Biker Blood

Biker Blood Rhyme

2011-12-26T20:21:00.000-08:00

Written by Happy Butt

Searching for my soul, I fire up my bike.
Today I’ll hit the road with no return in sight.
I’m headin up the coast. Got my angel by my side.
No more time for anyone; I just have to ride.
All I need is my bike to free me from this place.
The freedom and God’s love bring peace upon my face.
There’s no way to explain the passion that I feel.
Unless you have Biker Blood, you simply are not real.

Raised up to be ridin. Mom and Dad made sure of that.
A child of fight and freedom; a wildchild at that.
Thanks Dad for the passion you have instilled inside.
You gave me independence and the heart to ride.
Thanks Mom, your one righteous sister.
You gave me strength to fight the fight.
You raised up a woman. Once burned, it can’t be right.
My angel will be ridin just as I do now.
Biker Blood runs through her veins and nothing will hold her down.
I have no time for sittin still and wasting one more day.
Love seems to come and go but ridin’s here to stay.
Getting friendly on the road keeps my appetite in check.
I love you Baby, so he says, as he holds me by my neck.
I’m no fool. I’ve heard it all and seen a little more.
Put on my chaps, one last kiss, and blow right out the door.

The bike fired up, ridin hard, I'm smilin in the wind.
Got no time to be held down. Won't waste my days again.
This sister has to ride! God knows I need it more.
Biker Blood runs through these veins.
Those with less can hit the door!

Typical Home Sweet Home

2011-09-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Mom began seeing Fernando when I was sixteen. I do not believe Fernando ever patched, but he and his family were closely affiliated to the club who pretty much ran the San Francisco Bay area. One of the biggest problems with Mom hooking up with Fernando was he was already living with Teresa. It did not take long before Teresa discovered her ole man was sleeping with my mother. She had confronted Fernando about it and demanded he end things with her.

He was no good to our family. My little brother was only in third grade with no father around. And here was this man my mother let into the house who was nothing but abusive to her son and an outright danger to our family. But I was not afraid of him. I was numb to it. By this time, I was planning my exodus from my mother's home. My time was spent in school, and working or partying with friends when I was not in school. Neither he or my mother had control over me.

Fernando is a collector of all types of weaponry. He cherished his arsenal of weapons. People knew who to call on when they needed something. Fernando taught me to shoot with an old black powder shotgun. It knocked me on my ass and bruised up my shoulder pretty bad. But overall, I had good aim.

So did Mom. But she learned to shoot as a kid growing up with a family of gun wielding mafia and sharpened her skills later in life with the club brothers. It is in our bloodline.

The fighting between mom, Fernando, and Teresa was becoming very intense. At one point, my boyfriend received a call from Teresa as she was looking for someone to rescue her. After a huge argument with Fernando, he cuffed Teresa to the coffee table by her ankles and left to come to our house for the weekend.

Teresa wanted my mom's blood.

Once Teresa was freed, not only did she bury Fernando's arsenal deep in the backyard, but she armed herself with a butcher knife and headed straight to our place. She would have been smarter to bring a gun, but Teresa was a true fighter. Regardless, she had no idea what she was up against.

Mom had warned me not to answer the front door. She wanted to be prepared in case Teresa showed up. Today, my mom was at work. Instead of listening to my mother, when I heard Teresa screaming outside our front door, I chained the door and opened it as far as the chain would allow. Teresa was screaming at me to let her in. She wanted to have some words with my mother. I kept telling her to leave us alone. Next thing I knew, she stuck her arm into the doorway, swinging this large butcher knife at me. I managed to grab her arm and the knife fell to the floor just after it clipped the back of my heel.

She left, and we were once again on high alert at home...

I worked as much as I possibly could in my junior year of high school. My job had me working the closing shift at Sizzler so I would get home real late each night. It was bad enough that I had to watch over my shoulder when I walked up to my front door, but I was not at all prepared for what would happen inside once I opened the door.

Walking into our townhouse, the hall light was on which was unusual. There was my mother at the top of the stairs, with her .38 aimed right at me.

Stop right there, bitch! She was drunk. I could tell by her slurring.

Mom, it's me!

Solo for Safety

2011-07-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

Teaching someone else how to ride a motorcycle never entered my mind until I aced the motorcycle written test. The first thing the instructor asked me was if I'd consider becoming an instructor. I did not respond. Then, after I passed my skills test, the same instructor pulled me aside and said, "Hey, you are damn good! You practically aced the skills course too! Would you like to teach this course?"

I just could not fathom that, really.

But as I talked with others and reflected on how much I absolutely love to ride, I gave it some serious consideration.

So, I talked to the instructor and ordered my study materials. I had to attend other classroom teachings to observe other instructors. I took good notes and learned some different teaching styles. You never know who will make up your group of riders. Some are first timers, like I was. Others are seasoned riders, but are finally taking the safety course to refresh their skills. It was real interesting to see the make up of those in my class.

I had bought my bike about three months before and pretty much had been riding it every single day. So, I already had the basics down and knew I was coordinated enough to handle my Sportster. Others in my class were not so comfy and it showed right from the gate.

One woman was determined to learn how to ride. She had been in so many accidents on the back of her old man's bike, she refused to ride with him anymore. The bummer was she never got that 125cc out of 2nd gear. She dropped it a couple times, had trouble shifting, and nearly crashed over the curb. The instructor asked her to not try any further, save face, and come back again after she had a bit more time working with a dirt bike. She was so mad at herself and determined she would be back.

Another woman could not get the coordination down whatsoever. It just did not work for her. She had not even learned how to drive a stick shift.

My opinion is if you can drive a stick shift, you can manage a motorcycle. If you can ride a motorcycle, you can pretty much drive anything. My opinion anyway.
So, I began taking things real seriously when my Drill Sargent instructor kept yelling at me because I was not looking ahead at the outside of my turn. My problem was I kept staring at my front wheel! He told me I am never going to get where I am going unless I look at where it is I want to go!

Ok, I got that!

But taking my eyes off the front end of my bike was real hard to do! Not sure why! But when I forced myself to do this, it made all the difference in the world.

One of the problems with the class was it was friggin HOT out there in the middle of the asphalt. You had to wear long sleeves and a full helmet, which I was not at all used to. I wear one of those barely there helmets. Not sure what they call them, but they do not do squat for head protection.

Part of the course involved practicing swerving around obstacles in the road. Wow, would that come in handy sooner than I thought. I wanted to complete this 3-day training course so I could get my license so I could ride to the Redwood Run with my friends. That was only one month away!

Anyway, the swerving around obstacles test was all about maneuvering around orange cones. No problem. Where the real test came in was not so long after I completed this class.

I was flying up Hwy 50 in the fast lane when I saw this old pick up truck up ahead a ways. It had wood side panels on the truck bed which held a huge load of car bumpers...steel car bumpers! There was another sports bike in the lane next to me. He was behind me a bit too. Then suddenly those car bumpers started flying out of the back of that pick up truck! At first, it was not that big of a deal because it was only a couple that hit the highway. But then the whole load of them loosed free and began bouncing all over the freeway! One would hit the fast lane and bounce across to the slow lane, then come back again. Some were mid air! I thought for sure I was going to be decapitated!

My first response was to slow down...way down....so I would not catch up to the bumpers until they stopped bouncing all over the road. It did not happen quite that way. I ended up swerving around these flying bumpers, just praying one would not catch my skin or neck, or my tires! The other rider beside me was doing the same thing.

We finally came to a stop along the median near the fast lane. My heart was in my stomach, for sure! My heartbeat was crazy fast. I'd actually come out of that mess without a scratch on myself or my bike! Wow, that class was worth it!!

I returned to the Street Skills training site and told my old instructor what had happened. He told me, "See, I told you you should teach this class!" Maybe he was right.

I ended up teaching three people how to ride. I enjoy it actually, as long as they are not on my bike. Made that mistake one time and it was certainly the last.

Thought this guy knew how to ride. It ended up he did not and he was not about to let the cat out of the bag to all the brothers hanging around Jerry's Tumbleweed. I could not show my face dating some wannabe who did not know how to ride a motorcycle!!! So, I put him on my Sportster and took him to a couple school parking lots. He did good until he forgot to turn the friggin handle bars.

Are you kidding me?

He used to race bicycles, for goodness sakes! How could you not turn the handlebars? He ended up running it up over a red curb onto the lawn and fell over. Minor damage.

Before long, he took to riding like a fish takes to water. Then we had to find him a bike. That was easy.

Never again will I find myself in that situation again.

So, I mentioned I was preparing to ride to the Redwood Run. It is a run I looked forward to every June. But for years, I was riding on the back with my ex. This time, it was all about me.

The friends I was riding with lived an hour from me, so I had to get to their place first. That was our meeting point. This was real interesting for me since it was my first time venturing out on a freeway and headed for the bay area. People drive crazy on those freeways. I made it there just fine. It was leaving there with these kamakazi friends of mine that started my ride out of their neck of the woods a bit rough.

They blasted ahead of me without a warning. We never even discussed our route. I think they thought I just knew where I was going! When I finally maneuvered my way through the traffic to catch up with them, I flagged them down so we could set some road rules.

See, they were all riding much more powerful motorcycles. Mine was only a 900cc. So we finally started cruising up Hwy 101. I had no idea how much I would be beat up on my first solo run! What a difference compared to riding on the back of a bike. You get all the wind, all the elements, and all the bugs. Not to mention, the other things flying up from the road.

And you think your butt gets sore riding 25 miles on a bicycle? Try riding at 80 mph for 100 miles without stopping. Ok, I am not whining. But for the first time out solo, this is quite an adjustment for your hands, feet, neck, and ass. Your entire body gets all tingly. It's exhilarating...in many ways!!!

I decided I needed 100 mile rest stops. Riding any more than that was just too much on my neck.

Here we were, twenty minutes outside of the event and suddenly the air became real misty. That meant the roads were wet. That also meant wet and foggy goggles....and slower speeds.

Everyone signaled to slow way down. There was danger ahead. It was an accident. Yep, first run and I get to witness a bike going down.

I heard the crash of the bike around the turn but did not actually see it happen. When our group pulled around the bend, the rider was lying in the middle of the street and his bike was on the edge of the road, mangled. His riding partner had ridden ahead of him and saw the accident in his mirror. He had just pulled up to the scene and ran over to his brother. His body was lifeless. We all thought he was dead. Blood was trickling from beneath his helmet.

Someone called Cal Trans while me and Leslie did traffic control on each side of the road.

By the time the paramedic arrived, the brother had regained consciousness and they said he would be alright. Praise God! His beautiful red Road King was a different story, though.

That slowed things down a bit for all of us the rest of the weekend! It ended up being a ton of fun even though the event is scattered with many accidents, some of which are not so happy endings as I described here. That really reminded me of how important that safety course is. I tell people about it often. Maybe I will return to teach it; who knows.

You often learn more by just getting on your bike and taking off. Those close calls can do major damage. It's worth taking the course, no matter how long you've been riding.

I hope that sister who was determined to learn how to ride actually returned to Street Skills and got back on the motorcycle. That was a dream of hers. It was a dream of mine to learn how to ride. And it was one of the biggest accomplishments I am very proud of completing. It takes motorcycle riding to a whole new level. And it makes you more aware when you are on the back of how much control you absolutely do not have.

No thanks, I'll ride solo.

Lefty's Ranch and The Healing Pond

2011-04-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Leaving my comfortable apartment was not easy for me. Something did not set right with this decision to move out to Lefty's ranch. However, I had no other options; or so I believed. Feeling as though I had failed at yet another attempt to make it on my own, I wandered into the lion's den. Only there were no lions, but plenty of coyotes and serpents. The serpents were the scariest because they would hide beneath the blackberry bushes along the levy. What a surprise to suddenly hear the haunting sound of a rattler as I harvested berries early in the morning. We lost several cats to those evil predators.

The coyotes were always out in the early morning as well, on the hunt for one of our ranch cats. We had quite a few of them and each one had a name. Yes, and each one would come running when you called out to him or her. Then there were the dogs; Nikki, Goliath, and Thunder. Nikki was a Hungarian Vizsla and had been around for nearly twelve years. Her favorite past time was to swim around in the pond, hoping to scare off all the ducks. She could swim forever. Goliath was an enormous English Mastiff and a gentle giant weighing in at 230 lbs. He loved chasing the frogs around the pond and playing fetch with six foot logs. He would roll the log down to the water and chew on it like a twig, then carry that soaking wet log up the hill in his giant jowls. The first time I attempted to hand feed Goliath a bagel, his whole mouth covered my hand. I threw him goodies from that moment forward. He liked it when the kitties would curl up with him for a nap.

Then there was my baby, Thunder. She was a gorgeous Rottweiler, close to four years in age. I rescued her from a very neglectful home. Thunder showed her gratitude every single day. She was the smartest girl with the loveliest temperament. She weighed in at close to 100 pounds. Sometimes Thunder would find herself in a tight spot and have to back up over ten feet to get herself out of it. My favorite memory of her is how she would sit in front of me and wrap her left leg around my leg, leaning into me with a hug.

Aside from the domestic animals, plenty of wildlife lived on Lefty's ranch; even aside from the coyotes and rattlers. The ranch was full of deer, turkey, Snowy Igrids, Blue Herons, and Red Tailed Hawks. We even had a family of muskrats in the pond. Lefty called them Otters, but I knew they were muskrats.

Majestic Oaks blanketed the ranch. There was so much beauty there, especially in the Autumn and Spring months when everything was full of color.

One New Years Eve I called out to God. I told him I did not know how to have a relationship with him. I asked Him to show me what that would look like. Even though I prayed the sinner's prayer many years before, nobody took the time to teach and guide me along. There was so much I did not know or understand.

Call to Me and I will answer you and show you great and mighty things, fenced in and hidden, which you do not know (do not distinguish and recognize, have knowledge of and understand). - Jeremiah 33:3

What I did know was my life had taken a turn for the worst. Here I was living in a travel trailer with a man who did not love me enough to marry me. I began battling depression and having flashbacks of my childhood which caused me to retreat to a corner most nights. I had began to drink whiskey and smoke pot again and we only associated with those who lived this same lifestyle. We were not taking the bike out anymore and I allowed this man to control who I included in my circle of friends. Worst of all, my daughter wanted nothing to do with visiting me while I lived there. I had become a recluse on this 400-acre ranch which may as well have been out in the middle of nowhere. The courts decided Angelica was better off staying away from 'the ranch'.

All it took was that sincere plea from my anguished heart to set things in motion. The first thing God did was plant a desire in my heart and mind for His word. All my answers were right there and I literally could not put my Bible down. It went everywhere with me and I read, and read, and read. Some of the truths were so fascinating that I had to find the next one!

The Lord had already led me out to the wilderness, literally. The land was sub-leased for a couple different purposes. Half the land was occupied by cattle and another small part was leased to a strawberry farmer.

The road into the property was atop a levy which separated two ponds. When the runoff from the snow melt in the Sierra Nevada mountains would make it's way into the valley, the ponds would fill up. The creek from the top pond to the lower pond would become a fun place for the twenty ranch cats to scale as they were hunting for frogs, polliwogs and other goodies along the bank of the creek. I wanted to hear the answers and see his hand at work, so He led me to Solomon's Prayer for wisdom and spiritual discernment. I was so tired of believing the lies and the deceptions of the devil. I could not tell the difference of good and bad in my most vulnerable moments.

When I was out in the wilderness, the Lord provided a pond at which I would take my Bible, my writing, and my coffee. I encountered tremendous healing and deliverance at that pond. I encountered Jesus.

Lovely Outlaws - Half Ton

2011-04-08T22:45:00.000-07:00

What makes a person want to run with pirates?

Acceptance
Understanding
Escape
And so much more..

Half Ton was a man of few words. I looked forward to hearing what he had to say. There was just something about him. He also did not let very many get too close to him. Though he was prospecting for the VNVMC/Legacy Vets and always surrounded by his brothers, he really was more of a loner type. Getting to know Half Ton (formerly known as Jeffrey) was not easy. He guarded his heart with an invisible breastplate; a true warrior, in need of the healing love of Jesus.

Jeffrey had a beautiful wife and daughter. He also had a fulfilling career as a first responder after serving his country.

Life was good.

He was the Life-flight pilot on duty that night. As he and his crew came upon the scene, Jeffrey listened to the description of the vehicle over the radio.

"That sounds like my wife's car.."

When he arrived at the scene, he saw it was his beloved wife and precious daughter. Jeffrey used the 'Jaws of Life' to cut his way through to them. Their injuries were fatal. He did all he could to save them but they were already gone.

Not only did he lose all that mattered to him in his life but Jeffrey lost himself in the process. And he continued to lose everything else he loved in life; all he had worked for simply fell away. He was broken and destitute.

See, Jeffrey's childhood was a tragic one also. His beautiful life with his two precious girls seemed like the second chance at love he never had as a young boy.

Fast forward a few years.....This is when I actually met Jeffrey, but he was known as Half Ton, a prospect for a local chapter of the Vietnam Vets M/C. Many weekends I watched how Half Ton had to prove his loyalty and dedication to the brotherhood which required him to fulfill many unlawful acts. He watched the backs of his brothers when they were in trouble and they watched his. True blue. No judgment. No questions. Just love. Family...finally.

The Too Much Fun Club hosted a gathering on some property of theirs on the Northern California coast. Half Ton always seemed to go to these things riding solo. I was happy to get an invite and rode up with him and a couple brothers. Half Ton had my back on winding Highway 1. It was my first ride on that road on my bike.

Before heading out for a ride, the Chaplain gathered us for the blessing of the bikes. As he swept the burning sage over each club brother (and guest), the Chaplain prayed a blessing one by one with our bikes. When he came to Half Ton, I witnessed something very powerful. I was in no way following Jesus at the time, but God was with me. And he was with Half Ton. The Chaplain felt it and I felt it. Our brother was so hungry for healing in his heart that he wept as the Chaplain prayed over him. I heard the Chaplain later tell the club president, "This is one special brother you have here".

So true.

Military, brotherhood, camaraderie..Half Ton knew the support and loyalty of his brothers in the marines. When he lost everything he had, he looked for the same; a group who 'knew' him and whom he 'knew'. A familiar home he felt safe with.

What had life offered him? It took all he loved. He threw in the towel, so to speak. No more trying to make life happen according to life. Life did him wrong.

But God was pursuing Half Ton. He wanted to do heart surgery on him. It was right after this that I built up enough boldness to ask Half Ton about his life. I wanted to get a glimpse into his tender heart. I saw he did not fit in with this outlaw life. I was blessed that Jeff would open up to me and share that pivotal moment that sent him over the edge. Oh how beautiful it would have been if God's word were spoken into Jeff's heart that day. This Chaplain did not speak God's word.

I pray Jesus came and ministered to Jeff in that moment.

Grandma's Treasure Chest

2010-12-05T13:48:00.000-08:00

No matter how many times I sort through my grandmother's miniature chest of old photos and newspaper clippings, I am always surprised with new momentos she held onto throughout her life.

Today, I saw that little chest sitting on top of my boxes of photo albums stored in my brother's garage. When I opened it, I saw a hand written postcard I had not seen before.

First, let me explain..

My grandmother and her sisters were from a Sicilian family who made a living in bootlegging for many years. They kept rather colorful company and only dated men of wealth and power. My grandma Mary divorced from my grandfather when my mom was only five years old. That was in 1950. She was a pretty wild woman. She drank daily and always packed a .38 - NOT a real good combination.

The sisters spent much time at the race track. They were the track trophy girls, dressed in diamonds and fur. There are many pictures of them taken with the derby winners, race track owners, and riding in the parade in a brand new Cadillac with some millionaire. You get my drift..

Well, one of her sweeties had a rude awakening. Apparently, he did not understand what he was getting himself into...

My Dear Untamed,

Of all the pretty little canary birds that turned out to be a chicken hawk, you win the leather medal. You hard boiled man hater, you can't talk like that to me! I am not married to you!

Oh! What an eye opener you've been to me. Next time I date a girl, I'll carry a gat for protection. I should sue you for damages for pulling out my hair and scratching my face..you cat!

They should have named you "Cyclone"...you blow up faster than anything I ever saw.

Once is enough, old dear. No more cave woman stuff for me! I'm through!

Where's the Petcock: A Lesson in Riding

2010-09-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

There was always a good reason to pay Marty a visit. I loved sitting in his shop, watching him create beautiful body art. He'd recently began sketching an idea I had for some ink and I decided to head up to Auburn to pay him a visit.

At this time, I was learning how to ride. In California, the restrictions of riding with only a permit include riding only between dawn and dusk, staying off the freeways, and no passengers allowed. I'd only had my permit for a short while. My bike was my only mode of transportation. I had a big ride coming up to the Redwood Run with my friends from the Devil's Horsemen so I was determined to master it as quickly as possible.

Well, I've never been very compliant. However, I learned a very valuable lesson this evening...

I took my usual route up through the foothills from Folsom into Auburn, California. This road was absolutely perfect. Not only was the scenery just breathtaking, but the road had enough curves and gently sloped hills to get a good practice ride in. It seemed like I was always building up my riding skills along the way.

The ride up to Rebel Ink was gorgeous and watching Marty work his artistry was always amazing. What a gift!

Leaving his shop I realized it was just about dusk. This was not good because I was not supposed to be riding after dark. I figured I could just jump on the freeway, rather than taking my same route back home. That would get me home faster, right? This was my first mistake.

Well, the next mistake I made was thinking I had enough gas in my tank to make it all the way home. I did not even think to take the gas cap off to check the fuel level. Not very smart, huh? I just hopped on the freeway and hurried on my way home.

Riding close to 80 mph in the fast lane, the bike started making a funny noise. Sort of a sputtering sound. What the heck? Then the bike started to slow down...

I moved over to the middle lane and tried to accelerate but the bike was slowing even more. I had no idea what was going on. My speed was slowing to a dangerous point and it was now completely dark. When it dawned on me that I was running out of gas, I reached for the petcock (gas reserve switch). My problem was I couldn't find it!

Finally realizing I needed to get the hell off the freeway, I made my away across the slow lane. The moment I did this, I cut right in front of a big rig! He layed on his horn and scared the life out of me. My heart just about jumped out of my chest as he flew past my rear tire!

An angel was flying with me and I was certainly reminded to never ride faster than your angel can fly!

It took me a few minutes of sitting alongside the freeway to gather my bearings. Once I reached a state of calm, I flipped the petcock. Fortunately, there was a gas station at the next exit and I made it safely all the way home. All the way, I was feeling pretty stupid.

Once I parked the bike in my garage, I sat there on my bike in the complete darkness, reaching for the petcock over and over again. I'm pretty sure I practiced for a good half hour. I sure never forgot where the petcock was again!

Running Away From the Insanity

2010-02-07T22:30:00.000-08:00

After seventeen years of living in my own hell, I seized the opportunity and fled. It was important for me to complete high school. There was no way I would follow in those generational footsteps of a high school dropout. The whole world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll became a whirlwind of violence, rape, death, addiction, and fear. More and more friends were dying due to drug overdoses, stabbings, shootings, and suicide. If my friends weren't dying, they were getting pregnant and dropping out of school. It was hitting too close to home, all too often.

By this point, the outlaw clubs were in the background. A few club brothers would come around for drug deals, but our house was no longer filled with club colors and bikes. The people in our house were businessmen to the clubs and 'affiliated'. They always remained as my protectors and always had my respect.

The past few years consisted of a few attempts to run. It seemed wherever I ran to, there was more abuse. I could not find safe haven anywhere. When I left my mother's house after the eighth grade, I wanted to try living with my dad. The brutal kidnapping and murder of my grandfather was followed by absolute craziness for the next year. My family's darkest secrets surfaced. These were deals with the Sicilian Mafia gone bad. Mom was shot at, and I even had to run from attempted abduction while walking to school. The only positive in my life was the fact that my mother finally divorced Van. I swear he had something to do with my grandfather's murder. My Grandpa was the one who chased him away; he was the only one who had ever truly protected me from this monster, and now he was dead. I was living in complete fear and paranoia. I had to get out of there!

Though my dad seemed to have it together a bit more than my mom by now, I chose to move to his place in the San Francisco Bay Area. We lived in the small town of Antioch. Dad was still affiliated with the Hells Angels, but kept his business pretty separate from the house. He was very strict and still hooked on cocaine. It was nice to be there with my sister, Jami. I had missed her so badly over the past few years. I also learned to drive in my step-mom's '56 Cadillac. I loved that car. My dad's best friend ended up climbing all over me in the car one night. It was made very clear to him that he would not want me to tell my father. If my dad would have known, he would have shot him dead. I would hope, anyway. I think I still carry denial in that area, actually.

Running to live with my uncle at age fifteen, he tried to get down my pants. Should have known; he raped his own sister. I have not even mentioned the dark spiritual influence present at my mom's and my uncle's homes. They were into psychics, tarot cards, seances, quija boards, and all that evil. It played a major part in my life and I finally came to recognize it when I left for good.

After bouncing around a bit, I ended up back at my mother's, diving into work and remaining focused on my grades so I could graduate. My Accounting teacher told me I could leave high school and get a real good job with my math skills. She never once encouraged me to go to college. Neither did my family. It was all about survival. I did have aspirations, however, to become a lawyer. I wanted to keep my family members out of jail. It was crucial to keep it together enough to hold down a part-time job, school, parties, guys, and babysitting my poor little brother, Bobby.

Rob and Dwayne were best buds and were so much fun to hang around with. Rob was the real popular athlete in school, while Dwayne was the one crying out for attention. Rob had his license and was able to drive his mom's Chevy Step-side. I loved that truck. He was pretty responsible and stable. He had a great home life, from what I recall. His mom loved me because I would come over and tutor Rob in math. Whenever we would go out together, all the parents were cool with Rob driving. They knew he was safe.

Dwayne had been dating my sister, Jami, and I was dating Rob. So, that was fun, and wierd at the same time. Dwayne kept getting into trouble with his parents, so they sent him away to live with his grandparents for awhile. He came home to visit for his seventeenth birthday. Dwayne was doing much better, so his step-dad let him take the car out for his birthday. The guys had been drinking. Dwayne shared all kinds of things with Rob about his step-dad that night. I am not sure what it all was, but I do know he was afraid of him, and did not want to disappoint and hurt his mom and step-dad anymore.

Dwayne dropped Rob off at home and headed back to his parents' house. On the way, he lost control of the car and wrecked it. Dwayne's mom went out to the garage the next morning to find Dwayne hanging from the garage rafters. It was beyond horrible.

These traumatic things kept happening everywhere. It was not as if it was once in awhile, either.

Monica and I were supposed to go to a party with Alfred and James. Monica was my new-found best friend. She and her dad lived in the same condos my mom moved us into. Monica was from Uruguay and was brought into my life by God. That will become more clear further into this book. Alfred and James were only sixteen and seventeen years old, and had dropped out of school. Alfred was my boyfriend. My mom loved him, and so did I. No, really I did. We waited for the guys across from Winchell's on Blossom Hill Road in San Jose. That was our regular meeting spot. It was real strange when they never showed up. Monica and I ended up going home. Early the next morning, Monica called me to break the news.

James and Alfred were across the intersection at the liquor store, trying to get something to bring to the party. Another teenager, some jock from a rival school, approached Alfred and asked him to buy him some beer. He thought Alfred was of age, I guess. He handed Alfred his $5.00. Well, Alfred was not successful. When he returned outside and told the guy they wouldn't sell him the beer, the guy asked for his money back. Alfred decided to tell him he was keeping it, for trying. When the fight started, they took it behind the store.

Alfred did not even realize he'd been stabbed in the stomach. James said the guy used a small butter knife and there were three entry points! The surgical team operated on Alfred for eight hours, but could not save him. Alfred's death really was senseless; all over five bucks. Crazy. Alfred was my love. Another death blow.

Just barely recovering from the deaths of Dwayne and Alfred, the violence continued to grow more intense all around me. I had become an expert at putting myself in dangerous situations. Maybe I wanted to die. I know I was crying out for help.

The parties were now adult parties. At the age of sixteen, I was a very young party girl who would not hesitate to leave on the back of a bike with a total stranger. My mother started searching the streets for me in the middle of the night. Rapes became more frequent, if you can call them rapes. I was pretty willing, and when I wasn't, I had to pretend I was in order not to get hurt. Disappearing all night long accompanied blackouts from the heavy doses of alcohol mixed with acid. I was hooked on acid. I honestly do not recall how I made it home on many occasions. God delivered me there, I believe.

The pivotal moment for me was surrounded by my seventeenth birthday party. Going back to my journal, I see I was in love with any guy who would show me a glimpse of love. My soul was so hungry for it. What I did not understand was I had become a sex addict; from the age of twelve. My current love dealt me the last devastating blow. I was in such a state of need for any form of attention and belonging; even rescue.

Along with yet another episode of being used and abused, the craziness at home was unreal. It never ended, really. Not only was the evil step-father, Van, back on the scene, but my mom nearly shot me one night when I came in late after work. She'd been drinking and was fighting with Fernando's ex. Fernando and my mom were seeing each other and he was still living with another woman. Theresa was only fighting for her man. I heard Fernando handcuffed her to the coffee table and left her that way when he came over to spend the weekend with my mother. Theresa managed to drag the table, by her ankle, to the phone and called a friend for help. When she was unlocked from the cuffs, she gathered all of Fernando's guns and buried them in the backyard; all but one, that is. Then she proceeded to come to our house to finish her business. Mom and Teresa fought, but she was really looking for Fernando. She wanted him dead.

When I walked in after work that night, my mother was standing at the top of the stairs with the gun aimed right at me. She yelled at me, "Stop right there, bitch!"

"Mom, it's me!"

Things were at a peak. I remember my thoughts of just knowing I had to leave home, and soon.

Today, as I reflect on these events, I trust that God was putting on my heart to leave and working out the details of my departure from behind the scenes.

Two of our friends were out camping and were wasted on acid and Jack Daniels. The story is they were messing around with a gun, when Robert accidentally shot Ganzer. Ganzer died on the spot and Robert freaked out. He managed to get Ganzer into his sleeping bag, then headed straight for our house. The gun he borrowed for their trip happened to be registered to Fernando, my mom's old man. Naturally, the gun was tracked back to our house. The FBI began making frequent visits. It just seemed like a perfect time to leave this place. Years later, I found out Robert could not live with the guilt and ended up taking his own life while serving time in prison.

Wounded, and scared, I stood on the second level of the Oakland Coliseum Stadium, as REO Speedwagon appropriately serenaded me with "I know it hurts to say goodbye, but it's time for me to fly". As the breeze from the bay blew through my hair, I closed my eyes and knew it was time to run.

Of course, running away was the easy part. On that same day, I met Ed. He was backstage with a buddy of his, when we made eye contact. Here was my opportunity; my knight in shinging armor; my rescuer. I was presented with another glimpse of "goodness" and attached myself to it like a life preserver. It was almost like God brought me to Ed, or even the other way around. We lived two hours apart and we spent the next two months alternating weekends, making the trip between San Jose and Sacramento, California. I loved the fact that he rode a motorcycle. It was a Yamaha, but it was a bike, regardless. It was in his blood and I admired and needed that. This actually conveyed that he would understand me, but only to the point I would allow him.

I got out of Dodge and moved away from the hell hole. I would later come to understand that as we try to run away from our demons, they only follow us wherever we go. Moving away certainly removed me from the drowning feeling my soul felt as I endured blow after blow of trauma. Removing myself from the environment felt so freeing. I recall getting on the Greyhound bus, headed for my new life; a fresh start; a second chance. "You can have it. I'm never coming back." Suddenly, I was deciding how I was going to break it to my mom that I would not be coming back. My new love did not even know this. This last bus trip to Sacramento felt as if I was leaving the country. That was how often I managed to leave the confines of the dark evil cloud hovering around San Jose. I am serious; that is exactly what it was like to me. To move outside of that dark presence removed a heaviness from my soul. "Look! Only eleven more miles until I get to the Sacramento city limits!"

Now that I was gone, I could leave it all behind me. God opened the door and I escaped! Nobody ever had to know the life I'd been living, including the number of men I'd been with and my inclinations to whiskey, tequila, and LSD. Nobody would have to know of the screwed up life I came from. Even though I left, I would later discover I carried dibilitating shame with me. My new life was starting out with a guy who lived a wholesome life; a good man with a good family. He could never know me completely. Nobody could for that matter. What would he think of me? What would others think of a girl like me? This is when I put on my mask. It was a mask of protection. My old identity would disappear and a new Cherie would emerge; one who was hardworking, responsible, and loyal. Now I had a safe man who was crazy about me. Danger was gone. I was safe, and ever so grateful to Ed for rescuing me. He would never really grasp what exactly he rescued me from.

Warlords, Angels, and Jokers

2010-01-04T20:30:00.000-08:00

The 'house on the hill' is where I grew up. It actually sounds like there was a house built on top of a hill out in the middle of nowhere. That was not the case. Our house was build in a suburban neighborhood of track homes. The area was at the base of the foothills in the south area of San Jose, California. The streets were sloped perfectly for bicycles and skateboards.

Our lot had a steep slope on one side. This was perfect for the club brothers to wash one of the Prospects down the hill with the garden hose in an attempt to wake him up, after nearly overdosing on pills. Silly men.

Jami and I spent a great deal of our time making mud pies in the backyard. When mom called us into the house, we usually had to walk through the garage to disgard our muddy shoes and jeans. It did not mater what was going on in the garage, and there was always a group of bikers hanging out.

Jami and I made our way through the garage, holding hands. "Hurry!", mom said, as she guided us by our shoulders through the warriors, preparing for battle. The garage was filled with men, in different areas of the garage. They all had weapons in their hands. Some were sharpening knives; others were wrapping up chains; some were cleaning guns, and even cutting off gun barrels. The Warlords and Hell's Angels were tight and would engage in war against other clubs. Mom was 'property' of Little Joe, President of the Warlords M/C. Because of this, we were treated like royalty, from what I remember of Little Joe.

Spaghetti Joe always seemed to be assigned to watch over us during these outings. This time Jami and I went with them. I do not remember much of anything, other than this scene and the one I've already described of Spaghetti Joe reading to us in the car at Kings Drive-In.

"Believe me, we'd have more than a few scrapes and wars between chapters, particularly Frisco. But mostly, we'd fuck with other clubs. One in particular, the Gypsy Jokers. During the sixties, the Jokers were originally based in San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose. - After one blowout in Oakland when someone's old lady got manhandled, we cut up a mob of Gypsy Jokers real bad." - Sonny Barger, 'Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and The Hell's Angels' (pg. 34)

Happy Butt Is Born

2009-12-01T16:48:00.000-08:00

Most of my riding years were spent on the back of a motorcycle. Frankly, I didn't have a problem with that. There was nothing that I enjoyed more than taking off on a ride through the mountains, kicking back against the back rest of my ex-husband's bike (if you could call that six-inch pad a back rest). When the warm sunshine and the breeze smothered me, I could literally doze off. I know that sounds crazy, but that is how comfortable I was riding with Ed. The vibration and sound of the machine was soothing as well. It is truly a beautiful feeling. As long as I was able to go for a ride, I was a happy camper.

Toward the end of our marriage, Ed stopped taking me for rides. I would literally beg him to fix whatever was wrong with the bike so he could take me to the coast. There are a couple things wrong with this scenario. First, why is the bike not running? In my opinion, the bike should always be ready to go. It is sort of like getting dressed in the morning. If a button comes off your shirt, you sew it back on. So, if the clutch cable breaks on the bike, you fix it and get back in the wind.

Next question.. Why on earth was I having to beg to go for a ride at all? Why didn't I just learn to ride solo? Actually, he laughed at the idea and told me I would not be learning on his bike. Ed told me he would start me off on a mini-bike, which never happened. I felt beaten down and did not pursue it. It used to make me ill when I would think of this beautiful Harley Davidson Softail Custom just sitting in our garage, neglected. Furthermore, I was neglected. Riding was and still is a huge passion of mine.

Lastly, every time I asked if we could ride to the coast, I would get the same response, "It's too cold on the coast." He just didn't get it, and he did not care to understand. How Ed did not understand my need to ride is beyond me. He's been riding since he was a small boy. His whole family had dirt bikes and used to take them all out when they went camping. Furthermore, he was named after his great uncle, Ed "Iron Man" Kretz, Sr., who was a motorcycle racing legend, and a Motorcycle Hall of Fame Inductee.

Ed took the bike with him when we divorced. I should have fought for it! Oh well...

It did not take me long to hunt down a biker to go riding with. This was the real deal. "Word" was a Prospect for a local chapter of the Viet Nam Vets M/C. We met in an online chat room, and before I knew it, he was wining and dining me (so to speak), introducing me to the club brothers, referring to me as his 'good girl', and inviting me on rides. Riding in a pack of bikes just does something to me. Being among the clubs felt like returning home. It was so comfortable and so real. The hardest thing for me was adhering to the role of a submissive little lady. That's because I would rather hang out with the boys. I was that way even as a young girl. I never did like the 'bros before hoes' mentality, and that usually did create a bit of a problem for me.

One Saturday morning, I was expecting Word to pick me up. He'd invited me to go on a Valentine's Day Sweetheart Run. When we spoke that morning, he told me to be ready to go at 10:00. Now mind you, he was a Prospect. For those of you who do not understand exactly what that means, Prospects have not yet earned the privilege to wear the club colors. Prospects are at the mercy of all the club brothers who are "Patch Holders"

I am only bringing this up because as I waited and waited for Word to come riding up to my front door, I realized he was not going to show up at all. I was pissed.

"What the hell am I doing waiting for a ride anyway? I'm tired of waiting all the time for these assholes! That's it, I'm getting my own damn bike!"

Let's see - That was in mid-February. I had my new Sportster by March 1st! The bummer was my girlfriend, Leslie, had to ride it home from the dealership for me. You know what I absolutely loved about sitting there in the Harley dealership as I signed papers? The most appropriate song played in the store - "No Time" by the Guess Who - I just smiled.

No time left for you
On my way to better things
No time left for you
I found myself some wings
No time left for you
Distant roads are calling me
No time left for you.

No time for a summer friend
No time for the love you send
Seasons change and so did I
You need not wonder why
You need not wonder why
There’s no time left for you
No time left for you.

A couple brothers helped me out over the next couple of weeks, coaching me how to ride my new bike. After an episode in the Light Rail parking lot, I had no choice but to lower the bike. Suddenly, I was learning how to change shocks and install a lowering kit. To make it fit even better, we switched out the stock bars and pipes with drag bars and pipes. Oh yeah, I got rid of the stock two-passenger seat and put on a solo seat.

All the while, I would take her out after work every single day. After gaining confidence from my mid-intersection stalls (and very close calls), I began riding into the foothills for my daily rider training. I was feelin it! Freedom! Freedom from EVER having to ask another guy to take me for a ride. Now, I could just Go! My bike became my sole source of transportation, so I was no fair-weather-rider. If it was pouring rain, I was riding.

When I showed up at the VNVMC's Memorial Day run at the local VFW, I was given the roadname, "Happy Butt", because my butt was always so happy when I was riding. Riding on the back will never be the same....but like I said, as long as I'm riding, I am a happy camper!

A Not So Thankful Thanksgiving

2009-11-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, particularly because I absolutely love to cook. Mom's family is filled with incredible cooks, and that gene was passed on to me. The holiday was always my sister's favorite, now that I think about it. She loved the mashed potatoes and gravy. We seemed to celebrate Thanksgiving at our grandparent's house most every year when I was a kid. I recall making several stops to make sure we saw relatives from both sides of the family. I imagine it was exhausting for my mother, as she could never really relax at any of our visits along the way. Most everyone knows what this is like. You stay for awhile at one place and do not eat too much or stay too long so you can then move on to the next place to eat again. Usually, that time is cut short in order to get the kids home and put to bed.

Thanksgiving was always hectic for my mother. If it was not due to the hopping from place to place, it was due to the alcoholic flare ups from my Grandma Mary. A day meant to give thanks for God''s provision and for our loved ones always seemed to end in turmoil or violence.

One year, Mom decided to change things up and prepare a Thanksgiving feast for us at home. I completely understand. After years of running around, bringing a prepared dish to contribute to dinner, it is very special to prepare the entire meal for others to come and enjoy. Not only that, but we could relax and be comfortable after we filled our tummies. Jami and I were excited to have our own Thanksgiving, seated at our very own kitchen table! My step dad, Van, seemed to be his regular self, but happy. This Thanksgiving was one every one of us was looking forward to. My little sister and I were six and eight years old this particular year.

Mom began cooking the day before and was in the kitchen most of Thanksgiving Day. Jami and I always loved to help crack and peel the hard boiled eggs. Today, we were so eager to taste all the goodies Mom cooked up, that we kept running to her to sample her creations. This Thanksgiving dinner was very traditional. There was a huge stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, yams candied with melted marshmallows, potato salad, green beans, and cranberry sauce. Our mother told us, "No more picking! You'll ruin your dinner!" Munching on raw potatoes was also always a treat, for some reason.

Van kept away from the kitchen, from what I remember. He really did not do much around the house at all, except hang out with the dogs in the backyard. That was only when he was not beating on or teasing us girls. Mom usually kept us clear of him when she could. Today he was calm and also in the Thanksgiving spirit.

We could not sit down to the dinner table fast enough. Mom had the table decorated with a table cloth and covered it with bowls and platters of everything she had worked so hard to prepare for us. Our table was small and oval, with enough seating for six. When we all sat down to eat, our parents would be seated at each end of the table, while my sister and I sat across from each other. Today, Van chose to sit next to me instead of at the end of the table.

When you cook a meal like this, the biggest joy comes from watching your family enjoy every bit of it. I also get that from my mother. I tend to wait to dig into my own plate so I can see how the family likes everything. Of course, we always started out our dinner by saying grace. "God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen."

As my mother began serving up our plates, I felt my step dad poke at the side of my right leg with his finger. He liked to tease us as much as possible in order to get a rise out of us. I remember trying to ignore him while holding my plate up while Mom served my dinner helping. As I set my plate down, he poked my bare leg with his fork. The instant reaction I had was to push his hand away. I also remembered whincing, "Stop it."

It was in that split second of pushing his hand away and telling him to stop when he grabbed me by my throat, lifting me out of my chair, then slamming me against the kitchen wall. He was squeezing my neck and shaking me as he held me up there, nearly three feet off the ground. My sister started screaming. Mom came at him, pounding on his back as she screamed for him to let go. My sister and mother were both frightened for my life and crying hysterically.

I fell to the floor as he let go, while my mom tried to comfort me and check my neck. While I was crying and gasping to breathe, Mom kept yelling at Van, "Why?" I remember him saying something about my table manners.

The attack certainly did not end with me. All of us were so shaken that we could not think of eating. My recollection is that my mother nearly threw all the food out the front door. Van continued his rage, directing it at Mom, while we hid in our bedroom. It was not until later that evening that Mom ended up bringing our dinner to us, and tried to smoothe over the wounds.

Needless to say, Van was successful in stealing our very first Thanksgiving in our own home; the only one I actually remember.

And here we are, approaching Thanksgiving again, more than thirty-five years later. Reflecting on this day has not been easy. When you write something like this, you relive it. Memories and visions surface that were once buried in time. However, it does remind me of so many things I am thankful for, including the fact this monster is no longer in any of our lives. What is most important is that God is always good.

LSD and The Magic Carpet Ride

2009-08-16T18:30:00.000-07:00

My mother was quite the artist. Her far out creativity was all over our house, the car, and our clothes. We lived in a modest three bedroom house, which my mother and father purchased with my dad's V.A. loan, when they were married. The most memorable area of the house was our hallway. Sounds strange, doesn't it? All my friends would report back to their parents about our black walls. Nobody had black walls in their house, except us. Better yet, the entire hallway was painted and decorated like it's own party room.

I wish I had an actual picture of it. When you entered the hallway from the living room, you walked through a panel of floor-length beads, which hung from the ceiling. Yes, the walls were black, but they were also decorated with wild psychedelic paintings and drawings in flourescent colors. Even the ceiling was splashed with flourescent paint. Blacklights hung from the ceiling at each end of the hallway.

There were lots of flourescent lime green, hot pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers everywhere, peace signs, phrases like "sex-drugs-rock-n-roll", and other words I was too young to read. Mom would drop some LSD and just start painting whatever images were flashing through her mind as she was hallucinating.

Our bedroom door was right there, off the hallway. Many nights, when a meeting (church) or party was taking place, they would congregate in the hallway. There was always alot of loud voices and music from outside my bedroom door. I would hear them laughing, using nasty words at each other, and falling against the walls, often falling down. Usually, when someone fell down, they would stay there, tripping on all the colors swirling around the hallway.

Now I know where the song,"Magic Carpet Ride" must have come from. My sister and I sat in our room, hoping nobody would try to come in. We always locked our door. Inevitably, someone would try like hell to open the door. I don't know, maybe they were looking for the bathroom, or just a bed where they could pass out.

Summit of Despair

2009-08-13T21:16:00.000-07:00

A run through Hell on deadly curves ~ Afraid of what could be ~
Miles of twisted roads run on inside of me ~
Riding out Hell's Dark Canyon ~ Roads have been so rough ~
Climbing the highest mountain ~ One ride that's made me tough ~
Darkness appears as clouds ~ Loneliness and despair ~
Blinded by hopelessness and fear which lead me there ~
Drowning storms reaching and tearing at my soul ~
Unable to see the light above ~ At times so bitter cold ~
Waiting for the landslide around the curve ahead ~
Hopeful for the Meadow of Peace appearing there instead ~
Deepest valleys with gouging pain ~ Strength only for today ~
Costly tolls for bridges burned ~ Each day a price to pay
Bound with no escape riding circles around this place ~
Studying the pools of water ~ The reflection is not my face ~
The lair of scars runs deep within forming tales I'll one day tell ~
Memories of painful battles along the roads through Hell ~
Thankful to the Angels of Mercy while broke down on the road ~
Don't feel so lost ~ I know now I do not ride alone ~
Twists and turns won't seem so deadly ~ Just a better ride ~
Fear, despair, and anger now released from inside ~
More winds to ride before I rest ~ My Angel guides me now ~
Ridin on, Free from fear ~ I'll make it, I won't go down ~
Ridin higher ~ Lookin ahead to the summit around the bend ~
Losing sight ~ Not believing ~ Won't ride through there again ~
Smoother roads are calling beyond the Summit of Despair ~
Thundering winds calmed to a whisper ~
Faith will get me there ~

copyright Cherie LaLanne 2005

Holy Awesome Biker Suit!

2009-08-04T19:13:00.000-07:00

The Dark Knight's Leathers

Leathers sure have come a long way! The suit itself is made from hi-tech components Batman himself would struggle to find. Strong Cordura Mesh Base with Heavy-duty 4 way stretch Spandex inserts, for example. There’s also removable CE-approved body armour on both the jacket and pants. All this combined with a highly detailed, removable lightweight interior lining, form-moulded leather and Kevlar armour sections, make for a suit that’s as tough as it is awesome. The only thing it doesn’t come with is Batman’s mask. I'd wear them!

Every biker takes great pride in their leathers. It really is the only thing between you and the hard surface you may come in contact with when you go down. When it came time to purchase my first set of leathers, I made sure they were high quality. We checked out the gear at the swap meets and at the Easyrider show. You can find a pair of chaps for $20, or you can invest in a $200 pair. The difference is in the thickness of the leather and the stitching, basically. Well, it's worth it in my opinion.

My father, an old school biker, used to call me a preppy wannabe biker. Whatever. I'd show him! My leathers were new. His were worn for years, and lived a long, hard life! You could practically see the miles and the number of times the rubber left the pavement in the wear and tear. I admire an old set of leathers. Especially a cut (vest) decorated with patches and pins. They don't just come that way! So, I had to get riding in order to have a story to tell with my leathers (and to gain a little respect from my dad).

Then there's the chaps. The biker babes are usually the only ones who go so far to decorate their chaps with beads and patches. Mine were fringed, and beaded in red and black. Those are the colors of the Vietnam Vets M/C Club, who still hold a very special place in my heart.

When I see someone on a motorcycle, wearing shorts and sandals, it sends shivers down my back. We've all seen it. I've never done it. It was always my practice to wear my leathers whenever on a bike, regardless of the weather. I guess because I've seen the damage even minor contact with the road can do to flesh and bones.

A Biker's Poem

2009-08-04T04:01:00.000-07:00

I saw you...
Hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.
But, you didn't see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you...
Pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.
But, you didn't see me playing Santa at the local mall.

I saw you...
Change your mind about going into the restaurant.
But, you didn't see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the cyclone relief.

I saw you...
Roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.
But, you didn't see me driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.

I saw you...
Frown at me when I smiled at your children.
But, you didn't see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you...
Stare at my long hair.
But, you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you...
Roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.
But, you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those who had none.

I saw you...
Look in fright and judgment at my tattoos.
But, you didn't see me cry as my children were born and have their names written over and over in my heart.

I saw you...
Change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.
But, you didn't see me going home to be with my family.

I saw you...
Complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.
But, you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you...
Yelling at your kids in the car.
But, you didn't see me pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.

I saw you...
Reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.
But, you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you...
Race down the road in the rain.
But, you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you...
Run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.
But, you didn't see me trying to turn right.

I saw you...
Cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.
But, you didn't see me leave the road.

I saw you...
Waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.
But, you didn't see me. I wasn't there.

I saw you...
Go home to your family.
But, you didn't see me.
Because, I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker...
A person with friends and a family.
But, you didn't see me.

Spaghetti Joe

2009-08-02T14:17:00.000-07:00

Don't you just love the name? It actually is the roadname of a biker who used to read children's books to me when I was a little girl. What is a roadname? It is a nickname given to a biker. It is a name he inherits, usually from one of his club brothers. His roadname, if it sticks, is embroidered onto a patch, which he proudly wears on his cut (vest). I'm thinking Spaghetti Joe was Italian.

One of my earliest memories in life is of a night, complete with fear, family, security, and confusion. This vivid memory is one of a collection of memories which planted internal lies, identifying who I thought I was over the next thirty-something years. Picture two little girls, all of about four and five years of age, sitting in a car, right smack in the middle of a biker brawl. Well, it was much more than a biker brawl. It was an all out war.

My sister and I were seated in the back seat of my mother’s car, while a family friend read a story to us. Mom was a wild flower child and drove a baby blue Comet. She was a bit eccentric and pasted large Daisy decals all over the outside of the car. The storyteller was a very dear family friend who reeked of greasy Levi’s, mixed with the earthy scent of his black leather vest. His hair was long and his face, unshaven. The other men from his motorcycle gang called him Spaghetti Joe. I used to giggle at the mention of his name, no matter how often I heard it. I just loved saying it.

His eyes were friendly and his voice low and raspy as he nervously and quickly read through the pages. I recall him distracting Jami and I from peering out the car window at what was going on all around us. It was dark, and we were parked in front of King’s Drive-In. I remember King’s being a popular spot on the strip through downtown San Jose. There were always dozens of motorcycles and loud, fast cars parked in front of the place. We usually stayed in the car with one of Mom’s friends while she was inside grabbing burgers for us, or hanging out with the club.

This night was very different from the others though. We were afraid, as we were told not to pay attention to what was going on outside. Telling a child not to pay attention to something just made us all the more curious to press our faces against the windows. It was fun to fog up the window with the warmth of our breath and the cold of the air. I suppose it was good the windows were fogged.

I heard men yelling and cursing. One man fell onto the back of our car. Spaghetti Joe continued to read to us with more urgency in his voice. I put my arm around Jami and moved in closer to Spaghetti Joe. The car was shaking from the fighting taking place all around us. They were swinging large steel chains and beating each other. At one point, I heard several cars honking their horns on the main drag, then tires screaching. One of the men had thrown someone from the other club out into the traffic!