SoCal so cool

Not that it looked quite like this when I was last in southern California visiting (among other things) NAMM at Anaheim and the Fender museum in Corona (some bastard nicked the camera at LAX before I’d downloaded the pics), but the quality of light is instantly recognisable as overwhelming and unforgettable, the wide streets stretch arrow-straight for miles, the palm trees grow like weeds at the roadside and everywhere, in all things, California speaks with a unique voice.

Good times, bad times

Gimme some of that…

Ironic that it’s the bad times – squatting at the side of the road fixing a puncture – which make the good memories right? As a student in the 1980s, living on a grant in central London, my primary mode of transport (other than the CZ combination documented elsewhere at Mondo) was a scrap of cardboard and my thumb. The card bearing a destination – 'Further' to paraphrase Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters – and my thumb frantically flagging down passing (unfortunately male) motorists generally interested only in the contents of my Levis than any desire to whisk me from A to there.

And of course it’s the trips that went horribly wrong that are the most memorable. I certainly won’t bore you by recounting them here, suffice it to say that the next time you’re crouched in the dust poking an unsuitable tool into a flat tyre in a bid to pry it from a recalcitrant rim, bear in mind you’re making memories. Good memories.

Nowhere to go but everywhere

“I realised these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming of the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives…”

Jack Kerouac, On The Road

Groan, another book review

But what a book! The Original Wild Ones, Tales of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club (MBI Publishing Co, 2005).

Frankly, it’s not a great book but by dint of being the only one available on the subject it warrants bookshelf real estate for anyone even vaguely interested in the history and antics of the ‘originals’ – the granddaddies of ye olde patche ganges…er, gangs. The guys and gals who were rebels when it still meant something and when motorcycles allied with road trips, drunken rowdiness and a certain amount of being beastly to townsfolk and back-chatting the authorities was as bad as it got. Before being fat, bald, tattooed and pointlessly aggressive on a stock Evo with a few factory accessories became the badge of those who offer themselves as bad to the bone.

And anyway, blame the bloody weather for the endless procession of postings not featuring rides-out. At my age, warmth and comfort have replaced a dedication to Riding That Knows No Limits.

But back to the book.

Accepted wisdom suggests the story runs something along the lines of: returning WWII vets bored with small town USA look for kicks aboard bobbed motorsickles with their best gals riding up behind. Cheating death at 90 miles an hour and giving the finger and possibly a black eye to all who stand between them and…blah.

Well, the truth is in there somewhere but can’t we simply imagine ‘them guys’ is ‘us guys’, blokes interested in biking because they like bikes not especially because they need something to replace the adrenalin high of a B-17 Flying Fortress at 25,000 ft. Of course I don’t know, but I imagine that having done the B-17 stuff, the very best you can hope for is not to be doing it anymore and that small town USA, with a bottle of beer and a Bettie Page-alike riding pillion in a ring-T and high-waisted skinnies is all the kicks you need baby.

All aboard for boozy biking fun

But back to the book (again).

‘Wino’ Willie Forkner it was who decided to bring together a few buddies hep to the joys of bikes, booze and bints and bestow upon them the name Boozefighters. And yea, having done this, the club, alongside many other such clubs grew and prospered, enjoyed ride-outs, engaged in all manner of fun shenanigans and generally got back some of what had been taken from them by the European and Japanese conflicts until the advent of urban decay, ‘police actions’ abroad against the Red Menace, and brainless wannabees going forever too far in a bid to make up for a lack of inches and a suppressed interest in the same sex (which would be far healthier and better for everyone unsuppressed) fucking ruined it for everyone.

Kind of like the Sex Pistols before Sid joined but without the Uranian aspect.

But back (once again) to the book.

The text meanders like a 1950s Land Rover with knackered track rod ends but… but it is the story of the Boozefighters Motorcycle Club and a mighty interesting story it is too.

And, it’s fair to say, everyone on two wheels in the Western World is shot through with a faint but detectable afterglow of the greatest bang since…well, the Big Bang.

Ladies and gentlemen, the joy that is the Boozefighters…

Boozemobile complete with converted trailer used as 'sleep it off' HQ

Balancing act

Bringing up the rear on a big twin in the California sunshine while wrestling an Agfa 120 Isolette folder…

The tenants of the room

Madam Life's a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere
She's the tenant of the room
He's the ruffian on the stair

You shall see her as a friend
You shall bilk him once or twice
But he'll trap you in the end
And he'll stick you for her price

With his kneebones at your chest
And his knuckles in your throat
You would reason – plead – protest!
Clutching at her petticoat

But she's heard it all before
Well she knows you've had your fun
Gingerly she gains the door
And your little job is done
W E Henley

How many greasers does it take to fix a bobber?

One to wield the wrench, the other five to look very cool…

Remember, if it ain't cool cycles…

…it ain't worth Jack!