RIDING WITH OUTLAWS
I went riding with outlaws the other Sunday. It was 44 degrees. I was on a Honda Valkyrie.
It was one of the best days I’ve had in ages.
What’s that? You’ve never ridden with outlaws?
Sucks to be you, I guess.
What’s wrong? You concerned they might set fire to your Jap bike, steal your missus, laugh at you or maybe burn down an orphanage?
The Albury chapter arrives.
And arrives some more.
You actually believe what you read in the papers, don’t you? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Never mind. I can assure you the outlaws don’t care what you think.
Me? Well, my only concern is that you actually do make an effort to think. For yourself.
The occasion was the Black Uhlans MC’s annual Ride to Win run.
I went along because I love these types of runs. They speak to me. Actually, they grab me by the neck, shake me like a rag doll and scream: “This is what it’s about, motherfucker! This is what it has always been about!” in my face.
I need reminding of that sometimes. But I have never forgotten and I will never forget.
See? No-one set fire to the Honda.
Flo’s beaut EBR.
Now let’s understand a few things…
The members of one percent motorcycle clubs are, at heart, all motorcyclists. Sure, there is an argument that says some clubs have changed in recent times and riding bikes is no longer the governing factor for them. But the blokes I know and have known for decades, and the blokes I go for a ride with now and again, are all motorcyclists. Hard-core, face-in-the-wind, ride them hard and put them away wet, motorcyclists.
You don’t think a Harley goes all that quick?
OK. You go right on thinking that. It goes well with your thoughts on burning orphanages.
I would just like to remind you that this is not a HOG club ride, girls.
Flo from the Black Uhlans was on the latest weapon from Eric Buell. Sean was two-up on a Speed Triple. There are Rocket Threes and weaponised VRODs wherever you look. One such monster piloted by a member of Highway 61 fed the Valkyrie its six-cylinder arse heading into Appin at all sorts of dire velocities.
Because, unlike those Harley-Davidson social club rides, these are not parades. These are runs. Men are going places on loud motorcycles with intent.
There were about 250 bikes, with members from the Mobshitters, Highway 61, Outcasts and Infidels along for the blast. The Veterans MC was there and a few members from two Christian clubs were also on hand – so God was probably on our side too.
The Honda and me. Thanks to Brett Cross for the pic.
Another of Brett’s shots.
See what I did here? Clever, huh? At 120km/h no less.
At the first beer stop. Blessed shade.
Life-giving beer. Beats the fuck out of coffee every time.
Something sure was. Not a single police officer stopped anyone and no-one fell off. I did see one Highway Patrolman pulled over not far out of Rockdale filming the pack with his iPhone. Clearly an intelligence-gathering operation at the highest level or he was going home to touch himself over the footage later.
Part of me was curious to see if there would be a road block and the attendant police harassment. After all, bikies are the current cause célèbre of the various governments. They have been re-labelled by the idiot media which serves the governments’ agenda as “criminal organisations” and therefore, anything can be justified to crush them.
Just in case the urge to scale your marlin came upon you.
Guess what? They are not criminal organisations. They never have been. Sure, there may be criminals within their ranks, just as there are criminals within the ranks of the police and the Catholic Church. The ratio of criminals in our society is a constant no matter what tribe you belong to. There were actually more cops charged with various offenses last year than there were one percenters.
And this crushing the clubs business? It’s not working. Nor is it going to work. You cannot outlaw outlaws and the more pressure you apply to these men, the more they will dig in their heels and resist conforming, complying and being crushed.
Because all that police and government anti-bikie shit really is, is a war against looking scary. It’s a war against non-conformity. It is that banal. It has nothing to do with criminality. They just tell you that so you don’t get upset about all the civil liberties that are being removed from you under the guise of “crushing criminal motorcycle gangs”.
But all it’s done is knitted memberships tighter and allowed the various clubs a kinship and a common enemy they may not have had before. Sure, it’s a hard and tough time to be an outlaw. But outlaws tend to be harder and tougher than your average citizen.
And riding with them is purely and simply one of the greatest motorcycling pleasures you can ever have.
The pack left from Tempe and proceeded to Bundeena via the Royal National Park in temperatures that would fry an egg. It was all two-abreast, old-school pack-riding at its finest and most furious.
I was good with that. Men who ride in packs know how to ride in packs. At speed. I was not concerned about being rear-ended or swerved into like I normally am whenever I’m dumb enough to go to a protest ride or some big social ride with people I don’t know. I didn’t know many of these blokes, but I was confident they knew what they were doing. And they did.
The run through Nasho was paced – there were mums and dads and cars and traffic to contend with and it was getting hotter by the minute, but the sea breeze that hit us as we crested the rise before descending into Bundeena was like a balm.
The bowling club welcomed us with beer – no, coffee shops are not on the visiting list, and a man is entitled to have a fucken beer every now and again as he rides his bike in hot weather. It’s the law, you know. You are permitted point-o-five. It says so in the Crimes Act.
We left Bundeena and made for Appin pub via Stanwell Tops. And it got hotter. The sea breeze was gone and we were riding a blast furnace – side by side at what one must term “a spirited pace”. It was ten-bastards hot and there was cold beer at the next stop. So no-one was fucken sight-seeing.
The thunder this kind of riding generates is astonishing. It is like being inside a raging electrical storm. You really have to ride it to understand – 250-odd Harleys being ridden by one-percenters makes an impossibly soul-stirring noise. You’d have to be some kind of dead or some kind of weird not to howl in delight. The heat was frying me, but no-one was backing off and no-one had yet fainted and I was not going to be THAT guy.
I have never been happier to see a pub than when I pulled up at the Appin Hotel.
Beer. Please. Now.
And that’s kind of a good rule to take on board these runs.
Do not be THAT guy.
Do not be the one who runs wide on a corner. Do not be the one who does something weird on the road. Do not be the one who rides into the back of a patch-member’s bike because you’re admiring your awesomness in a shop window or looking to see if people are looking at you – rest assured, you do look awesome and people are looking at you.
Pay attention. All the time. The pack depends on you to not be a fuckwad.
In fact, these kind of runs and these kind of organisations do tend to be fuckwad-free and not really tolerant of fuckwad-ism, which is why I like them so much.
There should be more of that in our fuckwad-ridden society.
So don’t be a fuckwad and you’ll have the time and ride of your life.
My thanks to Sean and the Black Uhlans MC for their hospitality.
About the Author
Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.
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