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You gotta understand about biker bars. Well, maybe you don’t, but you ought to want to at least. They are the last redoubt of American civilization in an age of Snowflakes, Cupcakes, milquetoasts, mollycoddles, and fizzing herds of witless mall rats.
My biker bar is the Iron Horse, just across the carretera from our house. If popular wisdom holds, it was started by a guy in the nuclear-construction business who, I suppose, wanted a biker bar. Vi and I often wander over of a weekend when forty or so big-bore bikes show up and you hear Harleys starting with that explosive cough, W apAhappotatopotatopotatopotato, a sound the which there ain’t no other like. Nor better.
A degenerate in the Iron Horse. A shocking display of grotesque machismo, toxic masculinity, Jack on the rocks–self-medication, likely for feelings of inadequacy–and intransigent deplorability. Hell, he probably even like girls, though that’s pushing it.
Usually there’s a good crowd. The Mexican bikers come in from Guad, and the gringo club, Los Gueros, appears along with wives and girlfriends. The bands are hard rock, La Maquina del Tiempo for ample , and by dark the joint thumps and roars and and nobody can hear anybody else but they’re dancing like maniacs and don’t care. The dance floor is a concrete slab because the place used to be a warehouse I think until Chris decided it needed to be a biker bar.
Biker bars are not always well understood. Some are in truth dens of psychopaths with several teeth and witless grins auguring bodily damage. One such was the Sons of Silence, headquartered in the Berkeley Bar in Denver when I was working at Soldier of Fortune in Boulder. The Berk was not where you wanted to take your mother on her birthday. I spent time there with Craig Nunn, SOF‘s artist who later died when, drunk one night, he drove his motorcycle into a tree. The SOF staff agreed that he died as he would have wished: horribly. Working as we did for a mercenary magazine, Craig and I were thought acceptably sordid. There were some memorable nights, but I don’t recommend it.
The Iron Horse is altogether different. These guys like to ride and they wear colors but if you accidentally left your three-year-old daughter there all Saturday night, on your return you would find her in working order and well cared for by the wives and girlfriends. They bikers of the Horse are a mixed bag but you find for example a guy who invented something about ATMs, made a bundle, and didn’t want to dress up in office drag like some sorry metrosexual. So he moved to Mexico, got a monster Harley, and actually enjoys living.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Hide the children.
The local expat club is Los Gueros, gringos and Canadians. The name translates loosely as The Pale Ones. In the US this would have priss spigots wetting themselves about racism and inclusiveness, but Mexico doesn’t do that racial gotcha routine so they’re just the Gueros and everybody’s happy.
Probably you either like bikes or you don’t. I have never had a power bike but once rode a Honda 350, which I think was the old 305 Dream bored out. It was geared low and actually pretty quick, certainly enough bike to provide a Motorcycle Experience. At night on the winding forested roads of rural Virginia the wind was chill and traffic nonexistent and you could lean through the curves and there came a wild sense of freedom and being part of the night, as if you belonged there. To stop in the darkness and just sit there astride, motor ticking over, bugs keening in the trees and trying to get laid–it was a trip.
Which I think is why guys like bikes. It is a guy thing. If a gal showed up on a bike, she would be welcome but it doesn’t much happen. A lot of people who are not bikers show up at the Horse and, as mentioned, wives and girlfriends and the guys behave as gentlemen, or at least not as jerks, but it remains masculine at heart, very much so. This is refreshing in an age in which Bruce Jenner would be regarded as dangerously masculine.
Bikers are a certain kind of men, as evidenced by their still being alive. Motorcycles are not for the dreamy. Bad things develop too quickly. Some psychologist did a study that divided athletes into two categories, Thinkers and Reactors. Intelligence had nothing to do with it. A baseball pitcher is a Thinker. He sizes the batter up, consults with the catcher on the type of pitch, thinks about it and, when he is ready, pitches. By contrast, a shortstop just reacts.
This very much applies to bikers. If an eighteen-wheeler suddenly pulls across the road in front of him, a Thinker will, well, think, “Hmmm. Eighteen wheeler. Not good. I probably ought to BLAP!” A Reactor might lay the bike down and try to slide under the truck. Might work, might not, but BLAP definitely will not work. Potholes, cars that don’t see the bike, hunks of truck tire in the road–these require instant reflexes that some, including me, don’t have.
Odd things happen on bikes. A buddy of mine who later killed himself by swimming out into the Rappahannock River at night in mid-winter told me of riding–he had a 450 something-or-other–along a desert highway in maybe it was New Mexico. A terrific steady tailwind came up at the speed he was making, maybe sixty. There was thus no relative wind. Weird. The engine started to overheat.
You gotta wonder what is happening in America. In any country there are the adventurous and the less so, the rock climbers and cavers and divers, and those who would rather spend their time in the library. Fine. I t takes all kinds. But today a guy who goes to a gym is held by much of society to be in need of counseling, or maybe estrogen supplements. If this isn’t your style, drop by the Horse some night. Bring party paraphernalia, such as a date. If you can, arrive on two wheels. Better than four.
Fred, nice article. Good point about the two types of riders. Reactive, or instinctive, riding is what you need. I’d add, you need to look for an “out” at all times while anticipating possible bad things. You need to be able to visualize moving vectors in a 3-D field of vision. It’s like drawing realistically. Some people have it and others don’t. If you want to draw things that look like an illusion you gotta have an innate ability to “see” horizon lines and vanishing points. It’s a talent some people are born with. Only with drawing you feel bad if you don’t have it, on a motorcycle you can get into a lot of trouble. And of course practice makes perfect. But all the practice in the world isn’t going to do any good if you don’t have that innate ability.
Coming from a family of motorcycle racers extending back to the days of Flying Merkels and Indians, I can tell you that maybe fat old Harley hawg riders don’t like les femmes around, but real motorcycle guys who ride real motorcycles are cool. Nothing can touch their guyness. It’s super guyness squared. (*＾ڡ＾*)
Oh yah, nobody who knows how to ride ever ever ever “lays” his bike down. He who does that has panicked and jammed on the rear brake without ever touching the front brake.
Fred,
Good job! Sensitive and Woke 🙂
I love bikes. Started with a 250cc … then a 400 … then a 500 … then a 650 … then a 1400. The 1400 was a bit too heavy. Had to keep it from falling over with my little finger one day at a gas station. That hurt! Think the ideal is about 1200 in a compromise between size and power.
The best thing about a motorcycle is that it comes with a girl on the back. If you don’t have one already, you shortly will. My wife and I dated on a motorcycle in college. That’s all we had the first year we were married. Yes, you can get your groceries home on a motorcycle … although the carryout boy gives you a weird look or two.
The sensory impact is something to experience. There is nothing better than riding up the hills and down into the dells in the spring and smelling the flowers and trees and farms and feeling the temperature changes between and hills and the dells. By comparison, riding in a car is like sitting in an armchair and watching TV … a black and white TV! Ridimg in the rain? No problem. You are completely dry a mile or two down the road.
And then there is the engine. The “thump” of a single. The purring of a flat twin. The staccato of a “V” twin. You are one with the engineering between your legs … the power strokes and the clinking of the valves. You feel the heat of the engine on your legs.
If you are worth a tinker’s damn, you do your own maintenance. You change the oil and adjust the valves, brakes, and chain/belt. You know your machine and you know when things sound right and when they sound wrong. If necessary, you might even do an engine tear down for a ring job. It’s all about having a personal relationship with your machine.
Riding teaches you about the laws of physics … mass in motion. Your survival depends on it. You learn about turns and runouts. You learn to fear gravel. You’ll either love the winding roads or you will hate them … but you are certain to love the open road.
When you ride, you need a destination. You ride to go somewhere … maybe to wander the open road, maybe a coffee shop, maybe a biker bar. Sometimes to places you know well and sometimes exploring a piece of the map you’ve never seen before.
You are among friends you don’t even know. You wave to each other when you pass on the road going opposite directions … usually an arm out to the side as a greeting while keeping control of your machine. One bike passes a pack of 20 bikes and everyone waves … everytime. It’s a close-knit club. You can’t understand unless you ride. It’s a guy thing!
Excellent piece. Not a biker (never was–I drove other things, with good 30-mm guns and torpedoes) but enjoyed reading this all the same.
Thanks Fred, will have to check out the Iron Horse someday if in the neighborhood.
Last fall we went into Bar Reforma in Cholula during the local fair. Nice little place. The lady friend said the Sangrias were outstanding. Friendly staff and crowd.
Back in the 70’s used to hit a bar called the Celtic Club in Massachusetts. Was a rocking place but got edgy when Angels and or Diciples showed up. They didn’t mix real well. If that happened seats near the back door were the smart choice.
This is refreshing in an age in which Bruce Jenner would be regarded as dangerously masculine.
Jenner still races cars even in his present condition. I saw it on Leno’s cable show. Compared to the snowflakes, yeah he would still be masculine.
I rode a motorcycle a ways on a cross country trip. It was so exhilarating that, like cocaine, I knew that it wasn’t for me because I would kill myself doing it.
So I raced bicycles instead. Crashing at 30 mph is bad enough, just road rash. Crashing at 65 is something I never wanted to experience. And what with motorists just not seeing motorcycles the odds of getting hit or hitting a car seemed too high.
Vaya con Dios.
Gotta love the “older I get, the tougher I was” tone of this altogether rather pointless article.
SJWs are always on the lookout for anti-white bigotry, everyone knows that.
They save that for when they arrive in America.
Used to have a 754, but one day I thought about it a bit too long when a possum crossed the road in front of me. Strangest thing I ever saw was a snake so long it looked like a cable across the road (could not see head nor tail), but it started to move as I slowed to roll over it.
Motorcycle riders are passé, mostly just a bunch of fat American lower middle class “guys” pretending to be Dennis Hopper, and Mr. Reed has long since lost all credibility. Go away, Fred.
Motorsickles are for assholes. In 50 years, I have yet to encounter a motorsickle enthusiast who isn’t an empty shell of false and self-destructive illusions.
Just saying.
Tractors, now … now you’re talkin’.
Uh, no. No one who takes weekly estrogen injections would be considered “masculine”.
No, again. A group of fat, tax attorneys playing dress-up in $500 leathers does not satisfy this qualification. Funny story though. In my hometown some years ago, a well-liked guy started a motorcycle repair shop on the hipsterest, yuppiest street in town. He sort-of fit the description of the “guy who invented something on the ATM, and invented a bundle” that Fred mentioned earlier. He had the tats, the lingo and the Texas heritage though and was an excellent mechanic so he was quite popular and respected.
One day this guy said he was going to start a “club for motorcycle enthusiasts” and get some guy together to ride, all middle-class type, older white guys with full-dress Harleys, although he rode a cafe-type bike himself.
One of the local chapters of, arguably, the most influential national motorcycle chain, nowadays found out about his innocuous plan to have some guys ride around the state together on weekends. A few of them went to his shop around closing time one day… and beat the shit out of him, culminating in wrapping a motorcycle chain around his neck, because they were the ranking bike gang in the area he did not ask permission. Needless to say, he wasn’t open much longer.
True story.
I liked this guy. He fixed a bike of mine, and had great stories, but THAT qualified as the last redoubt of American civilization…
You read this Unz omnibus looking for CREDIBILITY?
Boy, you ARE old. Naivete is not a pretty thing to see in the elderly.
Great column Fred. Thanks for writing.
And equally good comments. In addition to being healthily masculine, the bike crowd is literate.
you old britishbasque fool,old fools like you are the ones who spread aids to the world and are the cause of the health problems of milleniums ,its because of idiots like you milleniums were brought up differently and completly opposite of your degenerate generation, and harleys are pos with old technology ,noisy pos.
LOL and, actually, pretty succinct observation.
An old local farmer died last year. He was a bit of a collector, and left a huge shed filled with more than 40 tractors, from antiques to newer MFs. He had been selling-off building lots and buying tractors with the proceeds. His grandson, 25 years old, immediately retired and started living off selling the tractors. The bastard. Luckily, I only wanted one of ’em. 😉
But it took Bollywood to glorify tractor to its appropriate status of a really cool contraption;)
Those damn Indians think of everything.
Oh, yeah, Fred, you guys are so macho!
“We no like to with the gringo fight,
but there might be a death in Mexico all night.”
“Take my advice, take the next flight
and grow your own funk, grow your funk at home. (I mean, the situation was ridiculous.)”
(from just slightly before Elton was officially gay, so the lyrics made sense at the time.) Great hard-rockin guitar by Davey Johnstone, and Dee Murray on bass.
Fred, really, you are not much of a reporter anymore, just a pundit, but your overriding point that ALL of America is pussified is not true – it’s only at certain levels in Gov’t, culture, academia, and all over the Lyin’ Press. I know you used to be one of those “on the spot” guys back in your day. You are far from that now, and you shouldn’t base that one stupid assumption on what you peruse in the LP daily.
That was very readable, nonetheless, and I have ridden smaller bikes, and it is indeed a blast.
I always get a laugh out of seeing middle aged bikers, wearing leather suits like homosexuals, riding their bikes with the tough guy scowl on their face. A pathetic display.
I’m not going to be bothered to actually read this column of Fred’s—not after his last one. Fred’s opinion of what constitutes real American masculinity is about as relevant as O.J. Simpson’s musings on marital bliss.
I just wanted to say this. Every time I see one of those stupid “Watch out for Motorcyclists” bumper stickers, I strengthen my resolve to tell all motorcyclists to go to hell. What could be more ridiculous than LARPing around as some sort of free-spirited rebel, “born to be wild,” but insisting that everybody else mollycoddle you while you do it?
If you want to ride a motorcycle, then YOU assume the risk. I ain’t watching out for nobody.
The weird thing about Harleys is that the engine is the result of lack of money to build a proper engine.
A second 600cc cylinder was added to a single cylinder engine.
The pistons of the two cylinders are connected to one crankshaft bearing, thus causing vibrations.
On top of that, the two cylinders are right behind one another, causing cooling problems.
Technically Harleys are primitive.
No comparison with for example a BMW.
Hear, hear for bikes, you bet, don’t get the worship but the toy is fun, on-road and off-road.
I just sold my Ninja 500 and boat…a boat!
Fred
I never advanced beyond a moped on Block Island. Lots of fun trying to get it to go over 30 mph down the road overlooking the ocean that leads to the Lighthouse.
On my way to a Port Jervis for a kayaking trip….At the toll booth, an Indian Larry bike was in front of me. I thought it was a work of pure unadulturated old school Americana art…..and it looked like it was very comfortable to ride.
Indian Larry of course was bound to get himself fucking killed in an accident. Been to Orange County Choppers 4 times on my way to Port Jervis-Matamoras….Paul jrs bikes look like giant cockroaches.
Fred,
Great read. I’m no biker but very entertaining!
Fred is retconning history. Gyms were almost non-existent when you were young, Fred, and those that were around were thought to be dens of narcissism and homoism. Hardly anyone practiced non-fake martial arts (like boxing or judo) except for some non-whites. Gyms and martial arts are much bigger today.
Thanks, Fred. Emotion provoking as usual. In Phoenix bikes seem to attract haters so I rarely speak about them. New Mexico was different, more likely to find to find admirers.
Its funny how much Fred spends his time isolated within the American ex-pat community. After all, if he truly cared about America, he could go to plenty of biker bars right in good ol’ USA.
Also, he must tend to avoid going to very many Mexican biker bars as the drug gangs wouldn’t like seeing too many gringos in their stomping grounds.
yes, Fred is an open and full-blown cuck. But he’s still one of the best writers out there.
when I used to ride, I remember trying to share the road with a lot of people who obviously felt the same way. Bikes are smaller and if you’re in a large car, and have a hostility towards bikers, it was simple for people to just pull out in front of you and you always had to be ready for every asshole who didn’t respect your right to be on the road.
(especially when Florida changed the helmet law. It amazed me how hostile certain people became when they saw you ridding without a helmet. There was glaring hatred. It’s like they wanted to see you get your head bashed in)
start at 40 seconds in
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again now – it’s all a pretty good life there living off the US dollar. When the dollar goes down, and it will, the ex-pats will be living at the same standard as their adopted countrymen, and they are NOT gonna like it.*
* Unless they are real preppers and are ready for anything.
Motorcycles are great fun but the Police really hate you:
jd, how true. I like the fact the Harley is an American product, but it is far behind the times when it comes to comparison with bikes like BMWs, Hondas, etc. The worse thing about Harleys is their poor handling characteristics. It does not take kindly to curves. Unless proper counter-steering techniques are employed Harleys will wipe out a guard rail As an avid motorcyclist for over 60 years I’ve seen enough accident reports involving Harley fatalities to know what I am talking about. Far too many times alcohol is involved which just makes matters worse. I feel sorry for the friends and relatives left behind because of the needless deaths.
Maybe I have things wrong here, but wasn’t boxing fairly popular with lower-class young men in the cities, and promoted as a way to keep kids out of trouble? Lou Costello, for example.
That changed after WW2. Once common, HS boxing teams were terminated in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Lou Costello was born in 1906.
When I first moved to socal my only transportation was a Honda shadow 500. Awesome bike, the thing was so well balanced. I put 50,000 mile on that mother fucker in 18 months. Only had a helmet on when riding the freeway.
I dodged so many bullets riding, spit on, cigarette butts flicked at me, clipped more than a few mirrors while cutting traffic, I was rear ended once….oh man the stories I could tell.
good times man!
p.s. but bike riders today are fucking assholes, I’ve seen the videos, they ride right in the blind spot and then get pissed when cut off……fucking morons.
Sounds like some kind of heterosexual Tangier.
tangier is full of gays?
Hey Fred, I think I know the ATM wonder. He is from Phoenix, initials DJ. I wondered what happened to him. If the the bike/biker haters want something to freak out over, get a load of this: makes my hair stand on end.
Back in the late 80s I signed on to a poker run with a local Jersey club. Malcolm Forbes show up wit Capitalism Tools club and had Liz Taylor along for the ride. Watching her mingle with the bikers was fascinating.
It was a magnet for expat gays back before America and Europe became Gaysville I and II.
never understood why the focus on gays or any other sex. they make up about 2% of the total population.
F all you asshats that like tractors and think Harleys are crap.
Try coming out to any biker bar here in Texas with that attitude and you’ll get carried out in a horizontal fashion. Those types of comments just prove there are bunches of pussies even reading this article.
Yeah – we act like cavemen but at least we’re men – not metrosexuals cunts.
And to the guy that doesn’t want to look out for bikes on the road – a speeding piece of lead would be a good attitude adjustment for you. You’d never see it coming since you wouldn’t be looking for it.
I notice a lot of the grizzled “soldier of fortune” types don’t have much loyalty to their own White people.
ROFL. Can’t get much better proof than that. Voluntary, too. But, bikers always volunteer where your average dickless bully fears to tread.
Why on earth would anyone go to a biker bar in Texas? Or anywhere? Those bars are for bikers, just as nigra bars are for nigras. Normal American white people have backyard barbecues and drink Sam Adams beer.
LOL
A middle aged overweight wanna be tough guy biker chimes in.
To all of you who are calling bikers fat, old white guys: If you’re ever in Minnesota and you see someone with the letters “BPM” on their jacket or vest, please feel free to tell them your opinion.
You should probably make reservations at the nearest hospital first, though. And a dental surgeon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_Forbes#Life_and_career
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_Forbes#Death
I’ve had two notable experiences with motorcycle culture.
One experience was with a person who decided to rev his motorcycle’s engine (on a trailer) at a gas station at ear-splitting volume. This was quite popular with a woman there.
The other experience was a fleet of motorcycles who wanted to impress the same child (who plugged her ears when the gas-station motorcyclists revved their engines) by honking their weedy horn and pointing out the shiny bits of their rides.
Motorcyclists are exactly the same as bicyclists: some are epic assholes; some are pretty great dudes.
Like Fred, I prefer the bars where the pretty great dudes hang out.
Also like Fred, the other bars are better to write about.
A Honda 350 XL. That’s what you’re remembering, I bet. One great big cylinder, and enough vibration to bring fire ants out of their mounds for a mile radius.
I got out of motorcycle culture early. Something about it lends itself to acts of suicidal derring-do. If you want to get old, motorcycle habits are a problem.
No, they don’t care. If I called my cousins in Mexico racist, in their presence, they’d laugh in my face. Our ancestors were Güeros. I’ve tried to educate them about our ancestors, but they’re not ready.
I used to ride enduro bikes (on/off road). Cruising to the lake was always fun. One time I came across some street racers (with leathers) and we all revved our motors, leading to a little chase? They had to have laughed at my single-cylinder motor. In the twisty little roads, they couldn’t count on their horsepower alone. That was fun. Those days are long gone, but I have many fond memories of riding all over.
I’ve been riding motorcycles in California for 47 years so far, and never had a cigarette butt flipped at me.
Legally splitting lanes is a huge privilege here which no other state has. You say you “clipped more than a few mirrors while cutting traffic.” Did you make things right with the mirror owners? Or did you keep on riding?
If you kept on riding that’s hit-&-run, and a perfectly good reason the public would want to ban lane-splitting. And motorcycles.