Cycle World Up Front

CYCLE WORLD UP FRONT

ALLAN GIRDLER

No Free Parking

Heat. I was on my way home from a business meeting and the schedule had me crossing the desert at mid-day. A summer day, so when I say heat, I mean the heat that bubbles asphalt and makes you look down every ten miles because you can’t believe the inferno blasting your legs isn’t the engine in flames.

At the western edge of the desert there’s a small town. I had a wonderful idea. A sign said this way to the park, the park name included a lake. I naturally concluded that meant water, as in swimming. Cool, clear water, a break in the ride and a change from the infernal heat.

So I followed the sign to the park and sure enough, there was the lake, boats, beach, swimmers. I asked the woman at the gate how much and where do I park?

No charge, she said, because you can’t park in the park. No motorcycles allowed. Leave your motorcycle here at the gate and walk.

Why? Because if they allowed motorcycles, they’d have to admit motorcycle gangs, who would destroy the peace, the people and the park.

I objected. Bursting with justice, I challenged the rules.

I won every round. She admitted that I looked to be an inoffensive man on an inoffensive motorcycle and thus was not likely to be the advance man for beasts in semi-human form.

She said of course there are laws against public disturbance, rowdy behavior, etc., and yes, the city and county where we were has law enforcement officers.

She said yes, if 80 large and unruly guys arrived at the park in pick-up trucks or MG Midgets or electric golf carts, she’d let them in. That does prove the rule is against motorcycles rather than offensive or threatening elements.

She won the fight. If I didn’t like the rule, I could write the park/city/county board of supervisors. I had the choice of walking in or riding away.

I walked in. Sorry if I let down the side. I had a hot dog and a nice, cool swim. (No, I didn’t wait half an hour like my mom told me to. Treat me like an outlaw and I act like one.)

Having cooled off on the outside, I got back on the road. I reflected that the outlaws do the rest of us damage . . .

Wait! Hang on a sec! When I rode to the park, I didn’t meet any ruffians riding away because their riot had been cancelled. The rangerette hadn’t told me about outlaw-inspired riots that had taken place. Nor did she say the rule had prevented any outrages.

She, and/or the people who banned bikes from the park weren’t basing their decision on what bikers do, they were basing the ban on what they think we do, or what they’ve been told we do.

They have been told wrong.

According to the best estimates, 12 million people in this country ride motorcycles. According to the federal authorities who monitor such things, the aggregate membership of the motorcycle-related gangs that engage in criminal activities is 4000.

Consider ratios. There are slightly fewer than 600 members of Congress. Two of these members have just admitted acts definable as moral turpitude. If we have 12 million members in our group and 4000 are criminals, that’s one in 3000. In Congress the bad egg ratio is one in 300, so they are ten times worse than us.

The daily paper tells me one of football’s alltime greats has just been sentenced to prison. I bet the ratio of Heisman Trophy winners to convicts is worse than the ratio of bike nuts to criminals.

But Congressmen can visit schools. Football players are allowed in banks.

And bikers are banned from the park.

We are obviously dealing here with perception, rather than reality.

My nominees for why begin with . . . us. Innocent or not, and I naturally think we’re innocent, we look different. Strange, even. Your neighbors at home or the people at work know you’re all right. Odd, because of riding bikes, but otherwise normal. You pay your union dues, attend PTA meetings, chip in for office parties, don’t leave the trash cans on the sidewalk and so forth.

But. Pretend you aren’t us. You’re driving your car on Sunday. I don’t think it matters if you, the non-biker sees eight sedate couples in club uniforms on matching dressers, eight sports riders in full helmets with matching leathers, eight restorers of the pudding-bowl and Belstaff persuasion, or eight chopper builders in bandanas and cut-offs. We look different.

Strange. The helmets and suits appear alien. Sure, we have good reasons for our gear. I wouldn’t trade my helmet, boots and jacket for all the good impressions in the world.

But we look different. One of the lessons history teaches is that it’s easy persuading the public that different equals worse.

Second, television. We are the most vulnerable of minorities. The format adventure show needs first, a hero, second a victim, third a threat. The scriptwriter has 27 min. to introduce, establish and resolve these elements. There’s no time for subtleties.

There is time to protect the network. And the threat cannot be ludicrous. Thus, no Nazis, no Martians with green wrinkled skin, no Blacks, no Mafia, no Latinos. Nor is it that a stereotype involving these groups would be any more fair. It wouldn’t be. It’s just that they are better at defending themselves than we are.

So I doubt you can find an evening of television without one hero, firm of jaw and licensed to carry a gun; someone to be saved, winsome damsels, kindly old gent, freckle-faced kid, pick one.

And roaring down Main Street, lurking in dim alleys, are the hairy hulks, the leering, leather-clad louts, the outlawbikermotorcyclegang, which I make one word because that’s how it’s said.

If my research is correct, the most recent certified biker-police clash occurred in 1978. That doesn’t matter because the television shows need us, need to exploit the image. The image works, so it’s there, and the image is there because it works.

I may be taking this too personal. Our latest marketing survey says the motorycling public expects motorcycling’s image to improve in the future. I hope so. I may be unable to see the forest because I was hit by a tree.

Meanwhile, when I got home from the forbidden park, I considered writing a letter to the supervisors. Then I decided the heck with it.

Instead, I mailed in my dues to AMA and ABATE. If we can’t convince our enemies, we can at least support our friends. SI