Installment #02 – My First Outlaw

It was in 1970, and I didn’t know many riders and didn’t really care to. I suppose it was a personality flaw. I was recently released from the Navy after three tours in Vietnam, and I was taking a welding course at the local community college so I could rake frames. Sure, my old man, who was a machinist taught me the rudiments of welding and the tough-guy way of doing things: The weld always came before the operator. The bead must be perfect even if you’re on fire at the time. I thought I would refine my limited skills at school and perhaps become certified.

One of the other students was a tough-looking biker who was short and thin. He had long, thick, wavy, black hair and a kind of beard. His name was Seymour and he wore all black. In the blistering summer sun he made me sweat just looking at him. He was an interesting character. Sort of a regular guy at times. But he could be a rough, direct, morose man the next day, and he once ran off one of the other students. The young man never returned to class. I was young, maybe 20, and didn’t hang with anyone. So one day after class Seymour asked me if I would like to go for a ride. I nodded my agreement, and rolled over to his little guesthouse in North Long Beach. It was rare in those days that any biker would share his address with another scooter bum. He’d rather share his girl than directions to the resting place of his bike. Sorta on the rougher west side of the coastal city, Seymour lived in a small bungalow in the back with just a shed to park his bike.

His pad was neat and for the first time I discovered his club affiliation. He was a member of the Outlaws MC, but at the time the East Coast and West Coast Outlaws were not affiliated, at least not formally. His colors hung on the wall next to a Nazi flag and the interior was basically black and evil. Various weapons hung from the walls. We smoked a joint and chatted for a while. Seymour wore black shirts, not T-shirts, black Levis, and black engineer boots. What impressed me the most was the intentional way he did things. He wasn’t a bum. His place was neat, clean and so was he.

We got up to ride and I noticed how small Seymour was on his bike, but he handled it easily. It was a swingarm Shovel with an extended wide glide and fatbobs. Nothing special about the bike except the rider was so small, with his colors flapping in the wind behind him. We darted in and out of traffic to the San Diego Freeway, which runs north and south through Los Angeles. As we jumped on the freeway, Seymour jammed ahead and I lost him in a sea of taillights. At the time I was riding my first big twin custom. It was a ’66 cop bike with struts on the rear to lower the seat height. As a rigid with a high sissybar and 8-over tubes, it sported a 21-inch front wheel. This was one of the first years of rain grooves and my ribbed 21 caught and weaved in the intermittent slots. It drove me crazy with a sensation that I was constantly riding on a flat tire.

Up ahead Seymour pulled off at the next off-ramp. I pulled up beside him and with a questioning look caught his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” Seymour shouted at me over the thumping engines. “Won’t that bike go fast.”

I immediately got the hint as we jumped across the intersection and back onto the freeway. I was high and the colors of the myriad taillights in the night seemed to buzz and fade. The lights danced on the four-lane as we entered the flow of cagers. Seymour poured the coals to the old Shovel and I did the same. The faster I went the more stable the machine became. Soon we were headed down the 11 freeway toward San Pedro at 85 mph checking the sights, the lights of the city, the slow moving cagers, and Seymour up ahead flying in the night. I leaned the wide glide one way then another, testing, but it just danced along, and I couldn’t figure out why before it was so terrifying. I kept going faster and so did Seymour.

We swung off the freeway and found a small group of houses, all containing rough-looking bikers. I was growing my hair long and already sported a full beard. These stucco cigar box homes belonged to Hangman MC. They too lived neatly, although furniture was sparse. One kitchen housed a glistening black lacquered and bondo’d straight-leg frame sitting on a milk crate ready to be assembled. Another large Nazi flag hung in the center of the living room wall with two machine guns hanging from straps on either side.

I was fascinated as the club members strolled from house to house, planning the upcoming Yuma Prison Run. They wore stove-pipe Levis, engineer boots, and grubby T-shirts. Some black, some with stripes, like pirates. There were no silk-screened T’s sporting Harley logos, run sites, or bullshit sayings. Their general demeanor was low key. I’m sure there was a lot going on that I didn’t know about. Soon I would find out, but not that night.

I wasn’t dressed like these guys either. With my faded, but clean and crisp military dungarees and a tan jacket, I stuck out like a beat cop in a hippie acid fest. I had much to learn. Next issue I’ll tell the story of my first run.

Ride forever,