. They
constantly wanted my kitty and my
organizational funds - some portion
of it anyway. Like playing let's make a
deal with the grim reaper.
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