This actually looks pretty promising! Maybe it will be what Sons of Anarchy could have been - a gritty, realistic portrayal of the old biker clubs without the cheesy, soap opera dramatics. There...
This actually looks pretty promising! Maybe it will be what Sons of Anarchy could have been - a gritty, realistic portrayal of the old biker clubs without the cheesy, soap opera dramatics.
There are some really worthwhile stories to be told about this culture. I actually have some insight on this that I'd like to ramble about.
My father never sought membership in a club, but he was club-adjacent throughout his younger life with two different clubs.
I remember him driving drunk a lot when I was a kid, even with us in the car, and getting several DWIs. I remember him picking us up with bruises all over his entire face and body, once from a bad fight he was in, the other times from bike wrecks. He has a steel rod in one leg from a really bad drunk-driving accident on his bike. My father told me a few years back that he used to vacuum the cocaine and glitter out of his back seats before he would come pick us up from my mom's when we were little. He also told me about the time a semi-truck driver merged without looking and clipped his bike. My father dragged the poor guy out of the truck by his neck in the middle of traffic.
He and his buddies used to ride nonstop from New York to Florida, just to ride their bikes on the racetracks down there. They would stay awake throughout the ride using the meth they hid in the crankshafts of their bikes (that's why bikers call meth "crank"). He also had a crotch rocket with nitrous oxide installed.
I remember getting my license when I was a bit older and having my father call me out of the blue soon after for a favor. He had me pick him up, absolutely wasted, from a local biker bar. We drove out to pick up a non-descript box truck. I followed behind him as he drove it out to the middle of nowhere and dropped it off at a sketchy warehouse buried deep in the woods. Then I dropped him back off at the biker bar. He was pretty cagey when I asked him what we were doing. I still don't know to this day.
Most interesting, and unfortunately what I remember the least about, were the stories he would tell me about things his buddies had done. He knew some real psychos - guys who truly did not give a fuck.
My father, like a lot of these other guys, is such a tragic figure. He is the best plumber, electrician, builder, mechanic, and diesel mechanic that I've ever known. He can build a house, a garage, and then build all the cars for the driveway - from scratch. Caterpillar and another heavy-equipment company used to bid back and forth on him as a diesel mechanic, ignoring the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and cokehead because he was seriously so talented that it didn't matter. All of that, wasted. Now he works in the oil fields and smokes meth. I have seen him maybe three times in the last decade or so, and the last time I saw him a few years ago, he was gaunt, pale, skinny, and missing teeth. It's really sad, and I'm just waiting for the phone call that he's dead. Of course, I still hold out hope that he'll turn it around. But I doubt it, because in his words, "Rehab is gay. Talking about your feelings is for f*gs."
Horrible realities often make for very great, very human stories.
This actually looks pretty promising! Maybe it will be what Sons of Anarchy could have been - a gritty, realistic portrayal of the old biker clubs without the cheesy, soap opera dramatics.
There are some really worthwhile stories to be told about this culture. I actually have some insight on this that I'd like to ramble about.
My father never sought membership in a club, but he was club-adjacent throughout his younger life with two different clubs.
I remember him driving drunk a lot when I was a kid, even with us in the car, and getting several DWIs. I remember him picking us up with bruises all over his entire face and body, once from a bad fight he was in, the other times from bike wrecks. He has a steel rod in one leg from a really bad drunk-driving accident on his bike. My father told me a few years back that he used to vacuum the cocaine and glitter out of his back seats before he would come pick us up from my mom's when we were little. He also told me about the time a semi-truck driver merged without looking and clipped his bike. My father dragged the poor guy out of the truck by his neck in the middle of traffic.
He and his buddies used to ride nonstop from New York to Florida, just to ride their bikes on the racetracks down there. They would stay awake throughout the ride using the meth they hid in the crankshafts of their bikes (that's why bikers call meth "crank"). He also had a crotch rocket with nitrous oxide installed.
I remember getting my license when I was a bit older and having my father call me out of the blue soon after for a favor. He had me pick him up, absolutely wasted, from a local biker bar. We drove out to pick up a non-descript box truck. I followed behind him as he drove it out to the middle of nowhere and dropped it off at a sketchy warehouse buried deep in the woods. Then I dropped him back off at the biker bar. He was pretty cagey when I asked him what we were doing. I still don't know to this day.
Most interesting, and unfortunately what I remember the least about, were the stories he would tell me about things his buddies had done. He knew some real psychos - guys who truly did not give a fuck.
My father, like a lot of these other guys, is such a tragic figure. He is the best plumber, electrician, builder, mechanic, and diesel mechanic that I've ever known. He can build a house, a garage, and then build all the cars for the driveway - from scratch. Caterpillar and another heavy-equipment company used to bid back and forth on him as a diesel mechanic, ignoring the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and cokehead because he was seriously so talented that it didn't matter. All of that, wasted. Now he works in the oil fields and smokes meth. I have seen him maybe three times in the last decade or so, and the last time I saw him a few years ago, he was gaunt, pale, skinny, and missing teeth. It's really sad, and I'm just waiting for the phone call that he's dead. Of course, I still hold out hope that he'll turn it around. But I doubt it, because in his words, "Rehab is gay. Talking about your feelings is for f*gs."
Horrible realities often make for very great, very human stories.