Who's bad?

This is a true story. The circumstances are so ludicrous it sounds like a bad script from a 70's flick. My opposing character started the B movie dialog and so I went with it. There's no moral to this story. It's simply the account of my recent encounter with a member of the Gypsy Jokers motorcycle gang. The post may run a little long. This is the kind of thing you can't cheat. It has to be told as it unfolds. I think you'll find it worth the time, though!

Here's the other guy. You'll see in a bit why this is the only picture and it's taken from a distance. It was the best I could do with the point and shoot digital. I have a new Nikon D40 with a 55 to 200mm lense but I haven't gotten up the nerve to routinely carry it on the bike, yet!

Here's the story leading up to the picture.

I'm riding for work and have business in Salem. Having had it up to my neck with the freeway, I've taken some back roads into the city. My first stop is in South Salem so this works out well. Coming up through a little town named Turner, the road goes by a Baptist College, the new Police Academy, a minimum security state prison facility, a county jail, and the new animal control kennel. Quite the mix, huh? Then the road turns into Lancaster Street not far from where this guy and his bike were. He's just come off Highway 22 which eventually crosses the Cascade Mountain Range far to the East.

It looks to me like the bike's broken down. Whatever the reason, the rider's over in the grass talking on the cell phone. I pull Sophie off to the side but don't dismount. We're near the bike. I don't really know a panhead from a knucklehead from a shovelhead. All I know is that it's old. This bike's seen much better days. Years of abuse and tipovers have left their mark . Dents and scrapes are everywhere. There looks to have been several attempts to paint the bike. Mostly by a rattle can in one hand and a beer in the other, I think. An open primary drive and belt are the obvious features on the left side. Sitting on the seat is a helmet that reminds me of the Nazi SS troopers. It just doesn't have the spike on top.

I can't help but think of the contrast between the two of us. A scruffy looking biker with a rat bike. He's flying his colors. I'm the flip side of the coin. A motorcyclist with his sleek sport tourer. I'm also flying my colors. For some reason I've left the Hi-Viz 'stich at home. Instead, I have a black Tourmaster jacket on. Proudly displayed on top of the jacket is my bright yellow-green retroflective vest with our training program's logo on the back. Nonetheless, I'm thinking the commonality of two wheels will bridge the gap. It looks like he's having a problem and maybe I can help.

Let's deal with this aspect first. The fact that I stopped in the first place. I'm not naive and wide-eyed with wonder. I've often seen the worst side of human nature. I've also been around long enough to know you can't always judge by outward appearance. People often act differently as individuals from what they'd be in a group. It's something I call "group sports". You see it all the time. Behaviour that would be totally unacceptable on the part of an individual seems to be okay if done as a group. Peer pressure makes people act contrary to their better judgement. I see a lot of riders who aren't what they appear. In other words, their choice of gear isn't based on functionality. It's more like they don carefully contrived costumes to make other people think they're "bad individuals". Funny how they all end up looking exactly alike.

On that basis I stop and wait to chat with the guy. He tells someone on the other end of the phone conversation to hold on. Next he proceeds to do a great imitation of the back side of a mule. He questions my parent's marital status when I was born. In the next breath I'm firmly told where all riders of "non-American" iron can go. His serving of hatred is finished off with a liberal sprinkling of obscenity and the traditional one finger salute. How original!

Quiet dignity can be a greater weapon than responding in kind. Nowhere in the Manual of Life does it say I have to become a participant in his gutter level game. Without a word, I shrug and slowly ride off.

My destination was right around the corner. It's a very large sporting goods supply store. My business is at the handgun counter. Like I wrote earlier, I'm not naive. Nor am I defenseless. Cogito, ergo armatum sum. Let's leave that phrase in Latin to sum it up.

Still though, underneath it all the guy had severely offended me. It crossed my mind to mention it in a post. In order provide a little visual documentation, I decided to take a picture. Just in case. This photo is from the parking lot of the sporting goods store. I had a chain link fence and some distance to deal with. The rider was pacing back and forth. I pointed the camera and waited for him to get as close to the bike as he was going to get. Then I snapped a couple of pictures. He looked my way a couple of times during the process. I now had my photo and really figured to just sort of let it all slide. It would have remained that way, too. Except the biker had to play tough guy. At the time, though, I didn't know there would be an Act II.

I've been here several times before. This KLR is often parked here. There's a display like it on the other side of the entry. Lacking the Kawasaki, of course. I'm pretty sure it's being ridden by an employee but I don't know the staff much at all. I fiddled around with the camera and managed a decent shot in between passing cars. This store is at one end of a strip mall which includes a very large grocery store. Nearby is a restaurant and a Burger King. It took a while to get clear shots.

Of course, there's always the need to both express myself artistically and prove I was actually someplace with the bike. So here's the mandatory bike pose.

By the time I finish getting the pictures and completing my business inside, some time has passed. The rude biker has pretty much slipped into the background. As I secure stuff on the bike and gather gear, I hear a loud bike fire up. The Joker comes around a parked truck and is headed for me. He was hiding where he could see me but my view of him was blocked. I find this part funny all by itself. It seems the bike either wasn't broken or he got it running. Why the Joker didn't just park by the bike and wait for me is a mystery. All I can think of is that he wanted to try to intimidate me by having me watch him roll up in all his "bad-ass" glory. When will these guys learn that you don't need a costume and props to be "bad"?

Interestingly, he either made a tactical error or was trying to protect himself. Or maybe he never even thought about it at all. There was plenty of room on both sides of the bike. Instead of pulling in right beside me, on the left side of the bike, the Joker pulled in so that Sophie was between us. If maximum intimidation requires closest proximity he fell a little short. He shut the bike down and stared at me. I didn't know exactly what was on his mind or what was coming next. I did know two things, though.

Firstly, I wasn't going to run. Secondly, in a confrontation I might not win, but he was going to suffer damage. Not boasting. Just the way it is. Blame it on Grandpa and the old Cowboy Code. I had the advantage in the staring contest as my eyes were covered with sunglasses and his were open to the elements.

Deciding to take the initiative, I put the first card on the table.

"I see you came to apologize for being such a jerk!"

No response. I could see the cords in his neck move. It kind of made the jumbled tatoo's wriggle.

"Why were you taking my picture?" he asked.

Like I say, this guy started the B movie script and I just went with it. I've deleted his abundant use of colorful metaphors.

"I'm looking for Citizen of the Year candidates. While you're here, care for a close-up?"

Keeping the camera out of his easy reach, I held it up. His eyes rested on it for a while.

"I don't like my picture taken. Maybe I oughta do something about it."

He tried to sound as threatening as possible, nearly growling. I blame my next response solely on Gary Charpentier. Gary got me reading Raymond Chandler's mystery novels. The spirit of Phillip Marlowe filled me and inspired my answer.

"The last guy who threatened me like that quit having birthdays".

Now the Joker's taken somewhat aback. This isn't going like he imagined, apparently. I can see the resolve in his eyes waver. Then he asks his next question.

"You a cop?"

I can see how he might come to that conclusion. Katie's recently buzzed my hair back to "regulation" length. The beard's been gone a while and I've remained clean shaven. My eyes are behind aviator style Ray Ban's. They're slightly mirrored and polarized lenses. My quiet self assurance certainly isn't what he would normally experience in this situation. Not wanting to come right out and say no, but not wanting to be guilty of impersonating an officer, I gave him a noncommittal answer.

"Use your imagination", I say.

Now I can see in his eyes that he's planning some sort of macho exit strategy but can't quite get there. This obviously didn't turn out like he'd written it in his mind. I decide to pounce on the moment of weakness.

"If there was a reason you rode all the way around here, get to it. If not, maybe you should leave."

Then he simply fired up the bike and left. I'm sure he wanted to flip me off, cuss me out, put on a show, or whatever. I'm also pretty sure there was still a lot of doubt in his mind at to who I really was.

Being totally caught up in the B movie, I really wanted to yell to him as he left, "Have a nice day!" but I decided that would have put this bizarre scene right over the top.

So there's the story. It's not a story about how Irondad took on a biker gang and backed them down. It's simply about what happened with a single biker flying the colors. Things could have gone either way. This time it went my way. It kind of made my day, actually. "Bad" takes many forms, doesn't it?

Miles and smiles,

Dan