Hell’s Angels. A Strange and Terrible. Saga by Hunter S. Thompson

By nine o’clock that morning both Terry and Scraggs were on their feet. Vengeance on the Diablos could wait. Today, the run. Terry lit a cigarette, examined the bumps and welts on his body, then pulled on a pair of crusty Levi’s, heavy black boots, no underwear and a red sweatshirt smelling of old wine and human grease. Scraggs drank a beer while his wife heated water for instant coffee. The children had been put with relatives the night before. The sun was hot outside. Across the Bay, San Francisco was still covered in a late-lifting fog. The bikes were gassed and polished. All that remained was the gathering of any loose money or marijuana that might be lying around, lashing the sleeping bags to the bikes and donning the infamous colors.

The all-important colors. . . the uniform, as it were, the crucial identity. . . which the Attorney General of California has described with considerable accuracy in a fuzzy but much-quoted official document titled The Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Clubs.

The emblem of the Hell’s Angels, termed colors, consists of an embroidered patch of a winged skull wearing a motorcycle helmet. Just below the wing of the emblem are the letters MC. Over this is a band bearing the words Hell’s Angels. Below the emblem is another patch bearing the local chapter name, which is usually an abbreviation for the city or locality. These patches are sewn on the back of a usually sleeveless denim jacket. In addition, members have been observed wearing various types of Luftwaffe insignia and reproductions of German Iron Crosses. Many affect beards and their hair is usually long and unkempt. Some wear a single earring in a pierced ear lobe. Frequently they have been observed to wear belts made of a length of polished motorcycle drive chain which can be unhooked and used as a flexible bludgeon.

The Hell’s Angels seem to have a preference for large heavy-duty American-made motorcycles [Harley-Davidsons]. Club mem­bers usually use a nickname, designated as their legal name, and are carried on club rolls under that name. Some clubs provide that initiates shall be tattooed, the cost of which is included in the ini­tiation fee. Probably the most universal common denominator in identification of Hell’s Angels is their generally filthy condition. Investigating officers consistently report these people, both club members and their female associates, seem badly in need of a bath. Fingerprints are a very effective means of identification because a high percentage of Hell’s Angels have criminal records.

Some members of the Hell’s Angels as well as members of other disreputable motorcycle clubs belong to what is alleged to be an elite group termed One Percenters, which meets monthly at vari­ous places in California. The local Hell’s Angels clubs usually meet weekly. . . Requirements for membership or authority to wear the 1%-er badge are unknown at this time. . . Another patch worn by some members bears the number 13. It is reported to represent the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, M, which in turn stands for mari­juana and indicates the wearer thereof is a user of the drug.

This compact description of rancid, criminal sleaziness is sub­stantially correct except for the hocus-pocus about the one percenters. All Angels wear this patch, as do most other outlaws, and all it means is that they are proud to be part of the alleged one percent of bike riders whom the American Motorcycle Association refuses to claim. The AMA is the sporting arm of the Motor­cycle, Scooter and Allied Trades Association, a fast-growing motorcycle lobby that is seeking desperately to establish a respectable image — an image the Hell’s Angels have consistently queered. We condemn them, says an AMA director. They’d be condemned if they rode horses, mules, surfboards, bicycles or skateboards. Regretfully, they picked motorcycles.

The AMA claims to speak for all decent motorcyclists, yet its fifty thousand or so members rode less than five percent of the 1,500,000 motorcycles registered in the United States in 1965. As one of the trade magazines noted, that left a lot of outlaws unac­counted for.

Terry and Scraggs left the house about ten, taking it easy on the two-mile run through downtown Oakland, keeping the engine noise down, aware of the stares from passing motorists and people on street corners, observing stop signs and speed limits, then suddenly accelerating a half block from the house of Tommy, vice-president of the local chapter, where the others were waiting. Tommy was living on a quiet, deteriorating resi­dential street in East Oakland. . . an old neighborhood with small, once-white frame houses sitting close to each other on tiny lots and sparse front lawns worn down by generations of news­boys delivering the Oakland Tribune. Now, on this holiday morning, his neighbors were out on front porches or at living-room windows, watching the awful show build up. By eleven about thirty Hell’s Angels were there, half blocking the narrow street, shouting, drinking beer, brushing green dye on their beards, gunning their engines, adjusting their costumes and knocking each other around to get the feel of things. The girls stood quietly in a group, wearing tight slacks, kerchiefs and sleeveless blouses or sweaters, with boots and dark glasses, uplift bras, bright lipstick and the wary expressions of half-bright souls turned mean and nervous from too much bitter wisdom in too few years. Like the Angels, the girls were mainly in their twenties — although some were obvious teenagers and a few were aging whores looking forward to a healthy outdoor weekend.