Bikin' and Brotherhood by David Charles Spurgeon

Author:David Charles Spurgeon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2014-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Change of Command

In the forties, George Orwell wrote a science fiction novel titled 1984. It described an unimaginable future world where totalitarianism really was total. It went into extravagant detail as to how many things would radically change by that date, which at the time, seemed to be in the very distant future. Although most of those things did not come to pass, looking back, I see that many did. Regardless, 1984 was a year of great change for the Outlaws Motorcycle Club and for me.

It began routinely enough with a national run in the South for New Year’s Eve and the anticipation of the annual Daytona Beach Bike Week. It occurred the first week of March every year and coincided with the world famous Daytona 500 motorcycle race. I went to Bike Week more times than I can count but have yet to see the inside of the track. That just isn’t why we went. Bike Week for us, and for many others, had nothing to do with the motorcycle races, and it wouldn’t have mattered one bit if they weren’t going on at all.

I was usually among the handful of brothers that didn’t go home between the two nationals. We went south in late December, prepared to spend the rest of the winter in the Sunshine State. We left the New Year’s Eve party in Atlanta this particular year and went on down to visit the Florida chapters. Tampa, Jacksonville, and Fort Lauderdale were in the height of their best riding seasons at that time of year. Our intention was to enjoy the beautiful weather before converging on Orlando in mid-February to get ready for Daytona.

Bike Week usually came and went without a lot of controversy. There was always the nickel-and-dime police harassment. The Daytona Beach Police Department knew Speed Week, Bike Week, and spring break created a large percentage of their city’s annual budget. They really did not like the multitudes of people these events attracted, but they loved the millions of dollars their presence generated. The cops seemed to do a better job tolerating everyone else than they did us. It was painfully obvious there was no love between the Outlaws Motorcycle Club and Daytona’s Finest.

There were always the fistfights that erupted when some of the wannabe bikers got a little too much liquor in them, or their girlfriends paid a little too much attention to one of the big, bad one-percenters. It happened all the time. Girls were fascinated by our mystique, but most had no business around us at all. We didn’t play well with others. They were better off with their weekend-warrior boyfriends. Committed one-percenter old ladies were a tough crowd. They had to be. This life wasn’t a hobby, a fad, or a game. It was life and death.

Daytona’s Bike Week drew thousands of beautiful motorcycles from all over the country each year. Harley-Davidson would bring antique bikes down from the museum in York, Pennsylvania, and set up a beautiful display at the Holiday Inn.

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