You’ve seen everything scrambling through my world over the last decade on Bikernet, so it’s been difficult to write a Life and Times. Besides, I should have been dead 15 years ago, shot by some sweet ex’s old man while sipping my last Jack Daniels at a harbor town bar. I’ve touched on this tale a couple of times, but recently felt the burning desire to tie it all together into a strident piece about fleeting freedoms in this country. In fact, I have an ominous goal for 2011 to write a screenplay about this subject. You’ll be able to see it come together next year.
This particular tale began when I left Easyriders and moved to San Pedro in 1999. I can’t tell you how fortunate I was to be able to stumble into partial retirement at the age of 52. What a rush. I was recently divorced and shit-canned the psycho broad that caused me to blow up another relationship. I was on my own when I moved into a little house on Crescent Avenue, after completely refurbishing the stucco abode overlooking the massive Los Angeles harbor. I didn’t know anyone except Dr. Nuttboy, who helped me with the construction with his lovely wife, Ms. Zimmerman.
At the time, my regular rider was built by me, Jesse James, and one of his crewmembers, who bailed as Jesse’s ego grew out of hand. This bike had steel bags and ran a set of turned-out straight pipes that blew the trash away from the curb better than passing street sweepers. The 98-incher thundered like a freight train over the Vincent Thomas Bridge into Long Beach, or north along the cliff-side roads over the Palos Verdes Peninsula toward Santa Monica. What a rush it was to find new roads, new saloons, and new women.
At the time, Agent Zebra lived in an apartment in Malaga cove just to the north, and we often ripped along the winding coast north of San Pedro. It was a magical time. I was about as free as any man could be at my age. I was healthy, with a gym in my home, plus I hooked up with Sifu, a martial arts master named Richard Bustillo, who trained for years with Bruce Lee. I also worked out with my one of my best friends, Mark Lonsdale, who trained me in Close Quarters Combat, and wrote the book. He still makes regular trips to Afghanistan to train troops, and Sifu flies to the Philippines and Europe to train with other martial arts masters.
There I was in the center of LA, on the coast, and I relished living that close to the water. I had everything at my fingertips a man could dream of, including a pure, creative, motorcycle endeavor, Bikernet. I could create daily, writing in my living room while watching cruise ships motor out of the harbor, then I could ride north and party with the Agent, or south to Long Beach and we partied like loners in a strange town. We ripped through first Thursdays in downtown Pedro, when the shops were open late and street vendors roamed, selling their wares. We scared citizens with blaring pipes and hot rod Harleys.
We peeled along the coast half-drunk and slipped into our garages, thankful that we survived another wild excursion into the night. I could tell you about the fire chief coming to town and flying into downtown Long Beach, along Ocean Avenue, as if all the LB cops were on strike. Then there was that birthday night when Chris Chrome came to town. We ate dinner at the 22nd Street Landing and the lovely Nyla met us.
We drove back to Crescent and parked his hot rod for a night of drinking at the local saloons, Harold’s, Rebels, and the Spot. We were cool until that last double-shot Jack-on-the-rocks at Harold’s. That blonde behind the counter pours the stiffest drinks in Pedro. We staggered back to the shack on the cliff.
We were cool until Chris said something about pancakes and we crawled into his car, looking for an open all-night café. Unfortunately, the one across from the waterfront was closed and we went in a burnout, peel-out search of Denny’s or Norm’s. We survived to reach Norm’s on Pacific Coast Highway, where Chris puked in the head and I ate pancakes. We took a cab home. From that moment on I refused to drink and drive, anywhere. I hate DUIs and refuse to ever come in contact with one. They’re degrading and way too expensive. Another bullshit governmental control.
That was around 2000, the century switch and the decline of freedom. It started with a run to Redondo Beach with the Chief. We were pulled over on the coast along the Palos Verdes Peninsula, where a cop announced, “Don’t ever ride into my town wearing a beanie helmet again.”
I tried wearing a full-face helmet and even one of those old cool, Bell-type helmets. They block my peripheral vision. Three times, I’ve faced serious freeway close calls, because I don’t sense the car beside me. I quit riding north into big-buck housing land.
Months passed serenely. Then, after a weekend of peeling over bridges into Long Beach, the Press Telegram announced that noise ordinance blockades were set up in Long Beach, and I started riding inland to avoid loud pipe police. I listen to loud trucks pass our headquarters daily, all fuckin’ daylong. We listen to trains clanking and screeching every night, but one or two loud motorcycles must be regulated. Bullshit!
We spent several months working on our Bikernet Independent Noise study, and it worked for common sense-induced officials in Wyoming and even in San Pedro, but not in upscale Long Beach. I’ll never forget the movement in Ventura, California to ban industry from moving into their pristine neighborhoods. They wanted every community to be a tourist destination, but they didn’t want any tourists to sully their streets. Strange.
We were headed into an era of rampant regulation. A good friend and a photographer for Easyriders laughed at me when I mentioned freedom.
“Everything needs regulation,” he said, and I cringed.
Then as the new century rolled into play and various communities attacked motorcycles as the source of all their noise issues, helmet laws were being pushed again, and motorcycle events were attacked and shut down, like Hollister, Myrtle Beach and Daytona unsuccessfully. Then the Mother’s Against Drunk Drivers movement gained momentum and sobriety checkpoints were initiated.
That did it. Where could I ride? The regulatory world was closing in on me. I moved deeper into the bowls of the Los Angeles Harbor, to Wilmington, the darkest industrial berg tucked behind terminal Island and the Port of Los Angeles. The town is 85 percent lower income Hispanic, and the asphalt-striped pattern is rife with street gangs, but cops don’t fuck with bikers. Union workers storm into town twice a day, grab their jobs, and peel out. Wilmington is a joke to them. It’s the hole they run to in order to snatch up their high-paying jobs, then they escape home to Long Beach or San Pedro. But Wilmington is a bastion of freedom for a handful of bikers who roam the side streets, past the junk yards and container parking lots, dodging 18-wheelers that crowd the streets like SUVs at a mall.
I reached out to the community and found the Wilmington Waterfront Development Committee. I attended meetings and discovered their efforts to bring some level of waterfront to the post-industrial community. Seems San Pedro has five miles of waterfront, whereas little Wilmington, named after Wilmington, Delaware, has a mere 600 feet. This community group fought for a decade to capture some land back from the port and create parks and a corridor to the water. Some of the gentlemen on the group board are cresting their mid-70s. They might not make it to see their dreams realized, but they continue to fight.
So there you have it. The last decade in a regulatory nutshell. They closed in on me from the north, then the south, and the inner city traps me against the port. I’ve always supported motorcyclists’ rights and will do so until I die. More and more motorcycles represent freedom in this country. I watch a movie from the ’30s and my heart pounds for the simple life. We all need to join our motorcycle rights effort, and I will continue to press the word for motorcycle freedom the world over. We can’t give up.
Ride Forever
–Bandit
