So Mayor Lessard described for me, in what sounded like sober tones, how the Hell’s Angels — prior to the riot — had soaked a major egress road with gasoline. And then, at the height of the violence, just as they were about to be arrested, they roared out of town at great speed. . . and the last one to cross the gasoline soak dropped a match on it. A sheet of flame exploded in the night, making pursuit impossible. Yes, it was the old firewall technique, a legacy of the Boer War. It was highly successful in Laconia. The lawmen were stopped in their tracks by heat so intense that it presumably scrambled the crystals in their shortwave-radio transmitters. Had the Hell’s Angels been any less clever, they might have been intercepted, by means of a general alert, somewhere between New Hampshire and California.
As it was, they made it back safely, and with plenty of time to shake the cross-country dust out of their clothes for the Bass Lake Run just two weeks later. There was no denying the wizardry of it, and when the clan came together it was a prime topic of conversation. Everybody wanted to congratulate the hardies who’d pulled it off. . . but for some reason nobody spoke up. The only Angel who knew anything more about Laconia than what the others had read in the newspapers was Tiny, whose ex-wife had called him from a Laconia telephone booth at the height of the action. One of the low points of the Bass Lake Run was Tiny’s rueful declaration that no Angels had made it to Laconia.
My old lady was right there, he told the disappointed outlaws, and if any of our people were there she’d have told me. Those guys from Quebec were the ones — them and a bunch called Banditos, from the East. They showed real class. We should get together with those guys.
This news caused the others to stare balefully at the fire. Finally somebody grunted, Shit, that was a bunch of amateurs — if we’d been there they wouldn’t of busted it up so easy. Man, fifteen thousand bikes in one town — I tell you it hurts my mind.
After the first wild stories were scaled down, nobody, even in respectable motorcycle circles, thought the Hell’s Angels had anything to do with the Laconia trouble. Cycle World, which calls itself America’s leading motorcycle-enthusiasts’ publication, blamed French-Canadian outlaws, refugees from the scabby side of motorcycling in the Eastern United States, and radical crackpots, some of whom are in public offices in towns around Laconi. . .
21
Lies! You’re lying! You’re all lying against my boys!
— Ma Barker
By late summer of 1965 the Angels had become a factor to be reckoned with in the social, intellectual and political life of northern California. They were quoted almost daily in the press, and no half-bohemian party made the grade unless there were strong rumors — circulated by the host — that the Hell’s Angels would also attend. I was vaguely afflicted by this syndrome, since my name was becoming associated with the Angels and there was a feeling in the air that I could produce them whenever I felt like it. This was never true, though I did what I could to put the outlaws onto as much free booze and action as seemed advisable. At the same time I was loath to be responsible for their behavior. Their pre-eminence on so many guest lists made it inevitable that a certain amount of looting, assault and rapine would occur if they took the social whirl at full gallop. I recall one party at which I was badgered by children and young mothers because the Angels didn’t show up. Most of the guests were respectable Berkeley intellectuals, whose idea of motorcycle outlaws was not consistent with reality. I told the Angels about the party and gave them the address, a quiet residential street in the East Bay, but I hoped they wouldn’t come. The setting was guaranteed trouble: heaping tubs of beer, wild music and several dozen young girls looking for excitement while their husbands and varied escorts wanted to talk about alienation and a generation in revolt. Even a half dozen Angels would have quickly reduced the scene to an intolerable common denominator: Who will get fucked?