AND ANOTHER BIKE STORY

You look at someone, you shake your head and say ‘How are you!’, ‘’How’s things?’, ‘Alright?’ and so on. It’s an Irish thing. Here, you always greet everyone you see. On the street, in the restaurant, at the concert, everywhere. It felt very strange at first. Somebody would nod and I would think: ’Do I know this guy?’.

No, you don’t, and now you do. You can meet a lot of people on the street and they all will shake heads and say something. You’ll drive past the Garda checkpoint and they’ll greet you. At the time of Troubles in the North you’d drive past some heavily armed dudes who’d have their fingers on triggers, and they’ll greet you. They might shoot you if you do something stupid, but they’ll greet you first. Same with the biker police force. They always nod, wave or smile. After few years of riding in Ireland I nod automatically, and cops always nod back. It’s totally different outside Ireland though. I shook my head (a helmet, to be precise) at a German police biker once. His first reaction was to reach for the gun, then he did 180 degrees turn and followed me down the street. Eventually he pulled me over and started to bark: ‘Motor raus!!!!! Ihre papire!!!!’. Not the most melodic language, I have to say. After checking my documents he told me not to shake my head at a German Police Officer ever again, otherwise ‘if you think ze joke is funny’,  he will convince you it is not. I mean ‘ze joke’ is not. He really didn’t want to let me go, he followed me for at least two or three miles, making sure I do not attempt to joke again. Ever.

Somewhere outside Paris I nodded and waved at the group of French cop bikers. In exactly thirty seconds I was sprawled on someone’s car bonnet, wishing I was back in Dublin. No jokes there either, but at least their language was more melodic.

Once in Brussels, at the gas station, I met a group of Belgium ‘Hell’s Angels’. 

Now, I know it’s a contradiction in terms. Belgium…..‘Hell’s Angels’. It’s wrong. It’s like garlic with whipped cream, or salted fish with honey. It shouldn’t be allowed to happen.

I met what looked to me as a real ‘Angel’ once in LA. He was dirty. He was grumpy. He smelled funny. He was 200 years old. He had a beard which looked like a dead cat. He was changing sprockets on his Harley. I’m sure he had a hand grenade in his pocket. I’m sure he ate little children for breakfast. The way he looked at me when I made a weather comment (another Irish thing), would’ve been interpreted like this: ‘I’ll finish with my bike, then I’m going to beat you up, cut you in half, drink your blood and eat your liver. Raw’.

I liked him a lot.

Belgium ‘Angels’ I didn’t. There were ten or fifteen of them. Cutouts, patches, Harley’s, beards, all as it should be. A little blond girl was riding a pillion. I looked at the girl. She reminded me of my friend’s dog Gemma. Gemma is blond and eternally confused. She doesn’t know she is a dog. She is afraid of her food. She barks at the furniture. Stairs make her panic. She saw a squirrel once. She decided to sniff the squirrel. My friend had to bring Gemma to the hospital to remove four of her teeth after squirrel bit through her jaw. So I smiled and waved to the girl, said: ‘How are you doing’, nodded to the rest and went to pay for my petrol. When I came out, ‘Angels’ were angrily discussing something. They saw me, then one of them walked right up to my face and the rest had me surrounded. I looked around. There was no way out. I tried to remember what my army combat instructor told me about fighting ten big bad hombres at the same time. I did remember. He said: ‘It’s easy, dude. Don’t aim. Even if you close your eyes you’ll still hit something. Aggression is the key. Hit somewhere, anywhere, then run. Fast. If you can’.

‘If you can’ indeed. The last time I tried to follow his advice, I ended up with the black eye and damaged personality. So I said to myself. ‘No running. Do your best. You are wearing a bikers patch. Not an ‘Angel’s’ patch, of course. But it’s a good, Irish patch.’ Defend its honour well’. 

So I closed my eyes and got ready to be beaten up.

The Big Bad president said ‘We don’t appreciate you greeting my partner like this. It’s offensive and ill-mannered. I’ll have you know that you are not friends ….!!!.’ He said it in a very high voice, then looked at his girl and stepped back. Very proud he was for being manly.

I know, I know. ‘Hell’s Angels’ don’t talk like this. Bikers don’t talk like this. Nobody does. 

They were as fake as Chinese Rolex. Bankers, doctors, lawyers, having a good time, dressing up and going for their almond milk lattes, on their brand new Harleys with 50 miles on the clock.

Silly me, I should’ve known it’s all fake. As far as I know, ‘Angels’ don’t allow girls to ride. The only question remains – how the Hell this bunch of lawyers was allowed to dress up as ‘Angels’…?

This gentleman is apparently a real deal.

I still shake my head at everyone I see.