He wore black denim trousers and motorcycle boots And a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back. He had a hopped-up cycle that took off like a gun, That fool was the terror of Highway 101. —Jukebox Favorite Organizing a weekend “gypsy tour” to the tiny California mining town of
Angels Camp , the Northern California chapter of the
American Motorcycle Association won eager support from the Angels Camp
Lions Club and police. The Lions agreed to sponsor A.M.A. races,
borrowed $1,000 from the bank to pay advance costs. The police
department increased its force from two officers to eight after
warnings that motorcycle hoodlums sometimes dog the A.M.A. riders,
sometimes get violent. One day
last week, as predicted, almost a thousand of the black-denim trouser
set trailed 3,000 A.M.A. riders into Angels Camp. The A.M.A. pitched its camp in the fair grounds just outside town. The
hoodlums, their waists girdled by metal chains and their leather
jackets emblazoned with gang names—Vampires, Huns, Tartars—parked
their cycles on Main Street and tossed their bedrolls beside Angels
Camp's bubbling trout stream. Then they took over the community. They
bought all the beer in town , buzzed over to neighboring
Altaville for more, and for wine. They guzzled fast, tossed empty cans
and bottles into gutters. Residents soon found drunks stretched in
their doorways. A group trailed a town girl; while one yelled
obscenities, the rest of the pack twirled waist chains menacingly to
discourage interference. Three of Angels Camp's four bars shut down;
merchants decided to close early. Then came action. Flashing down the
Main Street hill with muffler throbbing, a long-haired youngster
wheeled artfully through a knot of idlers, snatched a can of beer on
the fly. Hundreds of daredevils kicked their starters, ready to meet
his challenge. “You're Dead.” One motorcyclist roared down Main Street with a
wine-swilling companion on his shoulders; another stood on the saddle
of his speeding motorcycle and drained a bottle. Others spaced beer
cans along the street, wove in and out on their cycles in an impromptu
slalom race; soon the steeliest of the girls stood beside the cans as
markers. An Angels Camp policeman darted into the street to pick up the
beer cans, retreated amid hoots and catcalls when a cyclist buzzed him.
Other gangs organized drag races, reached 50 m.p.h. from standing
starts. Some settled for simple horseplay. One doughty fellow teased
his friends with a mop until they charged him with chains, beat his
face bloody and banged his head against the pavement. “Get up and
you're dead,” said a buddy, who kicked him in the groin and slouched
off.
