The Tale of Grampa and the Bottle of, Uh, Milk...

 

 Five-year-old girls usually observe the world in a slightly different light than a grizzled old biker.

 Usually.

 “Grandpa, why do you have that bottle of milk on the back of your vest?”

 Old ‘n grizzled wasn’t about to begin a long, morally-tinged ramble about the difference between milk and moonshine, which one’s good for you, which one’s not, and why. Instead he answered with a smile and a kid-like shrug that seemed to simply say, “Just because.”

 And to a little girl that was OK...that was reason enough.
 Her grandpa is a member of "The Original Wild Ones;” The Boozefighters MC.

 The “bottle” is the centerpiece of the “patch,” a sacred green icon that symbolizes a brotherhood and a heritage that few are ever fortunate enough to experience.

 Is it actually supposed to be a bottle of milk? Uh, probably not. But that really is left up to the imagination...the Peter Pan eye-of-the-beholder that is the fanciful essence of an innocent five-year-old is in many ways what fuels The Boozefighters.

 The truth is that the founding fathers of "The Original Wild Ones” were really just big kids themselves, simply trying to recapture some of the youthful fun they lost out on due to the innocence-destroying interruption of a very adult evil known as World War II.

 There were no excuses, no laments, no protests. The country needed young soldiers. They went.

 There’s no place like home, but war changes everyone. And everything. When young vets like Willie Forkner, Robert Burns, and George Menker returned home it was difficult to forget the horrors of what they had seen. It was hard to shake off the ingrained military regimentation. It was impossible to shed some of the cold-sweat guilt that comes with surviving while so many others did not. And there was an unnerving restlessness in trying to adapt to the calmness and serenity of “normal” living after drowning in chaos.

 It was easy, however, to adopt an “I don’t fit in” kind of attitude.

 It was easy to feel more comfortable with one another than with those from “the outside.”

 The recipe had been written. The mix was almost complete. All that was needed was the addition of a potent ingredient to spice up the social soup...something like, say, the racing of fast motorcycles.

 The races and rally associated with the American Motorcyclist Association gypsy tour in 1947 boiled the soup into a fiery jalapeno-laced stew.

 The green stitched bottle that the five-year-old asked her ol’ gramps about was very different from the real bottles strewn around the streets of Hollister during that infamous weekend. The image on that patch is very different from the horde of broken and empty bottles that were --according to legend-- carefully arranged around the seemingly-drunk and woozy non-Boozefighter, Eddie Davenport, by San Francisco Chronicle photographer, Barney Peterson.

 The resulting picture was not exactly something that might have emerged from the all-American portfolios of Ansel Adams, Norman Rockwell, or Grant Wood.

 No.

 Instead, we were treated to an urban-ugly portrait of the tipsy Eddie, astride a nasty, fire-breathing, Milwaukee-steel dragon, viciously framed by those stale-smelling empties and jagged glass shards.

 When that twisted version of American Gothic leaped out at the sophisticated readers of Life magazine’s July 21, 1947 issue, a frightening chill blew through the calm kingdom air. Some of the common village folk wanted to head for the hills, some wanted to take up pitchforks, sickles and torches against the strange new beast.
 Some wanted to tell the whole story.

 Sort of.

 Filmmaker Stanley Kramer produced “The Wild One” five years later, and the snarling cat was out of the bag.
 The question is, of course, just how sharp were that cat’s claws...really?

 

 In the year 2046 The Boozefighters MC will celebrate their 100th anniversary. Some members are already planning for the party. Members of the surviving originals will range in age from 120 to 129. Some current members will attend at a much more spry 107.

 But but a little over a half century has already passed. And the legend has grown. The green patches went on in ‘46, Hollister swept up all that busted brown glass in ‘47, “The Wild One” rolled out on black and white celluloid in ‘54, and the always colorful stories, tales, and traditions have never stopped.

 Reluctantly admitting that there is a slight chance that they might not quite make the club’s 100th anniversary bash, some of the members accept that reality because they are continually carrying on the most important Boozefighter tradition of all: Having fun.

 One of the “originals,” Jack Lilly, has a credo that is woven into the very fabric of that holy green patch when it comes to having a good time: “Do it now!”
 They did. And they still do.

 When that cat flew out of the bag, the popularized fear was that he was bent on shredding and hunting prey. In reality that fast, sleek animal was just living up to his reputation for curiosity and playful prowling. For wanting to sniff out every aspect of life. Eat, drink, fool around, chase an occasional mouse, cough up a hairball or two after a tad too much consumption, and, in general, just enjoy the heck out of living.

 “Every original Boozefighter I’ve met,” says club historian Jim “JQ” Quattlebaum, “...Wino, J.D. and Jim Cameron, Red Dog, Jim Hunter, Roccio, Les, Gil, Lilly, and Vern Autry...all exhibit common threads of what they are made of: Spirited and daring character, challenging competitiveness, strong bonding friendship, a caring and giving nature, the love of motorcycling and brotherhood with old bikers, and they are honest and law abiding citizens...but not beyond the embellishment of a good story...

 “Even in their old age they stayed active. No rocking chairs for them! Still riding motorcycles as long as their health and bodies would allow.

 “Yeah, they let off a lot of steam, partied hearty, got jailed for getting drunk, got a lot of speeding tickets, and occasionally duked it out with redneck bar patrons that hassled them...and sometimes fought with each other. Then they’d sit down together and laugh about it over a beer.

 “But no original ever got put in jail for a serious crime...murder, drugs, etc. They got along with all other MC clubs...sponsored races, baseball games, and different events with other clubs. They never considered themselves outlaws. They never even heard the term 1% until the late 50s, early 60s. No original wants to be associated with the ‘outlaw’ or ‘1-percenter’ image...nor does any present-day BF member.

 “And the originals did not discriminate towards any ethnic, religious, or political group. Wino said, ‘We fought side by side for all Americans to have freedom of choice...’

 “That freedom also extended to the members choice of bikes to ride...as long as they could keep up! Indians and Harleys were the most available so they were the most used. However, many BFers started acquiring the Triumph because of its improved racing speed. Hendersons and other pre-WWII bikes were used, too. When the BSA was introduced in the 50s, it became the bike of choice for the still-racing BFers..Jim Hunter, Jim Cameron, Ernie and Johnny Roccio.

 “Present day BFMC requires members to ride an American or WWII-allied brand of bike. But some exceptions are made in some chapters for special consideration. ‘Brooklyn’ is allowed to ride a touring Moto Guzzi in honor of his grandfather who fought with the Italian underground resistance against the Germans.
 “The present-day Boozefighters revere our originals and the club’s founders for their intent, purpose, and priorities: Family, job, and club brotherhood. We are not professional ‘bikers,’ we are family men...and women...engaged in legitimate businesses and careers, enjoying getting together as a social group for family-oriented parties, rides, and special events. We are into this thing strictly for having harmless, clean fun. We couldn’t care less about ‘territory’ and things like that..

 “We do not push religion on anyone but we do have a national chaplain, ‘Irish’ Ed Mahan, that in a non-denominational way conducts bible study class every Tuesday night, performs legal marriages and funerals, and visits members that request special counseling or have illness issues. He also conducts Easter sunrise services at our clubhouse every year. It is attended by a lot of friendly clubs.

 “And we are involved in giving back to society through fund-raising, toy runs, March-of-Dimes, Wish With Wings. We have a blood bank for members. We are active in motorcycle rights organizations and many of us are state delegates to our respective political parties.
 “We believe in peaceful co-existence with all clubs but we do not wear support patches for any other organization. And we don’t believe in displaying any anti-society or anti-American items.”
 
 Apparently some of the original members’ priorities and the club’s eventual evolution based on those principles were neglected just a bit in “The Wild One.”
 But, with another shrug of the shoulders, that, too, is OK. The Boozefighters are comfortable with who they are. And who they were.

 They’re very proud of their founders. And they’re happy with the continuance of the all-important “fun” tradition.
 They’re content with their personalities being somewhere in between Brando’s “Johnny,” Marvin’s “Chino,” and an Eagle Scout...leaning more toward the brilliant 40s/50s abandon of, oh maybe, a Red Skelton or a Jackie Gleason.

 In a letter dated September 18, 1946, San Francisco Boozefighter prez, Bennie “Kokomo” McKell, wrote to the L.A. chapter to order four club sweaters for his newest members.

 They had just passed the rigorous series of seven tests required of a “prospect:”

  1. Get drunk at a race meet or cycle dance.
  2. Throw lemon pie in each other’s faces.
  3. Bring out a douche bag where it would embarrass all the women (then drink wine from it, etc.).
  4. Get down and lay on the dance floor.
  5. Wash your socks in a coffee urn.
  6. Eat live goldfish.
  7. Then, when blind drunk, trust me (“Kokomo”) to shoot beer bottles off  of your heads with my .22.
 
 Would Johnny or Chino do all that?

 No.

 Would an Eagle Scout?

 No.

 Would Skelton or Gleason?
 Probably.

 Would The Boozefighters?

 Just ask ‘em.

 

 So, are all of the tales and legends in this book the sworn gospel?

 JQ answers that (more or less...) in an interesting discussion about memory and motorcycle lore, “If you ask me today what I did last night, I’d be hard pressed to remember all the details precisely right. I know I started off with 65 or 70 dollars in my pocket and got home with about 7. For the life of me I can’t remember what I spent the rest on...but then again, to get the story more accurate, that doesn’t count that $100 bill I had stashed away for an emergency. Man, I hope I didn’t blow that, too...but ask the original ‘Wild Ones’ what happened fifty years ago and they, too, are hard pressed to remember the precise facts. Once, sitting with three such old-timers, I witnessed a heated --but friendly-- debate about what club one of them raced for during the Hollister melee. They finally all agreed on one thing; whether it was the 13 Rebs, Yellow Jackets, or Boozefighters, they all had one heck of a good time...excluding the jail time for rowdiness, of course...

 “I had a good time last night, too...that is unless I can’t find my $100 bill...

 “But anyway, if Patrick Henry had said, ‘If I don’t get my rear-end outta here I’m gonna get it shot off,’ and some historical writer quoted him as actually saying, ‘Give me liberty or give me death,’ then what kind of respect would you have for that writer? As historian I’ve had to dig deep into the facts about The Boozefighters and there are times I wished I hadn’t found out that some stories just weren’t so. But then again, the more I dug the more I found out that there are great stories that were never told.

 “They need to be told so we’ll tell them...some are fantastic...but I’ll let the listener or reader sort out what they want to believe. Most importantly, though, the telling of these stories will be geared to the essence of truth as the old-timers wanted to remember it.”
 
 And the heart of that truth...those stories...beats with the same wide-eyed wonder that drives the fertile imagination of that inquisitive five-year-old.

 Is there milk in that bottle...some 90-proof hooch...or a genie that will pop out and take us to wild and crazy places that members of the button-down, mainstream, overly-protected, boy-in-the-bubble society fear, envy, and would give their eye teeth to be a part of?
 Maybe it’s all three.