Sport-Touring.Net - BoozeFighters

Disclaimer: This might be fictional as one of the Boozefighters
contacted me, and flatly denied that Papa Jim was a member.

Source: Moto Monterey - September 1991

[At a Club meeting at McCarthey's Pub in Aptos in 1987,
Club co-founder and member "Papa Jim" Brewer arose and
eloquently described an upcoming anniversary of inter-
est to him, the Club, and to motorcycling in general -
the 40th anniversary of the "invasion" of Hollister on
the Fourth of July, 1947. The event lead to the making
of the movie "The Wild One" with Marlon Brando, and
though the movie was more fiction than fact, as was the
Life article on which it was based, that weekend in
Hollister has remained a piece of motorcycling bistory.
A group of the Club returned on the 40th anniversary to
Johnny's Bar in Hollister, where bikers rode through on
that famous weekend. As we parked our machines in
front of Johnny's, we wondered if anyone else would
remember. The deserted street was soon filled with 200
Harleys. They remembered.
During the late 1940's, motorcycle clubs appeared in
answer to the restlessness of post-war America. Jim
Brewer had good reason to call us back to that reunion
with history in visiting Hollister, for Papa Jim was a
member of one of those illustrious groups, one which
will be remembered, at least by those who continue to
hear the stories. - ed.]

BOOZEFIGHTERS

Preface:

It was Summer, 1945. My family had just moved from
Montebello to Los Angeles. We rented a small house at
101st Street and Central Avenue in the section of South
Central Los Angeles known as Watts. My father, recov-
ering from the amputation of his right leg, could no
longer drive a motor car, so we had to live closer to
the meter repair shop he operated for the Southern Cal-
ifornia Water Company.

Seeing that it was summer holiday, I had taken a job
with Friction Materials Corp. on South Main Street,
near Slauson Avenue. Each day on my way to work, I
would ride up Central, continuing on Hooper Avenue to
Slauson. As I crossed Firestone Blvd. I would notice
this old run-down "Flying A" service station on the
southwest corner. There was one two-pump island, a
wood-frame (8- by 10-foot) office, and out back a two-
car lube bay/repair stall. It was a pre-fab steel
structure, all adorned in very weathered yellow-and-
white paint. Night or day there always seemed to be a
group of motorcycles parked there. English and Ameri-
can bikes, choppers, cafe, and desert racers mostly.
So, on one Saturday morning "The Kid" wheeled his
bronze head AJS 500 "Lunger" into that assemblage of
esoteric iron, parked, and entered "The Big A", domain
of the Boozefighters.

Now you must realize, that was 45 years ago, and
although my first love was/is motorcycles, my father
being an ex-Indian factory rider, and later, curator/
mananger of a Class A speedway racing group, there were
always motorcycles around my digs. So, my association
with the Boozefighters, although a milestone in the
maturing process of a 17-year-old "Jitter Bug", as a
memory seems to be a bit jaded and faded now. At that
time in my life my blind lust, rage, and total obses-
sion was motor car racing. This brings me to an expla-
nation of this somewhat languid preface. Motorcycling
was an ongoing lifestyle, and my association with these
cats wasn't any big deal at that time. I'll try to
assemble, in retrospect, a chronology of those times.
However, to do so I must rely on very old, much-used,
often-abused grey matter. I only hope there is still
enough electrolyte to sustain the surge of electron
activity necessary to separate fact from fiction, myth
from reality, and alas, truth from fantasy. Please
bear with me.

In retrospect: The Boozefighters M/C, L.A. (MF)

To the bost of my knowledge the original Booze-
fighter was a B-25 airplane, part of a World War II
squadron first operating in England, then later based
in North Africa. I don't know much more than that;
however, I do recall seeing the Boozefighter logo
painted on a B-25 in a weathered photograph that was
taped to the wall in the Big A. I do believe the
embryo of the club grew from that aircraft's flight
crew. The Boozefighters were, by 1940's social stan-
dards, a wild and uncontrollable gang. However, I saw
them as a rebellious free spirit, marching to the beat
of a different drummer, a drummer on speed maybe, but
certainly a different drummer.

How soon the public forgets! A few months prior
to the club's founding these cats were defending lib-
erty. Fighting in an air war, killing and being killed
was daily routine. Then quite suddenly it was over.
The excitement waned. However, the momentum of adren-
aline-induced violence continued on into civilian life.
Compounding the frustration in the search for the lost
years.

The Big A! A beer bar in back of a run-down gas
station in South Central Los Angeles. Meeting place
and hangout for the post-war, "outlaw"-prototype motor-
cycle club. The club was the people. Cats with names
like Wino Willie, Jumpin' Joe, Yo Yo, J.D. Jones, Fat
Boy and his ol' lady Dago, Igor, Curly Cantlon, Louie
Thomas, Stinabalm the Sweed, and bartender/owner Fat
John. There were more. Some riders that tasted fame,
like Arch Johnson, Don Hawley, Chuck "Feets" Minert,
and Long Beach Triumph racebike builder A.J. Lewis.
Altogether there must have been 50 or 60 active mem-
bers. The old man who operated the gas station figured
he was gettin' too old to run the lube rack and do
mechanical repairs, so he sub-let the outbuilding to
Fat John and the club. They removed the lube rack
platform, covered the ram post with a homemade wooden
bar, assembled a bunch-of stools, bought a beer/wine
license, and the club was in the bar business. The
wings were sawed off of the sign on the roof, leaving
just the big letter "A", hence the name "Big A", the
focal point of Boozefighters' activities.

There were other clubs of contemporary stature,
but none remains in the annals of serendipitous mayhem
with the verve or mystique of the Boozefighters. (Most
likely due to their participation in the infamous Holl-
ister Fourth of July weekend of 1947, and the subse-
quent "Wild One" movie, loosely based on that happen-
ing.) I guess the oldest of the motorcycle clubs still
in operation at that time was the Thirteen Rebels, a
group founded by movie stunt men back in the 1920's.
The Yellow Jackets and The Orange County M/C also pre-
date the Boozefighters. Sister organizations were The
Rams, Checkers, The North Hollywood Crotch Cannibals,
and The Gallopin' Goose M/C. The Hell's Angels back
then were a group of young cats in San Bernadino. How
time changes things.

Day-to-day routine activities were cruisin' the
bars, partying, and checking out the weekly races
around the L.A. area. Speedway at the Lincoln Park
(located on the south turn of the long-time abandoned
Legion Ascot Speedway, i.e., the original Ascot), the
1/4-mile at Rosecrans and Western Avenues, the Box
Springs Grade TT in Riverside, Nail Flats (nicknamed
"Rusty Nails") near San Pedro, and Coriganville, a
Western movie set and racetrack up near the town of
Newhall.

I remember one Sunday evening. We were returning
from a TT race at Coriganville. Each of us bought a
gallon jug of wine to suck on all afternoon, while sit-
ting in the hot summer sunshine. We were gaggling
home, with pit stops at several bars along the way when
someone suggested we fall into DeMay's drive-in, a
local hot-rodder hangout, for supper. We were pretty
well wasted, tired and dirty -- dirty? No, filthy!
Vile! Repugnant! Yo Yo sat at the counter and ordered
first a bowl o' chili, then hogged down an order of
spaghetti with meatballs, finishing up with a milk
shake. Now Yo Yo looking his best resembled a cross
between Dr. Frankenstein's monster and Charlie Chaplin,
let alone sweating all day at a dusty race course. He
was one of those tall skinny red-necked cats. When he
starts to walk, first his head starts nodding like he
means yes, then his shoulders pick up the movement fol-
lowed by his hips and pelvis ungulating in the exact
opposite cadence of what his upper body is doing. Next
he swings each leg forward, dragging his toes, and then
drops his foot down in what you might call a "clop
step". He was wall-eyed, right side if my memory
serves me, with a "cue-ball" haircut. Well, it was
warm and steamy in the restaurant, and with the mixture
of red wine, pasta, chili, tomatoes, beans, hamburger,
onions, milk, ice cream, chocolate, digestive enzymes,
stomach acids, and assorted herbs and spices it wasn't
long before the laws of physical science and chemistry
sprung into action. Yo Yo had a problem. He dropped
like a dead buffalo. There he was, sprawled on the
floor, eyes rolled back, lids half closed in a slack-
jawed coma. His face bore the jaundice pallor of a
night nursers panty hose. We could have just left the
cat crapped out on the floor, but Wino Willie thought
it would be best to remove him. Wino grabbed his feet
and drug him out into the parking lot. There weren't
many patrons in the place and I could see only two car-
hops working. Only five or six cars; I guess Sunday
nights are slow. Now most of us were all for leaving
this "Mother" there in the lot. But Wino was loyal to
a fault and declared we should take him home. But how?
He never would have made it on a pillion post; if we
tried to drag him some sober judge would have called it
premeditated murder. So the only thing to do was to
commandeer a motor car and drive him home. Now I'm not
clairvoyant or psychic or anything like that, but I
figgered it was time to start my bike and wait by the
driveway.

There was a young man and his date sitting in this
real clean, dark blue 1934 Ford coupe' eating their
dinner. It was probably fate, or maybe just not this
kid's day. Wino walked up to them and asked, real
nicely, if he could use their Ford to take Yo Yo home.
I guess Wino didn't care for the response to his
inquiry, cuz the next thing I saw was Wino pulling this
young fellow out of his car and putting him flat on his
back! The girlfriend seemed to be loosing her compo-
sure. Wide-eyed, screaming, she sat frozen, petrified
with fear. She wasn't about to leave a car that was
surrounded by wild and drunken bikers, and there just
wasn't room for Yo Yo to sit inside. Wino slipped into
the driver's seat and started the engine. Meanwhile
three or four of the other cats picked Yo Yo up and
sprawled him over the hood. There he was, on his back,
head on the cowling vent, arms stretched out to either
side, and his legs dangling down over the headlamps. I
was beginning to think in a short while this scene
might, somehow, get a bit out of control! So I pulled
the clutch and slipped the AJ into first screw. I did
hear the little voice deep down in my conscience tell
me I should do something about this. I thought the
only heroic thing I could do, at this point in time,
was to got my little white innocent 17-year-old ass out
o' there! The last I saw of Yo Yo for the next 30 days
or so, was himself riding around DeMay's parking lot on
the hood of this '34 5-window, regurgitating a four-
inch fountain of red vomit about a foot-and-a-half
straight in the air, and this hardened, blond profes-
sional car-hop, wide-eyed, face blanched, fist
clenched, and screaming, "Call the cops, God damn it,
somebody call the cops!"

There was this bar on South Main Street (about
185th Street) in an old Airstream trailer, called
"Johnny's Crash Inn". No connection to Fat John at the
Big A. The Crash Inn was common meeting ground for the
Boozefighters and the Gallopin' Goose M/Cs. John
opened about six each morning; some of these cats
couldn't make it if they had to go more than four hours
without a drink. One morning this old cat shows up in
a 3/4-ton pickup truck with two or three juke boxes in
the bed. He asks John how business was and if he could
put one of his jukes in the bar. John told him right
up front that he didn't think that was such a good
idea, but this cat was real insistent and told John he
could keep 50% of the profit. Five cents a tune
wouldn't pay the rent, but this was most likely the
only gig the geezer had going for him, so John said,
"What the hell, if you want to take the chance, knock
yourself out." The old man brought the thing in,
loaded it up with records, and plugged it in. It was
truly a thing of beauty! Round top, convex front, a
lot of glass tubes with lava-lamp stuff bubbling up the
front and soft lights that would change color. Well,
this electric wonder sat there a week or two with
hardly a play. If it wasn't that it was all enclosed
I'm sure the big stack of 78-rpm records would have
been covered with dust. These cats just weren't inter-
ested. It wasn't that they didn't like music, they
just didn't appreciate Connie Francis, Von Monroe,
Doggy in the Window, or hits from My Fair Lady. Maybe
you could have got them to go to the Bach Festival if
you could convince them they were giving away free Bach
Beer! Then one night the inevitable happened. During
the course of a somewhat untempered discussion, center-
ing on the subject of one fellow's inability to sub-
stantiate the exact origin or even the identification
of his father, he implied the other gentleman's mother
was performing sexual exhibitions in a socially unac-
ceptable manner. Civil decorum waned, and an alterca-
tion ensued. The glass front of the music machine was
smashed, broken bits and lava crap all over the floor,
the soft lights no longer changed color. A shame
really, but as with most catastrophies, there was one
redeeming asset. One now had access to the inner work-
ings of the musical marvel. So it wasn't long before
Bing Crosby's White Christmas was replaced by Big J.
McNeally's Good Rockin' at Midnight. Stardust gave way
to Drinkin' Wine Spolie-Ohlie, and Little Doggis in the
Window became Sneaky Pete Beat Your Meat. Next to go
was the coin box, then a rewire job that made it pos-
sible to play the thing by just plugging it into the
wall. When the old man came back to make his collec-
tion he just stood there staring at the machine. After
a while he turned, eyes watering, to look at John.
Then he just went away. From then on the main attrac-
tion at the Crash Inn was the free juke box. "I told
the cat I didn't think leaving that thing here was a
good idea," was all John could say.

Every Friday night all the cats would go to Lin-
coln Park for the Speedway races. The Boozefighters
came to own this old Pierce-Arrow limousine. They
painted it bright green, wrote "Boozefighters" on the
sides, and adorned it with the club logo, an old
drunk's head, eyes half shut, and flies buzzing around.
Friday nights we would meet at the Big A, pile into the
"Greenhouse", and motor to Lincoln Park. We would
share a couple gallons of wine at the racetrack, then
return to the Big A and drink till 2 am. It was one of
those Friday nights that found Fat Boy and Yo Yo drink-
ing beer together after the race. Fat Boy was a kinda
short stocky cat, not really fat at all. He worked
construction jobs all his life and had a hard well-
tanned body. He looked much like, and had mannerisms
similar to, Burt Reynolds, the movie star. Dago was
Fat Boy's old lady. A blond-haired olive-skinned Ital-
ian girl who rode a 74-inch Harley-Davidson with Drake
wheels and rods, Texas Machine Shop cylinders and spac-
ers. That sucker must have been out to 90+ cubic
inches. A Wico magneto, locked on full advance, she
could stand on the pedal and kick that sucker through
like a lumberjack. She made a living shagging for
Rapid Blueprint Co. When you shag for a living you
just show up every morning, get in line and they call
you as needed. Every day is payday, and you can col-
lact in cash if you wish. Such was the reputation of
the Boozefighters, when she wore her club sweater to
work she just rode to the head of the line and no one
would dare say a thing!

Now I was sitting in the bar with Curly Cantlon,
Yo Yo was sitting with Fat Boy and Dago had crashed in
the back seat of the greenhouse. Yo Yo was carrying on
about how horny he was after 30 days in Lincoln Heights
(L.A. County Jail). He kept talking about how he was
going to take his last $10 and see if he could score a
street walker up on the Avenue. Fat Boy says, "Why do
that and take a chance on getting the clap or somethin'
worse? You could give me the $10 and crawl in the back
seat with Dago! She's so wasted that she'll probably
think it's me anyway." "You really don't mind?" "Hell
no, what are friends for?" So Yo Yo hands Fat Boy the
$10, and slips out to the parking lot. Curly and I are
right behind him; this was something not to be missed.
Fat Boy put the money away and ordered another beer.
Outside it was darker than King Kong's arm pit. You
could just make out Yo Yo quietly opening the car door
and pulling himself in, pants and skivvies around his
ankles. All was dead quiet for a few moments. Then
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you son of a
bitch, get the fuck out of here!" Yo Yo didn't even
get the door closed before he hit the ground like he
was blown out of a cannon. Dago, her blouse open end
belt unfastened, on top of him kicking, scratching,
biting, slugging, and yelling at the top of her lungs.
She sat on his chest with her knees dug into his shoul-
ders, punching him in the face with both fists. Yo Yo
was able to crawl away, after Dago wore herself out
hitting him. He drug himself back into the Big A,
pulling up his draws, bleeding from the mouth, lips and
cheeks swollen, and plopped down by Fat Boy. "That
didn't take long, how was it?" "How was it! How was
it! I want my money back!" retorted Yo Yo. "What do
you mean, you want your money back?" Fat Boy smiled,
"A deal's a deal! Didn't I set the whole thing up for
you? If you're not romantic enough to win her over, or
man enough to subdue her, that's not my fault! Just to
prove I'm your friend I'll buy you a beer -- hey John,
set one up for my friend, will ya?" Yo Yo wiped his
mouth with his sleeve, and drank the beer. Curly
turned to me and said, "Fat Boy was right, you know."
I said, "Yeah, but what about Yo Yo, he let her get on
top - now there's a gentleman!"

I could tell you more, but I think you've got an
idea of what life was like with the Boozefighters, how
it was and all.

Disclaimer: This might be fictional as one of the Boozefighters
contacted me, and flatly denied that Papa Jim was a member.

Source: Moto Monterey - September 1993

(Some of you may remember Jim Brewer's article on the
Boozefighters in the September 1991 newsletter. The
Boozefighters M/C was one of the motorcycle clubs that
appeared in the late 1940's in answer to the
restlessness of post-war America. As a young buck with
an AJS motorcycle, Jim was a member of this notorious
"gang", and has agreed to continue his account of their
exploits. -ed.]

RIDING THE BEAR:
Further Adventures of the Boozefighters, 1948

40% Fiction, 50% Facts Out of Context,
and 10% Shuck n' Jive!!

by Papa Jim Brewer

Prologue

Yoyo knelt beside the silver-grey and chrome Royal
Enfield scrambler, fitting a spare clutch cable. He
was just finishing up, having already fit extra
throttle and brake cables, attaching them with bits of
safety wire. The front mudguard was resting along with
license plate, head and tail lamps, and a rat's nest of
wire by the garage wall. It seems that all week he had
been fitting and tuning the big lunger. He had taken
the week off from the "Gunk-rack" job he had with Louie
Thomas' Modern Cycle Works in East Los Angeles. Early
Monday morning he had the cylinder head down to the
Foster and Lewis machine shop to be de-carbonized and
to have the valve seats cut to a three-angle configura-
tion. Tuesday found him carefully aligning the inch-
and-a-quarter GP Arnal carburetor to the inlet manifold
and port. This tall, skinny, wall-eyed "Okie" was dead
serious!

It was Friday afternoon. Wino Willy and I had rid-
den to Yoyo's digs just to check and see if he was ok.
The last time we had seen him was Sunday night down in
front of the "Big A". He was so drunk that Fat Boy had
to start his old Scout and Big John had to hold him by
the shoulders while he mounted up just to keep him from
falling over. Jumpin' Joe depressed the clutch, Fat
Boy jammed it in gear, and we all pushed him out the
driveway, watching him weave his way into traffic, dis-
appearing east on Firestone Boulevard. Everyone else
walked away laughing, but I stood by the curb for a
long while, listening for a siren that never came. I
guessed if he didn't fall off or forgot where he lived,
he must'a got home!

"That's it," Yoyo said as he pulled himself up and
stood grinning at us. "You cats want a drink?" If it
had been anyone else I would have considered that a
foolish Question, but coming from Yoyo -- we just fol-
lowed him into the kitchen where he passed around the
last three fingers of Mission Bell Port that was left
in the gallon jug.

"Well, I'm all ready," mused Yoyo. "Hawley said I
could use his truck if I would haul his bike, all his
shit, and get someone to help pit for him."

"Where did you get that scoot?" quizzed Wino.
"Well, let's just say I've got a 'Silent Partner',
a 'Sponsor' who has complete faith in my riding
skills." I wish he hadn't said that till I swallowed
the mouth full of wine that ended up being blown
through my nose into the sink. After regaining my com-
posure I just nodded my head and tried to keep a
straight face. No sense hurting Yoyo by turning his
covers; we just let it be.

Chapter 1: The Setting

If you grew up in L.A., "Riding the Bear" was a
right of passage. It was like running with the bulls,
or cliff diving in Acapulco. The Big Bear race has
been run since the 1920's. In the early days it would
start from the town of Mojave. The riders would line
up along the railroad tracks. When the train whistle
blew, it was over the tracks, across the desert, and up
the mountain to Big Bear Lake. It wasn't a "Hare and
Hound" back then, just a flat-out motorcycle race!
First cat to get to the lake won. Each team would set
up their own fuel stops. Most likely the first some-
where between the Silver Lakes and Stoddard Mountain,
next maybe around Peter's Hill or Rabbit Springs and
the third always at Holcomb Creek Crossing. Then it
was up the mountain. Through rock washes and fire
breaks, deer trails and foot paths to the town of Fawn-
skin, which is just across the lake from Big Bear City.
Circa 300 miles of desert and mountains, as the crow
flies, that is if you could find a crow dumb enough to
fly that route!

Quite often there would be an inch or two of snow
on the high desert, melting into slush, and then frozen
again as you start up the shady side of the mountain in
the afternoon. Although you could nail 75 or 80 miles
per hour on the open plain, it was much like a steeple
chase, leaping over rocks and pucker bushes that would
launch a rider into the air, like riding over a ramp.
Then sand pits and rock washes would slow you to a dead
stop. You had to pick the bike up and lead or carry it
over, around or through the maze. Not a small feat if
you were Indian, Barley, or Henderson mounted! On the
mountain the snow took its toll. With drifts sometimes
ten feet deep, more than one rider, completely
exhausted, would fall and expire before help could
reach him! Some lost riders would light their bikes on
fire to attract rescuers. A burning tire makes a great
signal. Of 300-plus miles, less than 100 feet are on
some kind of pavement, where you would cross the high-
way and at the finish, in Fawnskin. You would come
down this hill on a city street, and have to come to a
complete stop, feet on pegs, in a chalk-marked box.
Give that a try on an inch of ice with stagger-block
knobby tires! Even when you're not all worn out! First
rider to the finish was the winner.

In later years the event turned into a true "Hare
and Hound", sanctioned by Harley-Davidson's own AMA,
sponsored by the Orange County M/C, and open to all
riders. (However, in 1948, the event was sponsored by
the Hollywood Three Point M/C.) There were mandatory
check points where a rider had to sign-in on a control
card. The route was marked with lime by a "Hare" rider
who was always an expert, most likely a former Big Bear
winner. He would take off about a half hour to 45 min-
utes before the starting "bomb" would go off. "Catch
the 'Hare', win the race!"

There had been a lot of national defense building
in the high desert during the war years. Apple Valley
and the surrounding area became more populated. Hous-
ing tracts, homesteads, small farms, and the like were
flourishing. So, in the interest of public relations
and good will, from 1946 on the Bear would start from
the North Lucerne Valley (near Highway 247), make a
wide figure-eight pattern across the desert, returning
twice to the starting line, then split to Big Bear
Lake. This new route made refueling a lot easier,
since the crews could just hang out at the starting
line, drink a little wine, and "Shuck 'n Jive" till
their rider came through twice, then bug-out to Holcomb
Creek Crossing, at a dirt road just north of Green Val-
ley. After topping off there, bag-ass for Fawnskin and
the finish.

Chapter 2: The Players

J.D. Jones was a tall, skinny old man. He rode an
old Harley-Davidson JD that he said he bought new. He
kept his head shaved because his old lady always got
her toes tangled in his hair when they "did the thing".
He wore a full red beard and mustache, greying a bit
around the edges, and when he'd grin you could see
where he only had a few front teeth, long and a little
yellow. Seems he grinned and squinted his eyes most
all the time. He used to be a member of the original
Thirteen Rebels M/C. About the oldest club around
L.A., they did a lot of movie stunt work back in the
twenties and thirties. He still liked to show off with
a bit of trick riding, and I guess he was about as good
as most of the cats that did that kinda stuff. I
really liked ol' J.D. He may have had a two-digit IQ
but you could trust him. He was unassuming and would
mind his own business. As he would put it, he was just
a "Motorcycle Ridin' Fool!"

J.D. and I were the first cats to show up at the
"Big A". It was the Saturday morning about 9:30. It
was cold, been cold all night. Horizon to horizon the
sky was black clouds. It hadn't rained; maybe if it
had, it wouldn't have been so cold. We didn't have
long to wait. Fat Boy and his old woman Dago came rid-
ing up with Wino Willy just behind them.

"Where is everyone else?" I ask Fat Boy.
"Over to Andy's," he replied, "we're supposed to
meet over there." Andy's was a beer bar over on Atlan-
tic Avenue near Slauson called The Vulture's Roost.
This had to be the baddest one beer bar in L.A. It was
a haunt of The Yellow Jackets and Gallopin' Goose M/C.
We lit'em up and cruised over.

Cold in L.A. is damp, wet cold and riding felt like
getting hit in the face with needles. There was ice in
the gutters and as we traveled east on Firestone, past
the tire plant, you could see wee bits of soot hanging
in the air from the smudge pots.

We pulled up in front of the Roost. There must
have been 70 or 80 riders milling around in the lot.
Andy opened up and had the coffee pot on. We parked,
and went in for a cup. I walked back to the AJS and
undid the straps, holding my sleeping bag. I pinned
Yoyo sitting in Don Hawley's truck. It was a lowered
1934 fern-green Ford. In the bed, along with Yoyo's
Enfield, he had Don's "Arie-out" (a hybrid Ariel Red
Hunter frame with a Shell Motors 101 Scout engine and
Bermans clutch and gear box. This is the same bike
Hawley campaigned around Southern California's flat
tracks for the next few years). The Enfield was all
covered up with a bed spread. This isn't right, Yoyo
not flaunting the scrambler in front of all these cats.
J.D. and I tossed our bags in alongside the bikes, tool
box, gas cans, spare wheels, and "stuff".

Man, this looked like a Jive circus! Cats wearing
colors from The Gallopin' Goose, The Boozefighters, The
RAMS (Raggedy Ass Millionaires), The Crotch Cannibals,
The Yellow Jackets, even the very prim Pasadena M/C,
and more. It wasn't long before engines were started,
trucks began moving, when I started the AJS, J.D. Jones
was already pulling out, we were under way. East to
Lakewood Boulevard, then north onto Rosemead, east
again on Foothill, we were "gaggling" to the high des-
ert, it was the Big Bear weekend, and it was great!
Johnny the Jug jumped back on the pillion of his new
Tiger 100, grabbed a handful, and flew to the front of
the group. J.D. stood on the seat of his old porker,
stretched arms straight out to either side, and per-
formed a "human cross" at 70 miles per hour. Truly a
"Ridin' Fool", to quote J.D. There was this BIG biond-
haired chick on a Square Four that rode along side and
kept grinning at me. Everyone called her Amazon. I
smiled back but left it alone. Her old man was "White
Fence". I didn't want that kind of trouble!

In San Berdoo we stopped at a beer bar for lunch.
J.D. went across the street to a "Piggley-Wiggley" Mar-
ket and came back with a gallon of Mission Bell. He
gave one of those "Ridin' Fool" grins, and threw away
the cap. The weekend was definitely underway!

One of the cats in The Gallopin' Goose was John
Galliano, "Johnny the Jug". His dad was Italian, his
mother Mexican-American. A good friend of Don
Hawley's, they worked out together at Redpath's Gym.
Johnny the Jug was a real Adonis. Coal-black hair,
olive skin, and Roman nose, he was a "Lady Magnet", one
of those cats that would work out on Muscle Beach Sun-
day afternoons. He was riding up with us and was going
to help us gas Hawley at Holcomb Creek. Then there was
this other young cat who used to party with us. A big
moon-faced high-school football player named Irving
KertzenbaLn. This kid was BIG! I'd say 260 by 6'6" at
least. He played football at Inglewood High School,
but had eyes to become a professional wrestler, like
Gorgeous George. He already had a name picked out:
"Swede Kertzenbalm, the Smorgasbord of Death!" I've
watched television for the last 45 years and still hope
one day to see "Swede" conquer the mat. Seeing Swede
riding with Yoyo in the truck I couldn't help but muse;
if those guys could find a dumb-looking third cat with
a "Prince Valiant" haircut, they proverbially could
come up with a movie contract! Swede was the crew man
Yoyo had promised Don for the use of the truck. I can
see it now! Wino Willy, Fat Boy, and the Swede topping
off Don Hawley's gas tank at a high-speed pit stop.
That could be the start of a beautiful fist fight.

Victorville was jumpin'. Bikes everywhere. Cats
wearing colors from all the western states. The bars
were overflowing; all the restaurants had lines of
folks waiting to scarf. We cruised around for a while
and soon ran into this cat from the Jack Rabbits M/C
who knew Wina Willy. He told us about this Mexican
Cafe just east of town on Highway 18. I'm not sure I
remember the name -- Mama Lupe's, or Sister Lupe's --
anyway, the beer was cold and the food good. We
checked it out. Seemed to be a hangout for the local
sodbusters, an old day-coach railroad car with a Quon-
set hut attached to the rear. As we pulled into the
parking lot, you could hear the juke box wailing, "Out
in Petersburg everything's fine, all them cats are
drinking that wine, smashing out windows and kickin'
down doors, they'll drink a half gallon and scream for
more!" Sounds like a class place to me! Once inside we
sat down, ordered a round of "Red X" (Lucky Lager) and
schemed on supper.

There were four girls waiting tables. Our waitress
was a tall, slim twist with dishwater blond hair, and
just about enough "good stuff" wiggling to stop conver-
sation. We were all on separate checks so she moved
from one to the other taking orders. I sat at the end
of the table so she took mine first. When she got to
Johnny the Jug she broke out in a big grin (the "Lady
Magnet" seemed to be working). When she left us and
moved between tables, chairs, and people on her way to
the kitchen, I couldn't help but think she moved like a
snake with hips. The Jug caught me pinning her, and
gave me a wink. I just closed my eyes, nodded my head,
and smiled. She brought us another round of beer, said
our dinners would be here soon. She wore Levis that
looked painted on and a kinds peasant blouse, loose,
low-cut, and made out of an old Japanese WWII flag. It
had a big, round, red spot on the front, with Japanese
writing down the sides, under her arms.

Our dinners arrived and as she set the plate down
in front of the Jug he asked, "When do you get off
work?"

"Anytime I feel like it. I don't work here; Eddy,
the owner, lets me fill in for tips on crowded nights."

After supper we all had one more "Red X", all
except Yoyo. He was drinking Delaware Punch, being in
training and all.

We paid our bill, left a tip, and started toward
the door. The Jug turned around and called back, "Hey
Meatball, you coming with us?" Her smile grew into a
wide grin as she pulled the pencil from in back of her
ear, and tossed the order pad on the counter. Yoyo was
in the truck and out to the road by the time we got our
bikes started. Jug tickled the carburetor, and before
he could crank it through, Meatball was on the Tiger's
pillion and groping for the pegs. Fat Boy turned to
Dago, "Looks like the Jug got him a pillion fairy."
Dago just looked bored and kicked her big stroker Har-
ley to life. Yoyo and Swede led the way and we were on
the road again.

Even though it was biting cold, the high desert air
was crystal clear and sweet, and dry. When it's 80
degrees in Los Angeles and 110 in Victorville, the high
desert always seems more comfortable. But, the air is
thin, and it was far from 110 degrees. I have no idea
just how cold it was, but it hurt to take a deep
breath, and I couldn't feel my hands or feet, and the
cold even cut through my thermal knickers. Shit, I was
colder than a Klondike sewer rat!

We had been going east; now we turned north, off
the pavement. The dirt road turned into a sand wash.
It was near the old Sidewinder Mine in a place they
called "Crash Canyon". As we rode north on the creek
bed, you could smell the smoke of fires, and we soon
saw other riders camped out on the sand. We pulled up,
and I rode over to the side of the canyon where the
earth was a bit more solid. I pulled the AJS onto the
stand and J.D. pulled in beside me, along with Wino, a
cat named Curly Cantlon, and a couple of Yellow Jack-
ets. This is where we were to meet "our racers" in the
morning.

J.D. started to scrape away the brush so we could
bed down. Fat Boy and Wino started a little fire with
dry brush and twigs. I walked across the creek and
picked our sleeping bags out of the truck bed. A tiny
sliver of moon broke through the overcast and as far as
you could see up the canyon folks were camped. I
walked back and threw J.D. his bag and we rolled them
out. I stripped to my knickers and crawled in. Johnny
the Jug and Meatball were already in the sack, their
clothes tossed all over. I don't somehow think their
minds were focused on neatness. They were about 10 or
12 feet from J.D. and me. The sleeping bag was left
unzipped. It was cold, but not as cold as when we were
riding, so leaving the bag open gave more room to move
around inside. I didn't think their minds were focused
so much on "sleeping" either! There was about four or
five inches of Mission Bell left in the jug, so J.D.
and I passed it back and forth while we watched the
skin show. J.D. was thinkin' out laud, "Man, if Big
John could get a floor show like that, he could have a
cover charge down at the 'Big A'."

"If he could keep his license, it would be more
like an 'uncover charge'," I added.

All at once Meatball sat straight up and in a loud
whisper said, "Don't they call this place the Side-
winder Mine? What would we do if a snake slithered
into our sleeping bag?" Johnny the Jug grabbed her
shoulders, pulled her back into the bag, and rolled
over on top of her, "The only snake you have to worry
about is already in the sleeping bag." Fat Boy broke
up and gave out a raucous "Haw, haw, haw!" Dago gave
out with "Shut up, shit! If you're going to fantasize,
beat your meat and go to sleep." Then we all broke up!
I thought to myself, that Dago is one cruel old woman,
when she wants to be.

The sky had cleared some. I could even see a few
stars, now and then as the clouds were passing. The
wine was gone, J.D. was comatose, and the fire had
become an ashtray of embers. At last the day's hype
was mute, once in the arms of Morpheus.

Too soon the "visions of sugar plums" were blown
out of "my wee little head" by a God-awful racket com-
ing up the canyon. It was this old flathead, orange
Dodge pickup, weaving through sleeping bags and around
motorcycles. From behind the wheel came this honkey
nasal whine, "Joanne? Joanne? I know you're here
somewhere, where are you honey? Joanne?" Meatball
jumped out of the bag and started pulling on her Levis.
By now John the Jug was out of the bag too.

"What's happening?"
"It's that God-damn Eddy, he owns the restaurant,
remember? He's my landlord; he owns this lousy house
trailer I've been living in." She told the Jug, "We
get it on sometimes, ya know, just for the rent. He
doesn't own me, though! Nobody owns Me, nobody!"

Eddy's truck has stopped and the headlights were
shining on Jug and the Meatball. She crossed her arms
in front of her. They were really cold, her in her
Levis and the Jug buck-ass naked. Eddy walked toward
them, stopped and picked up the blouse, looked at it,
then threw it down again. This Eddy was something
else. He stood about 5110", a stocky red-neck farm
boy. He walked up to Meatball, reached out with his
fat left hand and grabbed her by the hair. His face
was flushed, and in the headlamp's glare you could see
tiny red and blue veins that turned his puffy cheeks
into road maps. He held his right hand up, palm open
as if he were going to cuff her. He looked like he was
in pain.

"What are you doing here? Why are you here with
him and not home with me?" His eyes were welling up.

"Why am I here with him?" she cluipped. "Why am I
here with him and not with you? Drop your pants and
everyone will know why I'm with him and not with you!"

That did it. The dam burst, tears rolled down his
fat, puffy cheeks. He tried to say something; his
mouth moved a little but nothing came out. He slapped
and backhanded her three or four times across her face.
By now Fat Boy, Jumpin' Joe, the Swede, and myself were
standing around the principals, closing in and ready to
throw dukes. The Jug said, "Just let it be; let them
work it out. It's not our business. Besides, the
point spread is too wide." The code governing such
things is clear. Never fight over a woman or money.
They come and they go; you just wait a while and
they'll be back. Eddy dragged her by the hair, her
scratching and kicking to the truck, threw her in and
drove away. By the time I looked back to the Jug he
was in his sleeping bag, with Meatball's blouse rolled
up under his head, like a pillow. No honor lost here,
I reasoned.

Yoyo yelled out from the truck where he was nest-
ing, "Will you cats knock it off, I've got to get some
sleep if I'm going to 'practice my art' in the morn-
ing."

The clouds had moved back in; it was overcast. The
morning sky was once again covered with grey. We were
camped on the west side of the canyon and between the
east canyon rim and the cloud cover was a shaft of
bright sunlight that struck my eyes like a dagger.
J.D. was up, dressed, and grinnin' like an ape. "Come
on Jim, get up! Me 'n the Jug got the fire goin'
again."

"How the hell can you do it?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Do what!" I replied. "Drink port wine all day,
have five or six beers with a double order ol chili
verde for your supper, drink some more wine, stay up
half the night watchin' people screw, sleep in a frozen
food locker on a bed of sand, and be so wide awake and
so GOD-DAMN ugly at the crack of dawn?" The daggers
that were in my eyes suddenly leaped to the small of my
back when that crazy bald-headed asshole grabbed the
foot of my sleeping bag and poured me out on the canyon
floor.

I rolled up the bag and looked for the truck. It
was gone! I guessed Yoyo couldn't wait to go "practice
his art". Up front of where the truck was parked set a
new dark-blue Ford station wagon. "What's that?" I
ask J.D. "That's Don Hawley's girlfriend's new car.
She and four of her coed pals from Compton College
drove Hawley up here this morning." I turned my head,
ever so slowly, to see Dangerous Don sitting on his
haunches by the fire. He was holding a paper cup of
coffee. I walked over, "Where did you get the coffee?"

"I brought it with me, and there's some buns and
stuff in the wagon; knock yourself out!"

I walked over and looked in the back window. There
was this big United Airlines thermos, paper cups, half-
and-half, sugar and a couple of pink boxes from
Canter's of Fairfax, with sticky buns and bagels. My
mouth felt like a mouse crept in during the night and
gave birth, so I was cluick to help myself to coffee and
a big oll sticky bun. I walked back to the fire to
thank Don for breakfast. "Hey, you cats are helpin' me
refuel, I got to take care of my pit crew!"

"Where's your rib?" I ask.
"She and her friends took a hike up to the bushes
on the rim, they had to take a leak, it was a long
drive, we drank a lot of coffee. It's getting late, we
better slip," he added. You could hear bike engines
starting up and down the canyon. I took the last hit
on my coffee, watched as the little campfire jumped to
life, and finished the bun.

Don Hawley and I went back a long way. We went to
"different schools" together! We used to hang out at
the Clock Drive-In on Atlantic Avarua and Whittier
Boulevard, and see each other at the midnight drag
races on South Avalon, the old divided highway. If
ever there was a natural racer it was "Dangerous Don"
Hawley.

J.D. walked over to the fire, unbuttoned his Levis,
and started pissin' it out. Soon he was joined by Jum-
pin' Joe, Fay Boy, next by Wino Willy and Curly Cant-
Ion. White steam rose in a great billowing cloud. The
coeds had come back and one of them snapped a picture.
The last time I ever was in the "Big A", I remember
that snapshot taped to the old yellow steel wall. Five
of my boyhood heros pissin' out a fire in Crash Canyon
on January 4th, 1948.

[to be continued - next time: the race]

------------------------------

Source: Moto Monterey - October 1993

RIDING THE BEAR:
Further Adventures of the Boozefighters, 1948
Part 2

Chapter 3: Riding the Bear
by Papa Jim Brewer

We gaggled up Highway 247 and turned right on this
dirt road that was the starting line. It was one of
those roads that was scraped out of the desert with a
bulldozer blade. There was a rise on the shoulders
where the earth ended up after the scraping. ...Tust east
of this rise was the starting line. Over on the other
side of the road, to the west, was a big parking area.
The Los Gatos M/C were there in force with a big banner
on poles that was stretched across one end of the park-
ing lot. These cats came down from Northern California
every year, from the very early days of the Bear, with
a gang of expert riders. Groups from other clubs too
established their pits at the west side of the road, in
front of the parking lot.

There were bikes everywhere. Most every make and
vintage. Mostly AJS, Matchless, BSA, and Ariel 500
Singles. The 500 Singles were the most popular. They
were light (by 1948 standards), "tor-quie", fast and
would pull the side of a mountain like a tractor.
Other makes in abundance were Zundapp, Norton, Velo-
cette, BMW, NSU and Jawas. Of the twins the most abun-
dant were Triumph Speed Twins, Tigers and Trophies;
AJS; Matchless (Bud Hare was on a Clay Smith 600 Match-
less from his cam shop in Long Beach); and BSA. Other
bikes spotted were Panther,, Royal-Enfield, Douglas,
Harley-Davidson, Indian, and a 61-inch Crocker ridden
by Ed Johnson, the famed L.A. flat tracker. Of course
there were a bunch of "corn-popper" two-cycles. BSA
Bantams, Dots, Villers, James, DKW, Francis-Barnetts,
Jawas, etc., ridden mostly by young, novice riders.
Many started, in fact they would fly off the start; few
finished, always late, too late to be scored. Most
blew up and/or crashed in the first 50 miles or so.
How things have changed in 45 years!

We spotted Don's truck about in the middle of the
pits. Yoyo had the bikes unloaded and was tinkering
with the Enfield. Ross Bernstein, the Shell Motors
tuner, had the Scout on a rear-wheel stand. He had
already run it, had the plugs out, and was making a
carburetor mixture adjustment. The "cheerleaders"
drove the station wagon back into the parking lot.
J.D., Winb Willy, and I followed them. I could use
some more coffee, and the "buns" looked good too! One
by one the rest joined us and we established Booze-
fighters' headquarters around the Compton College dele-
gation.

There must have been a hundred or so bikes running
around us, racing out into the desert, checking out
their scoots. Carburetor and spark-plug checks. Tire
style and pressure checks. Chassis adjustments and
last-minutd sprocket selections. Some of the Indian
and Harley riders had stretched frames and chains on
their rear wheals. There were a few pits that had
blankets stretched out on the ground, feverishly trying
to put engines or gearboxes back together. The air was
thick with exotic fuel and castor-oil smells. "Nine
o'clock, one hour to go," someone said. I walked to
Don's pit. There were a few flakes of snow in the air,
a few tiny bits of crystal jewels delicately held in
the fingers of the dry brush.

I've never ceased to be overwhelmed by the Big Bear
Hare and Hound. In 1948 there were 377 official
entries, times five crewmen; add 1,500 spectators,
equals 3,385 people. In 1954 there were 986 official
entries!

The snow was falling steadily now, a light snow but
enough to cover the desert with one or two inches. Don
and Yoyo had taken their bikes to the starting line and
the hare was getting ready to take off. The starting
line was about a hundred feet east of the road and ran
parallel.

More riders filled the starting line as the hare
took off. I don't recall who the hare was -- a member
of the Hollywood Three Pointers M/C. He carried lime
sacks in a newspaper-boy's bag draped over his shoul-
ders. AJS mounted, and cookin'! We watched as he sped
up the desert incline, passed the Big Rock hill, where
the starting bomb would soon go off, and disappeared
over the ridge that lay about a quarter-mile due east.

I ask Don, "How do you follow lime markers in the
snow?"

"You don't have to. He'll leave a big mud trail,
and unless you're leading, there will be no doubt where
the course runs."

I gave Don and Yoyo a pat on the back and walked
down the starting line to check out the other racers.
Everyone had been running their engines to keep them
warm. I saw Triumph-mounted, our man Arch Johnson; and
movie stars Keenan Wynn on an AJS and Larry Parks on a
brand-new Gold Star BSA his wife, screen star Betty
Garrett, had given him as a Christmas gift the week
before. The riders with sponsors or some with club
affiliation wore vests or silken "bibs" (like Class 'A'
speedway riders) proclaiming their benefactors. There
was half-mile ace Bert Brundage on a Frank Cooper AJS,
Aub LeBard on a LeBard and Underwood Matchless, and
auto racer and speedway star Mack Bellings on a Milne
Brothers Ariel Red Hunter, to name a few. One by one
the engines were shutting down, with the start
approaching. You have to start with a dead engine,
then when that starting bomb goes off, kick your bike to
life, and "bug out". The riders were getting "antsy";
every eye was trained on the Big Rock hill.

It's the waiting, you know. It's the waiting that
seems so hard. You know you're good. You've proven
that to yourself over and over again. You've proven it
to others, your sponsors, the people that have come
here to help you, and to the fans who have come to
watch you. It's become dead quiet now. The more
focused you become, the more quiet it seems. You wait,
and wait. Steve McQueen summed it up in the 1971 movie
LeMans: "A lot of people go through life doing things
badly. Racing is important to men who do it well.
When you're racing, it -- it's life. Anything that
happens before or after is just waiting." When I look
back at the memory of it, the mind's eye picture of the
Big Bear, of THAT Big Bear, I remember the waiting. It
seems hours ago that the hare left. "Will 10 o'clock
ever come? God, it's quiet, this waiting."

The bomb burst! Engines started, clutches engaged,
and a square mile of California's high desert turned
into a plowed field. Clouds of snow and dirt rose in a
plume from each machine as they sped off toward the
horizon. I strained to see who was leading as they
crested the quarter-mile knoll. I looked for Hawley
who was wearing a Shell Motors sweater over his leath-
ers, but with 300 riders moving at 80 miles per hour
over rough country, I -- I walked back to the truck, is
what I did.

Ross Bernstein was sorting out tools and spares,
setting up for our first pit stop. We were servicing
Don Hawley, Arch Johnson, and, oh yeah, Yoyo. We split
up into two groups. Group A was Bernstein, Fat Boy,
and Johnny the Jug. Group B, Curley Cantlin, J.D.
Jones, and myself. Swede Kertzenbalm and Jumpin' Joe
would drive the truck, see to all the gear, and be the
official "go fetch it" gang. Group A would work the
first stop, when the riders would come through the
starting line on the first pass. Then they were to bug
out for the Holcomb Creek Crossing and gas stop number
three. Our group, Group B, would see to the second gas
stop, when they passed through again. Then we would
toss our gas cans and stuff into the station wagon and
bag ass for the finish at Fawnskin. There Group A
would meet us.

Bernstein set out two sets of gas cans: the first
for Hawley, the second for Johnson and Yoyo. He
"hipped" me to the scam. The Scout had been tuned to
run on a special Don Francisco "gas mix", the red and
yellow cans. The solid red cans held Flying "A" 100
plus. Don Francisco was a local fuel mixer who was
playing with nitro blends and such even back then!

The snow had stopped. The clouds were beginning to
break up, the sun was poking its rays through the over-
cast, here and there. Jumpin' Joe was snoozing in the
truck cab. I ask Swede if he would like a cup of cof-
fee and we walked over to the wagon. The co-eds had
covered the windows with blankets. I lifted the tail-
gate to the sounds of giggles and shrieks! The girls
were changing their clothes, getting ready for the pit
stops. It was Don Hawley's idea. If there were a
bunch of chicks dressed in tight sweaters, white short
shorts, and Li'l Abner boots, standing in the pit, jum-
pin' up and down, wiggling all over, and screaming
their lungs out, there was no way he could not see
where his pit was! I closed the tailgate and they
handed us cups of coffee through the window.

We walked back to find the truck backed into the
pit. Ross Bernstein had all the tools and spares we
might need laid out in the bed like an operating room
table.

Everyone was in their pit area, all ready and once
again waiting. There was a quiet that comes with the
snow. A stillness that slows the adrenaline flow.
Everyone's eyes were turned toward the road. If you
can picture this dirt road, scraped out of tte desert
floor by a bulldozer's blade, with great mounds of
earth lining either side, where curbs would be if this
were a city street. Then you can see that crossing the
road meant having to navigate two big old jumps! The
riders would return from the east, crossing the road to
the west, and into the pits.

At first it was a buzz. Like a bee, getting
louder. Sounding like an angry bee. Louder still,
like a hornet. A lone rider, flat out and cookin'.
His engine raced as he hit the first jump, shifting
gears in the air. He cleared the second jump and came
into our midst. It was the hare, sliding the AJS
scrambler into the Hollywood Three Pointers M/C pit.
Refueling took about 10 to 15 seconds. He grabbed a
drink of water (?), clean goggles, and split like a
scalded dog. Due west. The co-eds came running from
the station wagon in ski caps and coats. There was no
rush. The hare had a 45-minute head start on the
field. That head start proved to be closer to 30 min-
utes in reality. The hounds were closing in.

The time passed more quickly now than it did wait-
ing for the start. It didn't seem long before the
first riders were arriving. The girls had their coats
off and were lined up, ready to do their stuff!

First rider over the jump was Matchless-mounted Aub
LeBard, followed a few seconds later by Dutch Sterner
on an AJS. About a minute later came Nick Nicholson on
a Branch Motors Velocette. A couple of moments later a
gaggle of 10 or 15 riders were coming over the jump
into the pits. Looked like ducks popping up in a
shooting gallery. Next rider to "pop" over was number
88, Don Hawley, followed by 40 or 50 more. Upon pin-
ning Hawley, the "co-ed chorus line" went into action,
like football cheerleaders, high-kicking, screaming and
just plain jumpin' up and down! Man, did it work! Don
pinned the pit right off. Not only that, it confused
the competition something fierce. All these cats were
checking out the girls! Riders were running into each
other, falling down, missing their pits, and even their
pit crews were smitten in slack-jawed wonder. Fat Boy
had the funnel in Don's tank and Johnny the Jug was
pouring in fuel. Bernstein asked Don if everything was
ok, he nodded and said that he could blow off these
cats at will. He was laying back to let the eager
beavers beat down the brush. It was easier to get lost
by missing lime if you were up front, plus cooling it
now saved the machine for when times got tough. Arch
Johnson had pulled up in back of Hawley and the "A"
Group rushed to service him. Our riders, most of the
riders, wore those black foam-rubber war-surplus
goggles, and our riders got clean ones at each stop.
Hawley took a big gulp of water and was off, followed a
few seconds later by Arch, to the cheering and scream-
ing of "Follies Femme-Fatale".

More riders were pouring over the pit jump now. It
wasn't long before Yoyo came on the scene. The gals
went into their act once again, with a repeat of the
first chaotic "rapture of lost demeanor". He was ser-
viced, in and out like a pro! -- the Enfield sounded
great. I was amazed! Swede said he was counting and
figured YoYo was 78th out of 337 starters! Could it be
his benefactor was right? New! Yeah? New!

The girls were back in coats and hats and headed
for the station wagon and its wonderful heater. Ross
picked up all his spares and loaded the truck. He set
out the gas cans and a tote-box of tools. "If you need
more than this, it's all over, anyway," he told me.
With a pat on the back, he jumped in the truck along-
side the Swede. Fat Boy, Jumpin' Joe, and Johnny the
Jug mounted up and "A" Group was off to the creek
crossing.

It was almost noon. Riders were straggling in one
by one. Some realized, when they met the leaders com-
ing through the starting line pits for the second lap,
that it was all over, and started packing up. You have
to finish within one hour after the first hound arrived
in order to "sign-in" and be counted as a finisher.

The hare led the field by 22 minutes on this second
pass. First rider at pit stop two was Aub LeBard, fol-
lowed by Velocette-mounted Nick Nicholson (it is a pic-
ture of Nick Nicholson on a Norton at the Isle of Man
TT that has become our club logo), Harley rider Tex
Luce, and speedway star Ernie Roccio on an AJS. Her-
ley-Davidson-mounted Royal Carrol.1 Jr. and Ernie McAfee
(who was killed during the rui,iiing of the last sports-
car race held at Pebble Beach, driving an RSK Porsche)
on a Branch Motors Velocette were side by side in a
dragrace into and out of their respective gas stops.
The girls were once again "on stage" to welcome Don
Hawley, who by now had worked his way to gth overall!
Curley Cantlon and I gassed "Dangerous" Don. It was a
routine stop; clean goggles, and he was back in the
hunt.

Arch Johnson was in 22nd place when he rode in. He
had gone down hard jumping out of a rock wash. Tweaked
the handlebar and put a big dent in the Tiger's tank.
The knees of his leathers were worn through and blood-
soaked long-johns were peeking through. He climbed off
and grimaced as he did a couple of deep knee bends.
All the while I was pouring gas, J.D. and Curley were
yanking on the handlebar. I must admit, they got it
pretty straight. The engine had died; I climbed on and
after five or six tries, it lit off. Arch was back on
and set sail with vengeance. Yoyo was next. Curley
said that he had "practiced his art" all the way up to
64th. I was flabbergasted! J.D. gassed him up; one of
the show girls handed him clean goggles and gave him a
kiss on the cheek. That must have worked like a shot
of nitro! Yoyo was standing on the pegs and spinning
the wheel clear out of sight.

Hawley's main squeeze drove the station wagon up to
where the truck had been parked, and while the co-eds
were getting into warmer garb, "B" crew was stowing the
Sear in the back.

The sun was out now and it was getting a bit
warmer. We drank some more coffee and polished off the
buns. It was a little after lpm when the girls pulled
out and J.D., Curley and I mounted up and took off for
Pawnskin and the Finish.

Chapter 4: The Finish

You didn't need a road map to got from Lucerne to
Big Bear Lake that Sunday. It looked like the Harbor
Freeway at 5 o'clock! I'm sure that from the air it
looked like an ant trail to a sugar cube. Even though
the sun had come out to warm things a little, it was
colder than a barfly's heart on the shady side of the
mountain. There was ice in patches on the road and
rivers of water flowing where there was no ice. As we
climbed the mountain, lookin' down from each switch-
back, you could see a steady column of riders, trucks
and cars with bike trailers behind us.

Dago, the Amazon, and some of the others had split
from the desert early, and were already in Fawnskin
when we arrived. They had parked their bikes within a
block of the finish and made sure the rest of "The
Crew" had parking space. It wasn't a hard thing to do
when you were wearing Boozefighters or Gallopin' Goose
colors. The co-eds weren't so lucky though. They had
to park the station wagon about a mile away, so J.D.,
Curley and I ran a shuttle and packed 'am to the finish
line. It was almost 3pin and long shadows, and about
two feet of snow on the flat meant the temperature was
descending rapidly. J.D. had bugged out and come back
with a half-gallon of the "Red Staple of Life" and we
passed it around.

It wasn't long before the hare came sliding in.
His buddies from the Hollywood Three Pointers M/C
lifted him off a very tired AJS scrambler and carried
him around on their shoulders. The officials had the
sign-in sheet ready, and the finish judges were at
their stations.

The first rider in was Dutch Sterner at 3:22, five
hours and 22 minutes on the Cooper Motors AJS. Frank
Cooper was hugging and patting him on the back, "This
won't hurt winter sales at all," he said. Tex Luce of
the Four Aces M/C, North Hollywood, was next in, but
later was disqualified for missing a hidden check.
Harley-mounted Swede Belin was scored in second place,
but while he was stopped in the box and standing on the
pegs, he was bumped from behind and replaced by a
Matchless-mounted and "Big A" patron, Aub LeBard, South
Central Los Angeles AJS and Matchless dealer who signed
in finishing 3rd. Rider after rider slid into the fin-
ish and signed in.

The official finish "window" lasted one hour from
the time Dutch Sterner arrived. Ninety riders were
officially credited with finishing. That didn't mean
more riders weren't going to make it to the finish.
Cats would be straggling in til midnight and after,
some riding, some riding two up, hell, some would even
be walking to the finish! Arch Johnson finished 31st,
and had to have help getting off of his bike. He said
that Hawley had gone down and slid into a snow drift.
"I couldn't stop; if I had I wouldn't have been able to
help him anyway." Don dug himself out and finally fin-
ished 51st. He killed the engine and rolled out of the
"Box", with a big grin. He didn't look beat at all.
"Wild Man" Ed Bandini from The Yellow Jackets M/C said
he saw Yoyo crash hard a mile or so before Holcomb
Creek Crossing.

After a while, Bernstein and Kertzenbalm drove up
in the truck. J.D. asked about Yoyo. "He came walking
into the Holcomb Creek gas stop holding his shoulder,
said he had crashed and wiped out the front wheel and
forks. Johnny and Fat Boy are staying with him til we
get back." We chucked the "Aeri-out" in the truck and
Bernstein was off.

I packed Hawley to where the station wagon was
parked; the co-eds had no trouble at all getting a
ride. The basic crew decided we were going home via
Skyline Drive. I ask Dago if she were going back to
the creek and ride home with Fat Boy. "That son'bitch
can find his way back without me holding his hand," was
her reply. Amazon rode back w'@th us too., We stopped
for dinner in Running Springs. Dago and Amazon sat
together in the cafe, snickerin' and giggling a lot.
I've often wondered about their "relationship" but not
enough to ask Dago! I remember how she kicked the shit
out of Yoyo, when he had romance on his mind! If you
ever find yourself in Running Springs, there's this
little cafe next to the Union gas station that makes
the best banana cream pie in the world.

The ride back down the mountain was much more care-
free on the southern side. There was no ice and very
little snow, and although the temperature was falling,
at the moment it was warmer than it had been all week-
end. We rode through San Bernadino, Pamona, and
stopped in Covina for gas. By the time we hit Pasadena
we had run out of adrenaline and Mission Bell. It was
a bit warmer in Los Angeles than when we left. The
co-ed that was driving pulled into the closed gas sta-
tion and parked the wagon by the pumps. Don was asleep
in the back with the other young ladies. We rode past
them and parked in front of the "Big A". Big John
hadn't returned yet, so we sat on the asphalt and
kicked back against the building. Dago and Amazon
dropped out when we rode through South Gate, where she
and Fat Boy lived. J.D. Jones was nodding off, Curley
Cantlon and I were shuckin' when Jumpin' Joe and Big
John rode in, John unlocked the padlock and swung open
the door. On went the lights and radio. "You cats
want a beer?" Now, that was a silly question!

Epilogue

Headlamps shown through the door. It was Berstein
driving Don's truck. Yoyo was sprawled in the passen-
ger's seat. We left the bar and gathered around. Yoyo
was passed out drunk. Still in his leathers, unzipped
and open to the waist, he clutched a plastic bag full
of ice to his shoulder. "I think he's got a busted
shoulder," said Bernstein. "We've kept him drunk so as
to keep him quiet." Don Hawley walked up, and tossed
me our sleeping bags. "I hope that Okie didn't barf in
the truck!" The plastic bag was leaking a stream of
ice water straight over his belly and down to his
huevos. If he couldn't feel that, he was anesthetized!
Hawley and Bernstein got into "Harem Hawler" and drove
off.

Kertzenbalm arose from the bed of the truck. He
had been sleeping next to the "Aeri-out".

"Where's the Enfield?" I ask.

Swede shook his head. "Still in the desert, man.
The whole front end is crashed. Forks, wheel, triple
clamp, the whole fuckin' thing, wasted!"

"And you didn't bring it back?" I added.

Well, as the tale did unfold, it seems Yoyo's
"silent partner", his "sponsor", the "benefactor with
complete faith in his riding skills", was truly a
"silent partner", seeing as he didn't know Yoya had his
bike! On the Friday night before he took the week off,
Yoyo pinched the Enfield. It seems he was helping the
salesmen push the used bikes off the lot and into the
service shop at closing time. Yoyo made sure the
Enfield went into the "gunk rack" instead of being
locked inside. When everybody cut out, Yoyo just rode
that sucker home.

About this time some of the other cats started rid-
ing in. The radio was kickin', the beer was flowing,
and the party was starting, serious like. Kertzenbalm
slipped behind the wheel and started the truck.

"Where ya going?", asked J.D.

"I've got to get Yoyo home and cleaned up. I'm
going to take him into work in the morning."

"Take him to work!?" I questioned. "Shit! This
cat needs to be in a hospital, not a motorcycle shop,"
I added.

"That's the whole idea, na,-, Yoyo ain't got no
insurance plan, so he's going to punch in, then tell
Louie that he slipped and fell down in the gunk rack!
That way he can get fixed up and his Workman's Comp
will pay for it!"

"Don't you think they're going to think it's a
little funny, a Royal Enfield scrambler is pinched off
the lot the day before Yoyo takes a week off, he comes
back to work the day after the Big Bear all beat up and
hung over, and breaks his shoulder before he even
starts work?" Swede looked at me with his mouth open,
and before he could say anything else I added, "When
you get him home, look in the garage. You'll find a
mudguard, lights, and a license plate; you better get
rid of them, because if Louie Thomas' mind works like
mine, there's going to be cops out there looking around
before noon!"

Swede shook his head, smiled, and said, "Man, do
you think anyone would ever believe Yoyo would ever
Ride the Bear?" As the truck drove away, I thought,
"Some day they're going to put a plaque on a cell at
Lincoln Heights Jail with Yoyo's name on it." Sbit - I
wonder what Yoyo's name is?

Four or five riders from Gallopin' Goose came rid-
ing in and filled up where the truck pulled out. One
of them was Johnny the Jug. Sitting on the pillion,
hanging on to one of those cheap suitcases, the kind
you can buy in the five-and-dime that's made out of
pasteboard, sat Meatball. God, she looked bad, like
someone pushed her face into a garbage disposal. She
turned her head away. Both eyes were blackened, she
had a cut on her forehead, another on her upper lip.
Her jaw was swollen on the right side, black and blue,
from her cheek to her chin. I'm sure she was crying,
but how could you tell with her eyes swollen shut? The
Jug helped her down and held her up, walking her to the
can. She left her suitcase on the Triumph's seat. It
slid off, and broke open on the ground. Some of her
stuff spilled out. There was a chalk "Cupie" doll
holding a feather like a fan in front of her, three or
four pair of knickers, the pastel kind with the days of
the week on them, a cigar box with old letters inside,
and one of those hydrometers with a "So/no-go" gauge on
it.

Didn't feel much like a party anymore. I tied my
sleeping bag to the AJS and pumped her to life. J.D.
was by the door, sucking on a "Red X". We waved to
each other, I kicked into first screw and engaged the
clutch.

The Los Angeles cold was back, damp and slick, but
the air was a bit refreshing on my face and in my hair
Yoyo came around a few days later and everyone
signed his cast. He never demanded it, but he gained
some respect after his ride. Oh yeah, he bailed out
this time; he didn't go to jail. Lucky this time!

Two years later I saw The Jug and Meatball, still
playing house, pretty as a picture, still with all that
"good stuff wigglin'"!

Topic: BoozeFighters (Read 17207 times)