I was close enough to recognize the Gypsy Jokers, about twenty of them, milling around the truck while they waited for late-running stragglers. They were paying no attention to the traffic but their appearance alone was enough to give anyone pause. Except for the colors, they looked exactly like any band of Hell’s Angels: long hair, beards, black sleeveless vests. . . and the inevitable low-slung motorcycles, many with sleeping bags lashed to the handlebars and girls sitting lazily on the little pillion seats.
It was eight-fifteen when I got to the El Adobe. The parking lot was full of bikes. I’d stopped at a diner in downtown Oakland to fill my canteen with coffee and to let the outlaws get mustered. It was the Gypsy Jokers who made up the bulk of the crowd in the El Adobe parking lot when I arrived. A group of fifty or sixty Angels had already left for Bass Lake.
I introduced myself and drew a dead blank. Word had gone out that this was going to be a head-knocking run anyway, and the idea of having a writer in tow didn’t groove anybody. . . which was understandable, but I hadn’t asked the Jokers if I’d be welcome on the run in the first place and I didn’t expect them to bother me if they thought I was with the Angels. Buck, a huge Indian on a purple Harley, told me later that they’d pegged me for a cop.
The hostility was obvious but muted. I decided to stay with the Jokers until they got under way, then try to catch up with the others. They were running a few minutes ahead and I knew they’d be holding to the speed limit. A handful of Angels trying to catch up with a run will often wail through traffic at eighty-five or ninety, using all three lanes of the freeway or running straight down the centerline if there’s no other way to pass. . . because they know all the cops are up ahead, watching the big formation. But when the outlaws move in a mass, under the watchful eye of the Highway Patrol, they maintain a legal pace that would do pride to a U. S. Army convoy.
For most of the year the Hell’s Angels are pretty quiet. Around home, on their own turf, they cultivate a kind of forced coexistence with the local police. But on almost any summer weekend one of the half dozen chapters might decide to roam on its own, twenty or thirty strong, booming along the roads to some small town with a token police force, to descend like a gang of pirates on some hapless tavern owner whose only solace is a soaring beer profit that might be wiped out at any moment by the violent destruction of his premises. With luck, he’ll get off with nothing more than a few fights, broken glasses or a loud and public sex rally involving anything from indecent exposure to a gang-bang in one of the booths.
These independent forays often make news, but it is on their two major runs — Labor Day and the Fourth — that the hell and headlines break loose. At least twice a year outlaws from all parts of the state gather somewhere in California for a king-size brain-bender.
A run is a lot of things to the Angels: a party, an exhibition and an exercise in solidarity. You never know how many Angels there are until you go on a big run, says Zorro. Some get snuffed, some drop out, some go to the slammer and there’s always new guys who’ve joined. That’s why the runs are important — you find out who’s on your side.
It takes a strong leader like Barger to maintain the discipline necessary to get a large group of Hell’s Angels to the run’s destination. Trouble can break out almost anywhere. (The Angels won’t admit it, but one of the main kicks they get on a run comes from spooking and jangling citizens along the way.) They’d have no problem getting from the Bay Area to Bass Lake if they wanted to travel incognito, dressed like other weekenders and riding in Fords or Chevrolets. But this is out of the question. They wear their party clothes, making themselves as conspicuous as possible.