Roundtable

Grease Under the Angel’s Wings

Adele Kubein

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 weary expressions of half-bright souls turned mean and nervous from too much bitter wisdom in too few years.
-- Hunter Thompson, Hell’s Angels, 1966       

Not quite. Hunter never understood us girls, at least not all of us. That September night back in 1966 when he finally got his ass pounded, and his book ended, most of the Daly City Chapter of the Angels were at the Top Hat Bar in Redwood City.   Lisa and I were taking a powder when we heard the commotion. Guys came running in, craning necks over the crowd trying to figure out what happened. Simple story. Hunter had finally pissed off one of the guys enough to get his chops smacked and his welcome card revoked. End of Hunter’s story.   A few months back I had asked Thompson what he was doing hanging with the club. Writing a book about bikers, he said. I thought that was a crazy topic to pick, but the guys tolerated him for a while, kind of like an amusement, like a crazy person in a small village. They tolerated me too, but differently.

From the time I was eleven The Hell’s Angels were my surrogate family. As a homeless child on the streets of San Francisco, I was their little mascot. Contrary to popular belief, not all young girls were treated as chattel. The president of the Daly City chapter took me under his wing and protected me until I was fledged.  Danny and I are still friends. I grew up with the club.  During our time together they gave me encouragement and support, the know-how to build my own bike, and from that beginning, a chance to rebuild my life.

Midnight, January 20, 1979.  I was riding with Danny and the boys headed to a party at Le Chateau, an old mansion turned nightclub on the summit of the California Coast Range above Santa Cruz.  Route 280 made me nervous.  Deer crossings were common, and the last thing I wanted to do on this stormy night was hit a deer with a motorcycle on a dark country road.

I tucked my chin into the collar of my leather jacket trying to hide from the half-frozen rain. The steady vibrato of the Harley engine reassured me.  All of my life I had distrusted my own abilities. Things hadn’t worked out as I hoped. I’d lost my family, my home, even my name.  So I expected troubles from the cycle, too, and for some good reasons.  My army surplus trike was built on a thirty-five-year-old frame and a small budget with old tools and parts I’d scrounged from swap meets and out-of-the-way bike shops all over the West Coast. The smell of carburetor cleaner, fresh oil, and new paint reminded me that this was, after all, our maiden voyage.  Something could indeed come loose, out of adjustment, or fly apart.  But it was my bike, and I wanted to ride.

More rain. I could hear the rumble of the other Harleys behind me. Once again I cursed the person whose idea it had been to put me at the head of the pack. Someone had decided that since I was the only female and with the slowest machine, I should be in front so they wouldn’t lose me. I protested that I didn’t know where the turn-off to Le Chateau was but to no avail.

I was concentrating on the deer-ridden road in front when I realized the noise behind had shifted direction.  Damn!   I looked back.  The pack had turned off.  They were dropping away on a diverging road now ten feet below down a steep stone embankment.  Without really thinking about the consequences I cranked the handlebars, twisted the throttle and launched off the cliff.  Into the air I went, flying, on a homebuilt World War II three-wheeled Harley-Davidson.  Not many people ever have that sensation, or the next one.  Crunch!  I landed with enough force to knock the wind out of me, but still rolling, and right in front of the pack where I had started.  I could hear the hollering and hurrahs above the wind and engine noise. When I turned around, everyone was waving hands and cheering. I was stunned.  What a stupid thing it do, and it worked!  I rode on, benumbed, a silly smile on my face.

Later, at the nightclub, amid the sounds of revving bikes and loud rock and roll, the boys offered praise: “We’ve never seen anyone with balls like that!”  “You are one bad chick!”  “That bike you put together stayed together!”  They surrounded me, picked me up, carried me into the building, tried to buy me beers.  I planted myself upon a table, leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes, and listened to the music.  Here was peace.  I was in the safest place among the safest company I could imagine.  Beloved and admired by the guys, I was finally warm, and with my own motorcycle. Life was good. 

Later, Danny and I sat in a darkened hallway, heads together so we could hear above the music, talking as we did whenever we got some privacy from the gang.  “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” he told me.  “How’ll I ever find anyone else like you?”  I was the only person who never wanted anything from him.  He was Danny Reb, the Prez, a legend, the most respected member of the club.  Outsiders, wannabes, and hangers-on who rode with us were constantly trying to impress and befriend him.  I just liked him.  I understood Danny.  He was a good person, self-raised in a mean-streets world surviving the only ways he knew how.  I’d been there, too.  We shared empathy and affection.  If anyone wanted his ear they spoke to me, knowing he’d listen to what I had to say.

“I’ve got to go now,” I said.  Danny understood me, too.  Times were changing.  On the margins, the club was being pulled down into organized crime, to drug dealing and violence directed by outsiders.   Money was replacing loyalty; fear was replacing respect.  I knew if I stayed much longer I’d have to do things I didn’t want to, things that I could never forget or forgive.  Danny knew it, too.  “It’s time for you to get out of here, go up to Oregon like you’re always talking, start that gardening business.”  I’ve always loved the land:  plants and soil and trees and open spaces.  I always wanted to live by the work of my hands, making things grow, caring for nature.  Now I’d try.   “I want you to be careful up there,” Danny offered.  “It’s hard for me to know you’re somewhere I can’t protect you.”  It was then I realized how much Danny cared, and that he wanted the best for me.  He was truly the best friend I ever had, willing to give me up, see me gone, just so I could have a chance to be happier, a chance he never would find.  It was the most unselfish act anyone had ever done for me. I moved toward the door, the room now thick with booze and party noise.  The guys gave me more hugs, friendly words, cheers.  But they knew, too.  I was leaving.  Danny’s friend, the lost kid on the slow trike, was headed out for the last time.

I walked out into the night. The rain had stopped.  Moonbeams through the misty redwoods shone silver on the wet highway.  Collar up, gloves and glasses on, I kicked the bike over, headed down the road.  Gliding around curves, I thought about Danny and the boys and the changes that were happening to me.  After all these years, on the streets, doubting, afraid, getting by, there was hope.  With the help of good friends, biker friends, Hells Angels, I finally had the strength to choose a new life, find new roads to ride, and new things to do when I got there.

Notes

Works Cited

Thompson, Hunter, S. Hell’s Angels:  A Strange and Terrible Saga.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1967. 

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