Joey Bunch woke with a start. He needed to ride to his assigned position to block the 405 freeway and meet an activist group hauling a banner: Folks against Fossil Fuels. He knew the movement made significant progress in the last year. The Zero concept had taken off. It just needed to be implemented. He was told the urgency was everywhere. But nothing seemed fun anymore. It was all doom and hate, but he was pushed by his buds to attend.
He rode an old ’69 Sportster XLCH with a magneto. It took him a few minutes of kicking to get it started on the cool morning. But then he blazed through the back streets of Venice, California, just west of downtown Los Angeles toward the designated meeting spot.
Through one trash strewn alley after another he darted, making his way to the freeway. A confused kid, he watched his neighborhood deteriorate as more illegals, homeless and drug addicts filled the streets. He didn’t dare leave his vintage Sportster in full view of street traffic. It would be ripped-off in a hot second.
He pulled onto Lincoln Boulevard near LAX airport and scooted into a trashy asphalt parking lot next to his favorite coffee shop. He chained up his bike, even though he could watch it constantly while inside and would only be separated for less than ten minutes.
He ordered his café latte and a gluten-free breakfast sandwich. He wore hiking boots, denims, a flannel shirt and a Patagonia down vest. He wasn’t a biker but a clean-shaven hiker with a vintage Sportster. The coffee shop was strewn with political activist posters and notices. As he ordered he noticed another bike pull into the parking lot, a Panhead with highbars and upswept pipes, a chopper.
The rider climbed off the saddle wearing tattered leather pants, cowboy boots, a denim shirt and a worn leather vest sporting multiple pins and patches. Both wrists were wrapped with engraved leather armbands. He was 6 feet, muscular and tattooed with the image of a dragon’s claw in black, red and gray crawling up his neck.
“Thanks,” Joey said caught off guard.
“Where you headed?” Ringo asked deciding what to order.
“I’m riding to a protest,” Joey said and some of the other folks at a nearby table perked up and nodded. One gave him a thumbs up.
“Interesting,” Ringo said. “I’m headed to Bandit’s Cantina in San Pedro. Bandit and some of the brothers are also riding to your protest.”
“You’re kidding,” Joey wasn’t convinced about the movement. He knew some of the kids were being paid to attend and support these functions. He couldn’t get his head around killing oil. He knew 80 percent of all the equipment in the coffee shop were oil-based products.
“Yeah,” Ringo said, “We’re riding out in an hour.”
“That’s so cool,” a sweet looking blond babe interrupted their conversation. “We need to stand up and save the planet. We’ve got to stop people from being able to drive their cars.”
Joey looked out at the parking lot jammed with cars, coffee shop patrons and mothers taking their kids to practice. A massive billboard perched above the strip mall announced the new BMW SUV. Lincoln Boulevard was jammed with ICE traffic and he watched as a jumbo jet flew overhead. He scratched his forehead.
Other patrons got up to congratulate the two riders. “We’re proud of you guys taking a stand,” said a tall hippie as he dumped his trash in the plastic container. He walked out to an ancient VW bus and drove off in a cloud of worn-rings exhaust smoke.
Four young college kids got up from their table and clapped as the two rides headed toward the door. “Would you like to ride with us,” Ringo said as he filled his cup with black coffee.
“I’d like to,” Joey said, “But I told some folks I would meet them. They won’t be riding motorcycles, mostly bicycles. Some are coming in a bus, diesel powered, strange.”
“What do they think of your Sportster?” Ringo asked reaching into his vest for his gloves.
Ringo kicked his Panhead to life, pulled on his shades and gloves. “There’s going to be a party at Bandit’s Cantina after the protest,” Ringo said. “Ride over. You can’t miss it, just under the Vincent Thomas Bridge. There will be lots of cool bikes, babes and hot rods.”
“I think I might,” Joey said.
Ringo pulled in his clutch and then stopped. “I almost forgot,” he said, slipped off his left glove and reached into his vest and returned with a round sticker about 4 inches in diameter. “This has the address on it.”
Ringo slipped his black gauntlet glove back on, revved the straight pipes and blasted down Lincoln like he owned the road.
Joey watched amazed, as the metal-flake and flamed chopper split lanes toward the freeway. He looked at the sticker and saw the face of bandit in the center. Under it is said, “Bandit’s Cantina” and the address. But in bold letters surrounding the Cantina logo were the words: Bikers for Fossil Fuels.
“Oh fuck,” Joey said aloud and straddled his Sportster.
-END-
Don’t miss the next chapter. –Bandit
