Installment #15 – The “Outlaw” In Me

I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the club I was in the ’70s. I wasn’t the kind of outlaw they needed at the time so I resigned. There was considerable violence then and I took my part, but that wasn’t me. As the years past I realized that I was an outlaw of a different nature, an outlaw of the heart. This is a rough romantic confession after my 54th birthday has slipped past and I wonder why I’m still alive. I’m a guilty motherfucker. There are no excuses for the hearts I’ve broken, whether I paint a justified picture or not.

It pains me when I see couples splitting up. Although, I understand a man’s drive for women, it hurts me to see a woman cry, because I’ve caused it so many times. I’ve been married five times. I’ve lived with I don’t know how many women. Each one was a part of my life through a particular segment. When I was done with that time, I was finished with that woman. When a woman did me wrong, I didn’t blubber and beg. I hit the road. When we didn’t see eye to eye, I was patient for a while, then moved on.

My first wife was a glorious woman, but as straight as a born again Christian. When I returned from Vietnam and let my hair grow I slid away from her into the night on a black Harley. I’ve explained to many men who leave their faithful wives for the spring hottie, that they will pay as I did several times. I had to feel my way through many low-life broads before I found a good one again. It was my punishment. I can still remember the day over 30 years ago when I left our tiny one bedroom duplex to go for a ride, her sobs following me to the garage.

My second wife was a joke. We were never truly married, but I attempted to make a go of it, because she got pregnant and demanded to have a child. She was uneducated and had no desire to learn. The undocumented wedding was published on the pages of Easyriders. She ran off with an outlaw and moved to Oklahoma with my son while I was a club prospect. I was glad to be rid of her, but disappointed for my son.

I lived with a girl named Sandy for a couple of years while around the club, but soon she couldn’t deal with the threats and violence and escaped, but we have always remained close. She was a natural redhead, with that pumpkin-colored glow. From that point on I had a natural addiction to red hair, although I would never admit it.

There was another redhead soon to follow. She was a club girl. She grew up around bikers, and loved to party. She became the all time calendar girl at Easyriders, loved by everyone. I’ve stayed close to most of my loves except this one. She stole from me.

So it went. I had a problem mixing women and freedom. I love women. I can hardly get enough of them, but I love my freedom and the two don’t blend unless you find just the right girl, if that’s possible. I don’t know, yet I keep trying.

For years I would meet a woman who was impressed with my Easyriders position, my work ethic and devotion to the bikerdom. As soon as they moved in, they wanted me to quit, or to slow down. They thought I fucked every model who strolled into my office naked. They had a tough time understanding that everything I represented was about freedom. They had the misconception that bikers could be controlled like little boys who are brought up to settle down and raise a family with the signing of a marriage certificate.

I suppose it’s human nature for many men to grow up, go to school, sew their wild oats, find a woman, turn into straight family guys and spend the rest of their lives under house arrest. It’s not for me, pal. The more they tighten the vice, the more I lean toward the door. But it still breaks my heart to see two people split. I told a friend recently who was going through the shit, that every time I went through a breakup it meant that I had to start my life over. Whereas the guy who keeps it together can continue build a life full of material crap with a woman and kids. In my case, I think I turned my life upside down from time to time, just to see what might be on the other side of the coin. I’d roll the dice one more time looking for who knows what?

I could endeavor to justify each one, but it’s no good. I must admit that I’m an outlaw of the heart and have been for 35 years. I confess that my weakness is the touch of a woman, the infatuation bug that’s stronger than heroin, opium or crack cocaine. It will pull you to the very depths of your whiskey soaked soul, and drive you to abandon small children and all your worldly belongings. Beware.

–Bandit