A RARE BREED, A RARE TIME

2/7/03

s far as race crowds went, for me at least, the 1960s throng at the March Meet in Bakersfield gets the bow at the hip for being the wildest. Along with the race fans (and they probably were the biggest in number) you had a healthy seasoning of drunken farmers, cowboys, and street racers. But there was an element at this race that has long since disappeared, that gave it, shall we say, character. The March Meet for a couple of years, in my case the 1964 event, drew the "One Percent" motorcycle gangs.

The motorcycle image has changed so much in the past 40 years. A number of today's stock brokers, lawyers, and other upper middle class types make up a good percentage of the two-wheel caravaning riders that don clean leathers on the weekend, and wrap a bandanna around their head which is always covered with the state mandated helmet. Forty years ago, they would have been mistaken for clientele at a West Hollywood leather bar, but today, for a lot of people, this is what motorcycle riders look and act like. Handing out dolls to underprivileged kids at Christmas time, coordinating civic fund-raising efforts with local police, and joining together for a long ride down the Interstate in packs, on runs.

That wasn't quite the way it was in Bakersfield in March in the years 1962 through 1964. The Gypsy Jokers, the Coffin Cheaters, the Iron Horsemen, Satan's Slaves, the Galloping Gooses, and the "Tyrannosaurus Rex" of motorcycle gangs, the Hell's Angels, didn't pass out dolls at Christmastime, they just passed out after leaving a trail of trashed bars, broken glass, and terrorized citizenry in their wake. There was never, under any circumstances, an incident-free engagement with these guys. The only helmets they wore were probably some poor gal's panties. If you were in that crowd and drank bottled water like a lot of respectable bikers do now, you'd probably wind up stuffed in the fetid mouth of an Andy Gump. These boys played hard.

When I went to the 1964 race, I expected to see a ton of fuel cars from all over and, given the heat and area, probably a couple of fights in the grandstands. On Sunday, though, I noticed that the corner bleacher near the starting line on the spectator side of the track was taking on a decidedly fearsome look, a look that had definite attention-drawing qualities.

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You didn't need a lot of street experience to know that the line of chopped Harleys forming behind this one bleacher and the cut-off Levi jackets, indicated a wild time. The one-percent motorcycle gangs had recently come under fire by the State of California for a variety of felonies, and in (I think) January of 1964, they made it illegal to wear one's colors at any public gathering, which included Bakersfield.

Ever resourceful, the outlaws, or at least a number of them, showed at the March Meet with jackets with a big white "?" on the back. While their colors are of major importance to these bikers, their own wicked energy worked around the state mandate, and they could've been dressed in college track suits and not behaved any differently.

Throughout the day the noise from their encampment at times competed with the sound of the race cars. If you had enough nerve and got close to their bleacher you got a good look at what hell might look like (or Heaven, given your personal bent). Biker chicks showing their tits, gallons of Red Mountain Vin Rose being tossed down and tossed up, peeing on the asphalt, fights, soul kisses between both sexes, colorful language, and enough trash to engulf a big city landfill; these guys pulled out all the stops.

Even at 16, while intimidated, I sensed a unique freedom with these people. They looked to be having a helluva good time. That stuff's contagious. Of course, with my unshaven face and 110-pound frame, a bad move on my part would've been going over to one of these dancing bears and demanding, "Hey F'er, gimme some of that wine." I'd have probably wound up as a chamois for polishing the chrome on one of the bikes.

Still, I got a good look at the real deal, and by "real deal," I mean what one of these groups looked like in action. Not the Peter Fonda "Hollywood/Easy Rider" bullshit with that Capt. America personna, but what Jesse and Frank looked like when they sawed the Owlhoot saloon in half.

I definitely remember the 1964 race itself and it stood out as one of the premier drag racing experiences I've ever had. However, the frame for those mental pictures almost draws as much attention for me.

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