Easy, rider


Michael McGuire

What happened to real bikers?

You know, the ones who would stab you with the sharp end of a broken pool stick if you reminded them quiet hours at the campground went into effect at 10 p.m.

You know the type. They were the ones who couldn’t ever take compliments:

“Hey, nice chopper Slingblade! Can I check it out?”
– “Sure Mike, if you can knock me off it.”

Now they’ve gone soft. Unlike the old days, today you’ve got a better chance of buying insurance from a biker than you do crystal meth.

“What’s wrong with that,” you ask?

I’ll tell you.

Bikers used to only bother you on desert highways and in Mel Gibson movies. Granted, they would mess you up pretty good if your paths crossed. But the chances of having a run-in with these rolling criminals – while dangerous – was pretty slim.

But “Bikers” have suddenly sprouted up everywhere. They aren’t looking to cause trouble, however. They just want to let everyone know that helmets are unconstitutional, that Harley-Davidson mufflers are loud, and that they have leather vests that compliment their large pipes (which I personally think is more annoying than the rare possibility of getting shivved by a guy with “love” and “hate” tattooed on his knuckles).

Why can’t we go back to the way things used to be?

The Hell’s Angels never did me wrong (that’s probably because I never met any).

And after witnessing the pre-Bike Week festivities in Myrtle Beach last week, I’d say having middle-aged dudes with Richard Gere mullets and Orange County Chopper goatees ripping loudly up and down the road on their fat boys at all hours of the night – wearing flip flops and “Big Johnson” T-shirts – has kept me up more nights (literally) than worrying about a gang of rowdy road dogs.