As a lone wolf, I typically camp alone when I am on the road. I typically ride alone.
Yet fortune (and a random choice of where to camp during Sturgis) put me in touch with some of my true brothers…nomads of the open road, guys who have dropped the Box People life (live and sleep in a box, drive in a box, work in a box, stare into boxes like TVs and computers and phones, etc.). These are guys with miles of open road written on their faces, endless vistas shining from their eyes.
They are the free, the ones who (at least for the moment) call no man Boss, the ones who are free to decide where to ride, where and when to sleep, where (and with whom) to party. Chance let our paths converge, and with luck they will converge again, as I ride out to meet them once again.
It is a beautiful thing, riding with nomads. There is no schedule, no hurry, no time. We wake when we want (maybe I’ll sleep til the sun hits my feet) and sleep when we want (that’s enough beer for me, boys, I’m gonna lay down). We ride where we all agree to, or let our paths diverge if one wants to ride elsewhere.
It is a wild and free life, sleeping under the stars, in the gleaming shadows of our bikes. We often look more like cowboys than bikers (bandanas, Carharts, odd hats, etc., rather than the traditional black chaps and black leather vests and jackets). Rather than shiny boulevard cruisers, our bikes have odd things attached to them (old ties, roses, car air fresheners, etc.)….definitely not bike show material.
When we ride into town, we often look more like cowboys or miners than the traditional biker. Maybe we look like a cowboy/biker/hippy mix. Either way, we don’t look like your normal run-of-the-mill bikers, I can tell you that. Some of us ride like outlaws – bold and fast, our pegs close together in the trust only those who have ridden storms and rough roads together can ride in.
We’re not a gang, or a club. We’re just a collection of good ole American steel-riding cowboys, just a-tryin’ to find us someplace we ain’t been. We’re just American men out exploring, adventuring, like good American men have done across time. Our eyes and hearts are set on new sights, new vistas, not on old familiar ones.
We have tales to tell…and we tell them, around our campfires.
It is a rare and beautiful thing when chance allows lone wolves to suddenly band together for a bit. We might split up in Colorado, and meet later in Mexico, or Arizona. Some might head for the sea, while others head for the high country. We might split up, but will surely meet again the next year at Sturgis, or this year in Mexico, and maybe ride together some more (Lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise, as me auld grandma used to say).
We are nomads.
We are free.
We’re the last of the cowboys, the adventurers, the explorers.
It is such an honor to ride with such people., such a rare gift.
Without that one turn into a secluded campsite, I might have never met my tribe. I am thankful for that; the fact I did meet and ride with them has (to a degree) restored my faith in the Universe.
Lately I have seen more and more patches (upper rockers) on vests. What used to be the sole uniform of one percent motorcycle clubs has now been adopted by various associations, federations, and confederations.
While it’s incongruous to see a ninety nine percent club wearing a one percent-type cut (especially Christian ones), it is even odder to see ‘independents’ and lone wolves wearing these patches. It’s like I call myself French, but wear an English uniform, or call myself a soldier but wear Marine clothing. It produces a sort of cognitive dissonance in me – two opposing ideas trying to coexist.
Not satisfied with just a bit of incongruity, these ostensible lone wolves even wear a middle patch…
I just have to wonder how independent a person is if he or she wears a patch in emulation of others, of clubs that are definitely not independents. I can get the whole patch thing – the Army is filled with various patches and badges and etc. It is cool to wear patches that have been honorably earned, ones that set you apart from others, and are recognized as badges of honor and accomplishment. Yet I flash back onto the old USMC uniform – it didn’t have a nametag, or even a USMC tag. It didn’t have a unit patch, or any badges or other accoutrements. It was simply a blouse with the globe and anchor stamped onto it. No name, and none needed. All Marines, all riflemen, all interchangeable. I thought that was kinda classy. They knew who they were, and didn’t care if anybody else did. I like that.
So while the ‘Army’ part of me gets the whole patch bit, the ‘Marine’ part of me wonders why a person needs a patch to display who they are, how they are affiliated, or whatever. If you look at me walking down the street at some rally, would you need to see a patch to see if I ‘take care of business’? Would you need to see a patch to tell if I fit in better with the vast majority, or with the one percent (or less)?
Still, as potentially ludicrous as it seems, I support all peoples’ right to wear any damn-fool thing they want. Yet I can’t help but think the best way to show I am a lone wolf is to…not wear a patch, or a cut, or anything else – just wear whatever I ride best in.
Would that express my individuality? Would that show I am unaffiliated? I dunno. Maybe I need a patch saying ‘Jed, the Saddletramp’ so everyone can tell who and what I am. Yet I think how I walk and talk and act shows that. How I ride and who I ride with (or don’t) might give a hint about that…to the observant.
By golly, people have even done Masters’ dissertations on this…
This is one of those questions that has no right answer; each biker does what he or she chooses, and lives with the results. I’d like to interview a few of the guys who wear such patches and hear their experiences. I can imagine some one percent clubs don’t dig it (and are quite, uh…vocal about their disagreement). Still, I can only imagine, so instead I’ll ask those I meet on the road. Should be interesting, and may result in a follow-up blog at some point.
Until then, I can only wonder…and maybe grin a bit as these lone wolves saunter down the road, looking like some outlaw from a distance. Is it the invasion of the Mongols? Is the Red Machine roaring into town? Uh, no…as my eyes focus better, I see it’s just a Lone Wolf, wearing a patch like some non-lone wolf (a ‘clubber’).
So, he’s basically an independent, unaffiliated rider like me, except…he has patches. Instead of buying a K&N air filter for his bike (or some other performance improvement or necessary riding gear), this guy went out and bought a
Big ole middle patch ($24.99 at e-Bay)
A 12″ lower ‘rocker’ (patch) ($12.99 at e-Bay), and presumably an upper patch (possibly saying ‘Independent’) for the same price.
…and sewed them on a leather vest
($250 at Harley, for a nice ‘distressed’ one so you look like a salty ole veteran, or about a third of that if you go for a cheap vest).
Well, that’s (let’s see, uh…) 26 for rockers, 25 for middle patch and 250 for the vest, uh…about three hundred bucks to show the world you are an independent lone wolf. The price of a new set of tires, or thousands of miles worth of gas, stuff a real lone wolf could use.
It begins to seem blatantly affected, perhaps a symptom of our ‘fronting’ culture, where people seek easily recognizable icons to identify their group or affiliation. It begins to look like this travesty…
$54.88-79.99 at Amazon.com
Not shown are the affected chain wallet, hip knife (a Bowie, preferably), and illegal S&W M&P Shield in the back pocket, for real ‘realism’. Well, maybe we don’t need to go as far as that (it’s a felony), but maybe a plastic replica to scare off any bad guys who aren’t intimidated by the SOA vest.
I can only imagine the ‘adventures’ one might have, wearing this around other bikers (especially one percenters). Who knows? With the right face and expression, and perhaps a bit of self-deprecating humor, one might get away with it. Might.
Still, to wear a fake ‘cut’ can be seen as an affront to the one percent MCs….and possibly to the legitimate associations. No one likes someone who trivializes what you hold dear. To those outlaws, cuts and patches are earned, not bought on Amazon. Just like the Army tries to ‘protect its tabs’ and prevent ‘stolen valor’, MCs want to protect their rockers. They want to keep patches for those who have earned them, through actions.
The other potentially offensive thing about ‘independent’ cuts is that they implicitly denigrate MCs and the MC lifestyle. Patches with ‘no rules, just ride’ imply those other clubbers are weighted down with rules, while lone wolves just ride…without rules. It’s kind of a passive-aggressive way of snubbing your nose at those guys. Nobody is gonna like that.
Patches trying to make one seem more elite than the one percent are even more of an affront. The one percenter acts and lives in ways that define him as a one percenter. All it takes to wear a 0% patch is $12.95 at e-Bay. You can be a compliant, complacent RUB (Rich Urban Biker) and wear a zero percent patch.
Running around hollering independent is like someone running around saying you are free and others are somehow slaves or dependent on the club. No one’s gonna dig that.
Free rider assumes others aren’t free…and no American iron-riding outlaw is gonna dig that. It could even get ugly, if you met the wrong guys in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
To me, part of being independent is that you just ride, giving respect to all, and simply ride on through, without calling attention to yourself or fronting what an independent fuck you are. Poking the bear is never a good idea. Emulating outlaws, wearing outlaw type clothing, and subtly poking fun at outlaws is like poking a grizzly bear. It just don’t make sense; it’s like pissing into the wind.
So,, while I defend the right of any rider to wear whatever he or she wants, I also would not be surprised if they A) didn’t make any friends among clubbers wearing that shit and B) if they got the boots put to them for their hubris and fronting.
This lone wolf wears a sort of uniform – whatever clothes make riding more safe and comfortable. Whatever clothes allow me to ride without bothering anyone or offending them. I just want to ride and let ride, to leave people alone and be left alone.
My uniform is the look in my eyes as I roll up after a nice ride. It is the dirt on my bike from exploring the back roads of the mountains. It is the fact that I arrive as a ‘lone wolf’…alone.
Note: Today I’m going to a biker event; the annual ‘humdinger’ at High Country Harley Davidson (Frederick, CO, my home dealer). While there, I’ll ask a lot of clubbers what they think of this, and independent patch wearers, if I can find them. If I get any good feedback or stories related to asking, I’ll do a follow up blog. Your comments and thoughts on this are welcome. Let the discussion begin! Just refrain from calling each other poopy-pants, okay?
I gotta admit, there is something about riding with an MC. -the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the whole deal. Sometimes I think it would be nice to ride with a group of fellow riders, hellbent for leather.
I remember it like it was yesterday. My family was camping in Yellowstone and the Red and White (Hell’s Angels) rode through. The bikes, the sounds, the wild women fascinated me. I knew on that day I wanted to ride with these guys. I was 81 all the way. A biker was born…
When I was a teenager, I saw our local club (the Sons) riding through town. It seemed so damn cool. People who were rebels like me. Men who rode where they wanted and did what they wanted. They didn’t give a damn what the ‘common folk’ thought. I dug that.
Yet somehow I knew I would never fit in, even with misfits, outcasts, and outlaws. There is just something sort of loner about me. I figure none of these clubs would have me. I am just too crazy for all that, too much of an anarchist. I knew sooner or later I would piss off the prez or somebody important, and things would go kind of pear-shaped.
So I rode alone.
Funny enough, I ended up in the biggest, meanest gang in the world…the United States Army. Yet when we rolled, it wasn’t with motorcycles. No doobies hanging insolently from our whisker-rimmed mouths. Somehow (ha!) they figured out I was just an insolent, irreverent bastard.
So I rode alone.
Time went by, and I had to keep my chaps in the closet as I raised a family. My associations had to be kept on the Q.T., as I was a ‘business professional.’ I became used to riding alone, in the odd moments fatherhood would allow. Yet I rode. Yet time and attrition left me without my old riding buddies…
So I rode alone.
Now, in the midst of my prime of life, I am again riding alone. Occasionally, I meet real brothers, and we ride together for a bit. Yet at the end of the day, I am again alone. No brothers to party with, none to ride with. That is okay, since I am a one-man Motorcycle Club. I am president, sergeant at arms, and prospect all in one. I am the 0.1%, those who reject the rules and protocols of the average motorcycle enthusiast. I am the rare being who rides alone…yet I find I am not so rare. There are plenty of us.
So I ride together.
We are not in each others’ physical presence often. We do not have clubhouses, or colors. We do not have groupies or scams. We ride where we want, as our whims dictate. We are brothers to no one…and to everyone. While we may not ride in each others’ presence, we ride together, thousands of us, spread all across this great nation.
Most refuse to allow another to tell them where to ride or what to wear. Most reject the idea of safety in numbers, or strength in unity. We’re just good ole American iron-riding cowboys, loners, drifters. We don’t have (or want) anyone to prop us up, to support us. We glory in our freedom, in our self-sufficiency. We are not islands, we are the ocean that joins islands.
We walk into towns alone, face the stares and comments alone. No one fears us, and few respect us. We lay down our bags in cemeteries, on the side of the road, in truck stops and on public land. We make our camps wherever the end of the day may find us. While angels protect us, it ain’t the Hell’s Angels (although sometimes some Red and White protection sounds good).
We support all clubs, share fellowship with all riders. By joining a club, we limit who we can associate with, who we can treat as a brother. If I am flying Red and White, I cannot share a word (or cig) with a Shitbird (a Bandidos support club). I cannot laugh and joke with Mongols (as if they’d laugh and joke with a nobody like me).
Tales of a Lone Wolf 