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Authors: Basil Heatter
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Kildare in New Hampshire for the Eastern States Rally. There are gonna be like ten thousand little tight-assed broads there."
"I might at that," I said.
Kildare rang a bell. Stud had told me that if Soldier was anywhere it would be at Kildare. He showed up there every year for the rally. If he was alive he wouldn't miss it. I hoped he was alive.
Through Portland and west on 302. Mount Washington a white cone against the sky. I let the Harley out around the curves. Station wagons westward. Pioneers on the move with kids, dogs, and assorted Sears Roebuck grills and Ban-Lon shirts. They gave me the hard eye as they went by, identifying me at once as an outlaw. Not all of them of course were straights. There were long-haired types in VW campers giving me the peace sign as they went by, and then, as I approached Kildare, an onrush of leather-jacketed gangs riding choppers much like my own.
The bike riders seemed to be coming by the thousands, an invading army of freaks zooming in on the little town in the hills, all of them zonked out of their minds on something or other, acid, dope, grass, God knows what. Hair, muscle, flesh, thighs, breasts, all responding to the erotic thrust of high horsepower and gasoline. How would the white clapboard town fathers meet such an onslaught?
There was already a feeling of tension in the air. The gangs rolling in at a steady pace with a roar like a flock of jets; the solid citizens looking askance. A sprinkling of state police just out cruising, hoping not to start anything. Now there were road blocks up ahead trying to narrow us down, not trying to stop anything but just to control the flow. Transistors blaring. The Grateful Dead and the Rolling Stones. Zonked. Grokked. Freaked. All part of a sunny, crystal clear Memorial Day weekend.
Since I did not wear the colors of any gang I drew a few puzzled looks. Was I with the Angels, the Beaks, the Rockers, Werewolfs, Zombies, or whatever? There were no swastikas or death's heads on my back, and I was really too old to make the scene. A loner then, a middle-aged dropout or freak. A day-glow crazy without the colors. But no one cared. There were so many. What was one more?
The outlaws were trying to outdo each other with red or green beards, orange goggles, brass rings in their noses, capes, and Apache helmets, and peaked Prussian helmets. Earrings, Wehrmacht headgear, and German iron crosses, along with the grease-caked levis and the sleeveless vests. And of course the tattoos: Mother, Dolly, Hitler, Jack the Ripper, swastikas, daggers, skulls, LSD, Love, Rape, and a variety of four letter words. And of course the more complicated esoteric symbols which constituted a code all their own. 13 (indicating a marijuana smoker) was the most common, but there were plenty of the other patches such as DFFL (Dope Forever, Forever Loaded) and the varicolored pilot's wings: red wings meaning the wearer had committed cunnilingus on a menstruating woman, black-wings for the same act on a Negress, and brown wings for buggery. Charming.
All meant of course to shake up the solid citizens. As we pulled up to the road block where they were letting us 'through single file, an ape on a BMW looked ahead at the white town and said to me with a grin, "Those mothers in there are double shook, man."
"Yeah," I said.
"They better lock up the broads tonight, man."
The line inched ahead. Hot sun and stench of castor oil and blare of walkie-talkies. Acrid odor of the joints being passed from mouth to mouth. Most people a little bombed already. I take a few puffs too so as not to draw attention to myself, but faking it, holding the smoke in my mouth instead of drawing it into the lungs. Somebody passes a plastic jug full of cider. There may very well be acid in it so I fake that too, holding a mouthful and then spitting it out into a bandanna. No one is watching me too carefully. Why
"I might at that," I said.
Kildare rang a bell. Stud had told me that if Soldier was anywhere it would be at Kildare. He showed up there every year for the rally. If he was alive he wouldn't miss it. I hoped he was alive.
Through Portland and west on 302. Mount Washington a white cone against the sky. I let the Harley out around the curves. Station wagons westward. Pioneers on the move with kids, dogs, and assorted Sears Roebuck grills and Ban-Lon shirts. They gave me the hard eye as they went by, identifying me at once as an outlaw. Not all of them of course were straights. There were long-haired types in VW campers giving me the peace sign as they went by, and then, as I approached Kildare, an onrush of leather-jacketed gangs riding choppers much like my own.
The bike riders seemed to be coming by the thousands, an invading army of freaks zooming in on the little town in the hills, all of them zonked out of their minds on something or other, acid, dope, grass, God knows what. Hair, muscle, flesh, thighs, breasts, all responding to the erotic thrust of high horsepower and gasoline. How would the white clapboard town fathers meet such an onslaught?
There was already a feeling of tension in the air. The gangs rolling in at a steady pace with a roar like a flock of jets; the solid citizens looking askance. A sprinkling of state police just out cruising, hoping not to start anything. Now there were road blocks up ahead trying to narrow us down, not trying to stop anything but just to control the flow. Transistors blaring. The Grateful Dead and the Rolling Stones. Zonked. Grokked. Freaked. All part of a sunny, crystal clear Memorial Day weekend.
Since I did not wear the colors of any gang I drew a few puzzled looks. Was I with the Angels, the Beaks, the Rockers, Werewolfs, Zombies, or whatever? There were no swastikas or death's heads on my back, and I was really too old to make the scene. A loner then, a middle-aged dropout or freak. A day-glow crazy without the colors. But no one cared. There were so many. What was one more?
The outlaws were trying to outdo each other with red or green beards, orange goggles, brass rings in their noses, capes, and Apache helmets, and peaked Prussian helmets. Earrings, Wehrmacht headgear, and German iron crosses, along with the grease-caked levis and the sleeveless vests. And of course the tattoos: Mother, Dolly, Hitler, Jack the Ripper, swastikas, daggers, skulls, LSD, Love, Rape, and a variety of four letter words. And of course the more complicated esoteric symbols which constituted a code all their own. 13 (indicating a marijuana smoker) was the most common, but there were plenty of the other patches such as DFFL (Dope Forever, Forever Loaded) and the varicolored pilot's wings: red wings meaning the wearer had committed cunnilingus on a menstruating woman, black-wings for the same act on a Negress, and brown wings for buggery. Charming.
All meant of course to shake up the solid citizens. As we pulled up to the road block where they were letting us 'through single file, an ape on a BMW looked ahead at the white town and said to me with a grin, "Those mothers in there are double shook, man."
"Yeah," I said.
"They better lock up the broads tonight, man."
The line inched ahead. Hot sun and stench of castor oil and blare of walkie-talkies. Acrid odor of the joints being passed from mouth to mouth. Most people a little bombed already. I take a few puffs too so as not to draw attention to myself, but faking it, holding the smoke in my mouth instead of drawing it into the lungs. Somebody passes a plastic jug full of cider. There may very well be acid in it so I fake that too, holding a mouthful and then spitting it out into a bandanna. No one is watching me too carefully. Why
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