Installment #04 – Indio ’70

I got off track last issue. I had promised to describe my first Indio Run, back in 1970. Perhaps it was a hollow promise. I don’t remember much from that weekend. Indio was one of the first runs I went on, 118 miles from Long Beach. And actually it wasn’t a run at all. Back then the AMA had events at various locations. Usually the event surrounded a race track event. Straights in AMA clubs rode to the event together, but then there was the other end of the spectrum–bikers and outlaws. Usually the event was located near a town or community. Outlaws and bikers converged on the town or the hills around town and never attended the event usually ’cause we weren’t allowed in (no colors) and didn’t want to attend anyway. Hell, the straights rode stock machines, and dressed in uniforms. What the hell would we want to do with that?

We rode wild chopped-up machines, wore our Levis until they would stand up in the corner of the bedroom by themselves and weird jackets and shit. It was a time of reds and violence. There was always fights, fights with citizens, fights with each other, and fights between clubs. Hell, clubs fought all the time, but usually if there was a club around the loners would straighten out a bit. Not too long ago I spoke to the International president of the Sons Of Silence and he described bikers as onry hippies. That sorta described many of the hardcore tramps I knew. These guys were outlaws in a very true sense. They didn’t work unless they felt like it. They didn’t pay rent, but fucked with one landlord after another, until they got pissed off, wrecked the joint and moved into another sucker’s place. They lived off selling drugs, motorcycles, women and hot credit cards.

At the time I was going to school, but I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to be. Just couldn’t picture myself as anything in the straight world. I progressively got more bored with college. I worked in a shop part time, built motorcycles in my garage, rebuilt engines and trannies in my bedroom and partied. So, I helped this highschool buddy of mine build a custom knuckle. I had learned how to professionally weld at a trade school in Long Beach and we raked his frame, rebuilt the engine, mounted a Peanut Tank, ribbed fender, made a sissy bar, etc. It was a cool ride with some radical, 12-over springer on the front. Brad was a short kid, and a persnickety guy, so the bike took on a lot of detail. Ultimately, it was featured in Easyriders, and became the icon on our business cards for decades. It had a hot profile. He wasn’t a biker, though. More like a hippie with a Knucklehead. But we rode out to the Indio run that year. I called Brad the other day and asked him what he remembered, “I had to stop before we got to town to wipe down my Knuck so I would look cool comin’ into town,” Brad said. He actually remembered all the guys who when with us. Virgil who had a new Super Glide, Kenny on his raked candy apple red Panhead and Gerry. He went down in a gas station one night in front of a bunch of Sheriffs and we got arrested. That’s another story.

I don’t remember a thing about the ride out. It could have been something I smoked. Didn’t drink much then. We stayed in some sort of fort or something. It was a big open area surrounded with adobe walls. I remember pulling in and along the top of the walls the Diablos motorcycle club had taken over. It was impressive and intimidating as we rolled under them into the gates.

At the time bikers/outlaws did a lot of reds. Reds made you feel like you were indestructible, drunk, and mean. You know how whiskey makes some guys mean. That’s what reds did, so clubs were popping anyone, straights or bikers who looked afraid. Club guys stared at other club guys, and the party was on. Everyone was trying to be tough, bad, and unafraid of the other guy.

We pulled into this park and pulled into the grass, parked and watched the parade, that got freakier as the night fell upon us.

The small agricultural town surrounded by fields, Avocado groves, and Orange trees was over-run with bikers. We were all illegal at the time. I thought the bad-asses were the outlaws, but we were all living outside the law and the straight world. We were all riding illegal bikes at the time, since there were laws against modified motorcycles. We were all packin’ weapons, long knives and drugs. We were mostly freaks.

We stayed in the park Friday and that night no one slept, unless you wanted someone to run off with your bike, your shit, you girlfriend, (if you had the balls to bring one and she had the boobs to show and hang out). People were running over tents, doing wheel stands and shooting off guns into the night. Every so often sirens would wail and guys would charge to see what the fuck the cops were up to. Bikers were intimidating straights in the restaurants and the cops started turning up the heat so a bunch of us rode out of town to some joint outside Palm Springs.

I’ll never forget (see, I can still remember some details) this place and the ride, because we were always concerned about our bikes and how long they would hang. Sure we were fucked up, but we didn’t want to get caught broke down in the middle of nowhere. I don’t remember who the fuck we were with, but I knew this was Brad’s first and last run. He was smokin’ dope like a maniac and asking a lot of questions, like, “When the fuck are we going to get the hell out of here?” He was relieved to escape Indio.

It was getting dark as we turned off the main road and headed down some dusty trail. I remember 25-30 bikes heading down one dirt road after another. We couldn’t see shit beyond the bouncing headlights and taillights, then suddenly we turned into some bizarre structure. Later the rumor was that it was an old movie set, made to look like Arabic palace. It was out in the middle of nowhere but there were palm trees all around us. When we pulled in, Brad complained about his motorcycle getting fucked-up in the dust. I was riding a rat bike, and didn’t care. There were bonfires around and people hollering, blowing off fireworks and wrestling around in the dirt. It was something out of a bad acid trip. It was as if we were the foreign legion and had stumbled across an abandoned fort in the middle of the desert. Except this company of legionaries were all freaks. We smoked more and crashed in the dirt. When we woke up in the morning, it was hot as a mother and dusty as Kansas during the drought. We got to out feet only to discover that there was no one there. Not one fuckin’ bike. We stumbled around lookin’ in the fire pits for clues, but everyone was gone.

It was as if we were awaking from some bad dream. Did the others exist at all? How did we get there? The final question was the most worrisome. If there were other guys, why did they split? Suddenly we freaked, like we could be caught at any minute trespassing, breaking and entering, or with a corpse on our hands. We had no idea where we were, except we needed to get the fuck out. We mounted up and hauled ass. So much for our first Indio run.

–Bandit