If you’re waiting for Sons of Anarchy to start another season so you can have your fix of walking on the wild side of motorcycling, let me tell you ‘Don’t wait’. Just find out where real, hardcore bikers hangout.
When you go for the first time, try not to stand like a calf looking at a new gate. Oh . . . they’ll knock you off as a newbie anyway because they know who all the regulars are. Remember, they’re always hyper aware of their surroundings. Relax and treat them with the respect you want to be treated with.
As for me, I’ve always liked to chat with the ladies or sit (like a fly on the wall) and listen to the yarns being spun. Generally, it will ease any withdrawal you’ve been going through for your weekly biker story.
In the mean time, enjoy this real story from our real-deal biker. He has over 50 years of riding outside the law . . . our good friend, Country.
This story is borrowed (with permission) from Country’s second book “Evolution of an Outlaw Biker” Volume 2
Early 1990, I paid down on a piece of ground a mile from Lake Tawakoni, TX. The next day, I was run over and almost killed.
On the way to the Club House for the first time since getting my new place, I drove my 1970 Ford 4x4 pickup because it was 18 degrees of freezing cold.
It was dark when I went through a small scattered community, named Union Valley. Approaching a four-way stop intersection, my headlights lit up some freshly finished construction that had been covered with new asphalt. Both approaches from the and the right were marked with a stop sign, plus fifty gallon barrels with florescent white, red and black horizontal stripes sitting out in the road, that could be seen blocks away before getting there. I also learned later, there was a big sign 200 ft to the right telling drivers about the upcoming intersection. The surrounding corners were devoid of houses, except for the corner on the right before crossing the intersection. The house on the right corner hid the approaching traffic, but could be seen before corner crossing the intersection in time to avoid a collision, in case someone ran the stop sign . . . that is . . . under normal traffic speed.
Just as I entered the intersection, I saw a flash out of the corner of my right eye, instantly followed by a loud noise. The truck and I began to tumble and finally came to rest in the far left corner of the intersection, right side up.
Later I found out an off duty police b**** from Corsicana, TX had been to Greenville for her Christmas partying. Her two sons were in the back seat and she was driving like she was in hot pursuit, cutting ‘cross country’, going back home. She could do that because she was a ‘cop’ and was above the law.
She plowed into the right side of my truck, doing 80 mph at least. This was in a 55 mph zone. She hit me so hard . . . she went under me, flattening the top of her car. She must have ducked into the front seat or she would have died. The two sons were asleep in the rear seat which saved their lives.
As for me, I ran my face through the windshield a couple of times. When I stopped rolling, I instinctively tried to get out of the truck but for some reason, I couldn’t move. What had happened was; the cop had hit me so hard the transmission had tried to come through my floorboard, forcing the floorboard up; almost cutting my right leg off. It was hung in my leg and that’s why I couldn’t exit the truck.
Next thing I knew . . . two young black faces were where the right window used to be, yelling, “YOU GOT TO GET OUT OF THERE!! YOUR TRUCK IS ON FIRE!”
Looking over my right shoulder, I could see flames and knew the truck was going to go up any second. I yelled back, “I CAN’T MOVE!”
They reached through the window and I leaned over to grab their hands. They jerked as I pushed with my good leg. The floor board came out of my left leg and I was dragged through the window. They dragged me a couple-hundred feet before stopping. That was when the truck went up in a big fireball explosion and I passed out.
The next thing I recalled was being loaded into an ambulance by two attendants and I faded out again. Then when one of the attendants was trying to steal my watch off my arm without waking me, I subconsciously knew something wasn’t right so I jerked my arm away and passed out again.
Turns out, the attendants were taking people to the hospital, then going back to burglarize their homes. What better time than when they knew all the family and friends were at the hospital with the injured loved-one.
I regained consciousness in a room at Greenville County Hospital. They had operated on me for 16 ½ hours. I already had a steel bar in my left lower leg, now I had one in my upper right.
I would always tell my friends “I do alright until I try to run, then I hit a high speed wobble and wind up in a ditch. I need spin balancing like a tire.”
The night of the accident was freezing cold. The two black youngsters that saved my life were walking down that cold, dark road, coming from a friends’ house on their way home. No one should have been out in that 18 degree weather. The doctor said the cold saved my life by stopping me from bleeding to death.
The off duty cop got off very well for giving me 140 stitches in my face and head, a steel bar in my leg with permanent damage and the loss of my truck. Her insurance paid for the operation and she paid the lawyer. All I got was $1,800 since I was running an alias and couldn’t go to court of prove loss of employment. She and her husband were both cops and I didn’t want an investigation of my past.
Somehow I made it through the ordeal and went to the black youngsters’ house on crutches. The oldest one turned out to be in college and he wasn’t there. His name is Cedrick. I’m sorry I can’t remember the younger one’s name. All I had left of the paltry $1,800 was $200, which I gave to their dad with apology that I didn’t have more.
Later when I was in prison, packed in with all those screaming, black gang bangers; beginning to hate them, I would remind myself, I wouldn’t be alive except for those two black youngsters. They were clearly a different class of black people than the ones I was locked-up with. But then . . . I was clearly a different class of white people.
- Evolution of An Outlaw Bikers is a brilliant read for any Harley owner or biker.
A hardcore story about life on the road as biker and member of various gangs. However, this is not just about violence, booze, sex and drugs. It is a fascinating story about one man's life who is now in his 70's.
The author gets in to all sorts of scrapes to survive, ending up doing a short jail term after nearly getting shot in cold blood by a not-so-friendly law-man. A latter day wild-west story that's a real page turner.