| The Wrong Arrest Or Was That The Wrong Girl? By Bandit |
Last issue I mentioned that I’d jump off the confessional and spring forth with violence, clubs, and action this issue. Since Laughlin just rocked the world, I’ll stay away from my history with patches and let the current dust settle. This issue, we’ll step back into the early ’70s and a tough lesson many of us learned the hard way. On one of its tattered pages, The Code of The West reads that if you catch a break, take heed. Well, I broke that rule one night and went to jail.
It all started in North Long Beach one late afternoon. I was riding my charcoal-silver Shovelhead around the city, smoking dope and getting wound up for the weekend. The ’66 Shovel had 80-inch UL wheels planted in the engine. I rebuilt the engine, molded the wishbone frame that I raked, and built the rest of that bastard, including my own extendible sissybar and open primary shield. Hell, I even painted, flamed, and pinstriped the bastard. I would have won Best Paint, if I were competing with 5-year-olds in a kindergarten custom bike competition. I’ll see if I can find a shot of that bastard.
The chain of events began when I noticed the sun setting in the west and flicked on my headlight. The bike coughed and sputtered with the language of a weak battery. I hated batteries and generally ran magnetos so I didn’t have to fuck with them. I immediately snapped off the headlight and assessed the distance I could ride before darkness took over. If I could get to Mick’s garage, I could install a new regulator and roll again. Mechanical regulators vibrated into oblivion on a regular basis, again another reason for running magnetos. I figured if I rode like a bat outta hell and kept my foot off the rear brake pedal, I could make it before the battery croaked and left me alongside the road. I had a front binder, but it wouldn’t stop me rolling off a curb. A 3-inch in diameter drum spun within the hub of the 21-inch front wheel. Man, it looked cool, but that was the extent of it.
I took another long drag on that joint and snapped that 4-speed into first. I was in Lakewood at the time and between freeways. I lived in the center of four freeways and someday I’ll tell you about a race we planned to run the lope. The coast freeway was the 405, which ran from the Grape Vine to San Diego. Running parallel to it about 15 miles inland through the industrial community of south Los Angeles was the brand-new concrete 91. What a rush it was to ride on that smooth surface at 90 mph before rain grooves and dense traffic in the middle of the night ruined the appeal. I could weave over all four lanes without a taillight in site. That was 20 years ago.
The southern portion of the quadrant was covered by the 605 freeway that started off the Pacific Ocean in Seal Beach and wove inland to dusty rock quarries in the City of Industry, another grizzly smog-soaked area. On the north end of the box was the Long Beach freeway that rolled from the Long Beach Naval Station on Terminal Island, next to the federal prison, and lumped and bumped inland to the industrial wasteland of Vernon, California, mighty close to downtown L.A. I was stuck in the center of a flat, middle-class tract-home paradise and needed to reach the 605. Once screaming onto the freeway, I had only three offramps before I could peel off and into Mick’s garage for repairs.
This was my turf. I knew the side streets, the alleys, and the shortcuts between one girl’s apartment and the strip joints at the corner. The wide chromed eight-over glide began to creak. I sped past boulevard stops, and caught Wardlow to the Los Coyotes Diagonal, where I ran my first stoplight, split through side streets, running the four-way stops, and speeding through each and every intersection. I could smell the exhaust fumes from the Friday night happy hour criminals as I spun onto South Street less than a quarter mile from the freeway onramp.
The sun wasn’t out of site and I knew that with my current dice-throwin’ luck beside me, I would be in Mick’s garage in five minutes. I had busted every side street ordinance etched into the Sacramento books and was sitting on the edge of my Cobra seat as the whine of a cop car siren overshadowed the rumble of my shorty exhaust. I looked in my vibrating rear view mirror–Long Beach cops. I pulled over, counting my blessing that they weren’t L.A. sheriffs. Those bastards hated bikers. In those days, once you pulled over, you just got off your bike and stepped onto the curb. These two cops jumped out of their cruiser and immediately began to shout at me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” one of them said, while the other just pointed a gun at me and shook his head. “Listen,” I said, raising my hands, “my battery’s going dead and I was trying to get to a buddy’s house before it quit.”
“Gimme your license and registration,” the young cop said, eyeing me carefully and noting if I were swaying like a sailor on a tossing ship. I wasn’t. My code with cops was always to treat them with respect, unless they got out of line. I felt that they had to deal with the scum of the earth daily. I didn’t need to become a number on that list.
His partner, a shorter officer, holstered his weapon and came around the bow of the cruiser to check out my bike. The chromed and silver Shovel was one of my few nice-looking bikes, but this officer didn’t recognize the workmanship, or maybe he was just assigned the bad cop role. “Your bike is leaking,” he said, more to the other officer than to me, as if to say, “Add that to the list.”
The taller of the two, a dark-haired gentleman, ran my numbers while the other made disparaging remarks about bikers, picked the bike apart, and ran his baton up the exhaust. I kept my mouth shut until the big man returned with my license and registration. Without looking at his partner, he said, “If you’ll roll it over to that gas station and call your partner for help, we’ll cut you loose.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My hair was long, I had a full beard, and my Levis would stand in the corner of the bedroom each night waiting for me to get my ass up in the morning. They were thicker than cowhide and coated with 60 weight that performed better than today’s Scotch Guard. I just said, “No problem,” thanked the officers, even the nasty one, and pushed the clicking and ticking Shovel across the street. I called Mick from the phone booth and waited patiently for him to arrive with a fresh battery and a new regulator. It took him less than 15 minutes to skid into the station lot.
Mick was a madman and my best friend. He was the kind of brother who you could always depend on, even though you thought he was nuts half the time. He was 6’2″ and lived according to a similar code as I did. Can’t say that it was worth a fuck, but we’re both still alive and kickin’. He pulled into the gas station in some ratty muscle car from the era, but I couldn’t give a shit. I wasn’t the slightest interested in cars. Out climbed Mick, stoned, with a bag of parts, and Karen, this little teenage cutie I was going out with, crawled out the other side.
With a joint hanging on his lower lip, Mick looked at me with red eyes and handed me the bag. I knelt on the warm asphalt, after fondling the dark-haired teenager, and began to replace the regulator. When I was done, we checked it and determined that we didn’t have to replace the battery. I didn’t have an electric start, so if it kicked to life I was good to go. The ride would enhance the voltage level in the battery. We talked at length about the gracious spirit of the cops and my blessed escape from shackles of justice.
The scoot fired to life like the lord of wings should, and we flew toward the freeway, the babe holding tight behind me. As we leaned onto the freeway, I was caught by the spirit of a strong running motorcycle beneath me, as if I was a runner and my doctors told me the knee surgery was a success and I could run again. Suddenly the road was wide, without obstruction, even though it was Friday and the freeway was swarming. I paid no attention, and Mick was a man always ready for a fight or challenge. We started to race. Just two miles to go, in a warm darkening ski, splitting lanes. The shit-green muscle car attempted to keep up. We spun off the freeway on Alondra Boulevard and stopped five cars back from the light. Mick was next to me in his rumbling Pontiac when I noted the flashing red gleam of lights behind me. Three cars back was a Highway Patrolman in a black and white cruiser with his loud speaker blaring, “On the motorcycle, pull over after the light.” I lifted my hand in recognition and looked over at Mick.
“Let’s trade,” he said. “I’ve never ridden your bike.” He slipped out of the cage and I threw my leg over the seat and got in his car. Karen stayed on the bike. That’s when the light turned green, the siren blared, and the cop called for back-up. Big mistake.
I was pulled over on the bridge overlooking the 605 and handcuffed. The night went downhill from that point on. I stood along side Alondra Boulevard chained to the railing for hours. We fucked up. They tried to make the bike for being stolen or packed full of dope. They attempted to make Mick the ringleader. And four hours later I was transported to the L.A. County lock-up. The black cop driving the Highway Patrol cruiser was convinced that Karen was one of our under-aged prostitutes and we were protecting her. I spent most of the night in jail while Mick and my partners partied in the lobby until they allowed me to bail out.
Ya see, if you catch a break, don’t disrespect it for a second. The next punch could kick your ass.
Ride Forever, Bandit. —
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