Dumped On In Daytona

DUMPED ON IN DAYTONA

UP FRONT

Allan Girdler

Just about the time the green flag waved for the Daytona Supercross final, I was sitting in the back yard of a farm in rural Volusia County, Florida. The farmhouse has been converted into a bar, the bar is a meeting place for motorcycle enthusiasts of the type usually known as Outlaws. The crowd was talking about problems with the police and as we spoke a police helicopter was slowly circling the farm. We assumed they had cameras or at least binoculars, so every time the spy satellite appeared between the rows of orange trees we all committed Felony Fist Shaking.

There are actually four motorcycle weeks at Daytona Beach every March.

There’s Race Week; the 200-mile road race at the big track, preceded by motocross, lightweight road racers and Superbikes, all flanked so to speak by flat track and short track at smaller circuits in the area, the semi-legal sand drags at the next beach down. Bigtime racing, and lots of it.

Then there’s Business Week, with a nod to the magazine of the same name. People in the motorcycle business come to the trade and consumer shows, the meetings of the various professional and trade groups.

There’s Beach Week. A motorcycle theme, w'ith bike nuts of all persuasions coming to Daytona Beach to see the custom shows, display their bikes, of a variety I don't have space to list, and to admire other bikes, get some sun and sand and generally take a winter vacation.

Finally, Biker Week. The Outlaws, by which I mean the flamboyant lifestyle rather than any inclination to crime. Choppers and customs, lots of wildly modified bikes and riders. They come to ride and party and see old friends.

What these four weeks have had in common year after year is . . . motorcycles. They come to Daytona Beach in March to race, ride, build, admire and talk about motorcycles. Bikes are the theme and the link and what all the groups and events have in common.

For 1980, we all had something else in common:

We were treated like dirt.

Routine disclaimers. 1 like the south, and Florida. I have family not far below Daytona Beach. When I was a police reporter I developed a respect for police, and never have I as a bike nut been treated badly by the cops.

Next, no question about violations of the law. The patrolmen and deputies wouldn’t have had to look far to catch guys speeding, making noise, etc.

What we have here is the Convention Mentality. Normal stuff. The man who wears coat and tie to the grocery store goes out of town on convention and he drinks too much, wears funny shirts and drops water bombs out the hotel window' and everybody says Well, they’re here on convention.

Not this year at Daytona. The place is a tourist town and you’d think they’d expect some rowdy behavior, would allow' for it. Instead, they went out of their way to be as tough as they could.

Hearsay, true, but word was one guy got 62 tickets for equipment violations. There were roadblocks by the block. Write up the crowd for too much noise, two blocks later pull the same machines over again and give another citation for the same thing. Parked bikes got tickets for leaking oil. One Harley had a belt primary conversion, hence no oil. He got cited for unsafe equipment because the primary wasn't covered and I wonder how long it took to find that one in the books. A cruiser pulled a bike over and declared the tail light too dim. Push the thing two miles, or they’d call the wrecker. Ever push a big road bike two miles? Ever see what the chains and hooks used by a wrecker driver who doesn’t like you can do to a motorcycle? The two-mile push was the better choice.

The newspaper announced—with pride, seems to me—that the state’s war wagon had been borrowed for the occasion. This is an armored car. Sprays tear gas and some chemical that sucks the oxygen out of the air and stains everybody in range w ith purple dye. see. so they know' who was there in case “you managed to run. Innocent bystander, huh? Tell it to the judge.

This tank was a clever move. If there had been trouble, the enforcement agencies would have been able to say they were ready. There was none, so obviously that proves the show' of force prevented it.

In recent years, this behavior has been shrugged off. Just the Outlaws, was theword, and they all make us look bad anyway.

What we get for this is escalation. Couple of the racers got into an argument over tires at one of the short track meets. Out came the attack dog. Yes.

And here’s what cinched it for me. A tourist town, remember, in a tourist state. Florida has a lights-on law. Any other> place I can think of. an out-of-state tag would bring a warning.

So here came Dot Robinson. 67 years old. founder of the Motor Maids, riding her pink Harley dresser, wearing pink leathers, on her way to get an award from the American Motorcyclist Association. *

Her headlight wasn’t on.

She got a $35 ticket.

While they were protecting us from a, lady old enough to be my mother, meanwhile, burglars were making free with a racing team's hotel room.

So all right. The police and deputies hadi an armored division, an air force. They took down names and numbers and ran record checks. They did their successful best to discourage bikers.

The Outlaws are talking boycott; don’t show up next year. On a personal level. I can see it. ^

But—and here's why I mentioned the four Daytonas—it won’t work. The other" people will come anyway, nor can I blame them.

Next, if we don't hang together, we’ll hang separately, as the revolutionary said. That I am one of the world’s great straight^ didn’t bother the Outlaws one bit. They look bad but they aren't stupid. They are experienced political activists, coiners of the slogan “Let Those Who Ride. Decide”." so if I choose, to wear a helmet and ride a Honda, I’m free to do it and welcome, because I ride.

Besides, that’s how the Indians lost America. Each tribe sitting smug because it was the guys next door falling victim to strong drink, smallpox and superior fire-« power. This year the Outlaws and cafe crowd, next year . . .? •"

I don’t think we should abandon the Outlaws, that is, figure if the choppersand-colors crowd doesn’t show, the city’s finest will leave us be. Bothers my sense of justice. I’m told I’m not alone, that power-, ful people in the motorcycle business were equally aroused, and I hope the conferences between these men and the town will see things straighten out.

Not much of a cure, huh? After the 200 Peter and I rode north. A few miles out ¿f town we got dumped on again. For real-4 with rain, wind, thunder and lightning. “Head for the next bridge!” I said. ^

Looked like a convention of trolls. A line of bikes, one of each kind there is, parked at the shoulder. Huddled under the bridge were row' on row of riders, swapping ratái gear, telling jokes, hurling imprecations at the softies w ho went past in cars. We were4 cold and wet and having a good time.

We are all right, I said to myself. We are good people.

We deserve better than we got at Daytona.