We were playing some tiny town just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska when word came down the midway that bikers were passing through town and headed our way, to the carnival. I got the definite impression from my fellow jointees that this was supposed to inspire me with fear. Being 19, too trusting of folks who didn’t fall in with the mainstream and interested in whatever new experiences could come my way, I was intrigued. That and, being short on experience and imagination, I was wondering why, in god’s name, carnies would fear bikers.
I had first on the right that week -- sweetest hole/location on the midway, just to the right of the entrance -- so when the bikers came, I’d be the first joint they’d pass and I was hoping they’d not pass but stop and play.
The spot was dead, like most of them that season. Darkness fell, I’d just barely broken the ice (had my first customer of the day) so when the first small contingent of bikers stepped onto the midway it was as though they’d stepped onto a fully lit, empty Hollywood soundstage. And, boy howdy, they were sure as hell close up ready. The 2 men were solidly muscled yet slim, broad shouldered and well over 6 feet tall. The woman was nearly as tall, trim, with long brown hair. She looked like she could kick nine kinds of ass and not break a sweat. All three were clad head to toe in black leather (of course. that’s the uniform and all. when’s the last time you saw a biker in powder blue paisley leathers, hmmm?) with chains hanging from their belts. Yeah, I had a big, industrial strength infatuation going on.
I called them over to play (the bushel baskets -- “one in and you win,” was my ever so original call) and they were well spoken, polite and even more attractive up close. They walked away with a big, ugly Mike Dog and my solid wish to run away from the carnival to join their gang.
Later that night, after we dropped the awnings (shut the show down for the night), I decided to walk my dog and my brother in law’s dog. You know, because they needed a good walk and maybe, hopefully I’d run into the stunning bikers again. My carnie pals were feverishly concerned -- to which I responded “hey, I’m walking two big Dobermans and their leashes are heavy bike chains. I think I’m gonna be safe.” Off I went.
Turns out there was a party going on at the Trabant. All the ride jocks and a group of bikers were having a beer or 30. I stopped, socialized for a bit and then came down with a wicked case of the shys. Impressive folk totally brought out my inner Willow Rosenberg back then.
The dogs and I, dispiritedly, headed back to where most of us jointees were camped out and bedded down for the night.
Now, when I hear/read the term “biker” the image that first comes to mind is of a fat, dull witted, quick to violence, woman subjugating dickwad who’s in serious need of a solid shower and shave. Mostly I think combustibly dangerous. Back then though I believed they were all variations of Peter Fonda in Easy Rider.
Steppenwolf -- Born to be Wild
The spot was dead, like most of them that season. Darkness fell, I’d just barely broken the ice (had my first customer of the day) so when the first small contingent of bikers stepped onto the midway it was as though they’d stepped onto a fully lit, empty Hollywood soundstage. And, boy howdy, they were sure as hell close up ready. The 2 men were solidly muscled yet slim, broad shouldered and well over 6 feet tall. The woman was nearly as tall, trim, with long brown hair. She looked like she could kick nine kinds of ass and not break a sweat. All three were clad head to toe in black leather (of course. that’s the uniform and all. when’s the last time you saw a biker in powder blue paisley leathers, hmmm?) with chains hanging from their belts. Yeah, I had a big, industrial strength infatuation going on.I called them over to play (the bushel baskets -- “one in and you win,” was my ever so original call) and they were well spoken, polite and even more attractive up close. They walked away with a big, ugly Mike Dog and my solid wish to run away from the carnival to join their gang.
Later that night, after we dropped the awnings (shut the show down for the night), I decided to walk my dog and my brother in law’s dog. You know, because they needed a good walk and maybe, hopefully I’d run into the stunning bikers again. My carnie pals were feverishly concerned -- to which I responded “hey, I’m walking two big Dobermans and their leashes are heavy bike chains. I think I’m gonna be safe.” Off I went.Turns out there was a party going on at the Trabant. All the ride jocks and a group of bikers were having a beer or 30. I stopped, socialized for a bit and then came down with a wicked case of the shys. Impressive folk totally brought out my inner Willow Rosenberg back then.
The dogs and I, dispiritedly, headed back to where most of us jointees were camped out and bedded down for the night.
Now, when I hear/read the term “biker” the image that first comes to mind is of a fat, dull witted, quick to violence, woman subjugating dickwad who’s in serious need of a solid shower and shave. Mostly I think combustibly dangerous. Back then though I believed they were all variations of Peter Fonda in Easy Rider.
Steppenwolf -- Born to be Wild
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