My Short Tenure As A Biker Gang Leader

The two shaky white-glowing orbs framed in my Napoleon bar mirrors quickly grew into the image of motorcycles, and a fast over-the-shoulder look revealed a custom chopper and a Harley Softail Springer on my tail. Despite wearing hides of animals on the endangered species list, both riders were gents, and maintained a respectable distance in a staggered formation. These machines had straight pipes, the roar of which caused the capillaries in my eyes to pulsate -- despite the fact I was in front of them.

The 2009 Harley Softail Springer "Cross Bones" has the classy, sexy lines of a biker's bike.

The rider on the left sported a chrome half-helmet and aviator-style glasses. The chopper's fork stuck out further than the reach of my second's wife's lawyer. The bike was a gorgeous metallic green, framed in chrome. I couldn't really see the Springer as well as I would have liked, but the rider seemed the part, with tattoes of hell and a grimace to match.

"Damn," I thought. "I should move over and let them by."

Rolling off the throttle slowed my '86 Beemer K-75 down a hair, a move these two guys simply copied. Surfing on the surge of sound, it occurred to me that this is what is must be like to lead a small -- but elite -- motorcycle gang.

I twisted the throttle out and the two bikers followed along like we were part of a synchronized Olympic event. This suited me to a "t." For a brief moment in time, it appeared as if two iron-horsed strangers had elected me leader and were determined to do my bidding. (Bear in mind I am also under the impression that most of the women I pass in cars want to have sex with me.) There are those who believe I read a lot into things.

The left turn signals on the trailing bikes winked on as we approached an intersection, and I realized my tenure as leader was about to end.

"Screw that," I thought, switching on my left turn signal as well.

We all banked into the turn like the Rocketts going through a routine at Radio City Music Hall. I was a bit more aggressive with the throttle now , as I didn't want this odd coincidence to prompt these guys to zip around me. They appeared to take my maneuvering in stride.

Nothing says "biker gang" like the classic "chopper."

Two miles later, their turn signals blinked on again, telegraphing a turn to the right. Once again, I also signaled a turn to the right. This prompted a quick exchange of glances between the other riders, who were beginning to catch on. This stretch of road ran us through a residential section, bracketing a small park. The speed limit dropped to 35 mph, which brought loud growls and staccato barks from the Harleys. To my delight, this happened at the entrance to the park, in which a dozen or so women were walking or jogging around a track.

Every head snapped around to the sound of the Harley pipes.

"Boy is this great," I thought. I had often envisioned myself at the head of a small biker gang, roaring into a village. In my mind, women would bite their upper lips, and run out on balconies -- while lifting their shirts -- at the roar of the exhaust. This wasn't quite the same thing, but it wasn't bad.

It must of looked somewhat odd though: two lean, tough-looking Harley riders, following the Michelin Tire Man on a futuristic BMW from 1986. I made the best of it, and attempted to look tough by jutting out my chin in a scornful pose once used to great effect by Benito Mussolini. I was noticed by two ladies, who then seemed to share a private joke as they busted out laughing.

It was at this juncture in the ride that I lost my gang. An explosion of sound behind me announced my escort was disappearing down a side road. I couldn't help but notice that neither rider bothered to signal this time. They had figured out that their leader, a biker lamprey, had been attracted by the light of their turn signals. They were taking no chances this time. I thought of pursuing them but gave this idea up as being beneath the dignity of a leader.

I figured an impression had been made on the ladies at the park, however, and I turned back hoping to get a little skirt action. I jazzed my engine while passing again through the epicenter of lovelies. The Beemer snarled like a wild electric razor running over a tough patch of chin whiskers. I'm sure this sound would have melted some cast-iron feminine resolve, if it hadn't been drowned out by the noise of the crickets in the park.

My arrival back at the house was shrouded in private humility, as I was sure the ride's details were known only to myself. However, it seems one of my girl’s friends was in the park that afternoon, and had called her to report I was being pursued by two biker toughs, who looked like they were going to beat the shit out of me.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2005
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- Perdition’s Socks (With A Shrug)