Fast Gear Fast: The Motorcycle Closeouts blog

Hell’s Angels

Earlier this week, we shared a great piece of work by Mr. Hunter S. Thompson.  It was about cafe racers, speed and thrill.  It’s time for another HST item, but of a slightly different flavor.

This time around, we bring you an excerpt from Thompson’s 1966 book: Hell’s Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gang.  Arguably, one of the best parts of the tale is the near the end where he describes winding out his motorcycle at night with nothing but the sea breeze and curves of the highway present as witness.

“So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head … but in a matter of minutes I’d be out at the beach with the sound fof the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way along Santa Cruz … not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-night diner around Rockaway Beach. 

There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit and no cooling it down on the curves, the momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alchoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign wondering if I know anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip.

Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out  … thirty-fire, forty-five … then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these … and with three lanes in a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything … then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board.

Bent forward, far back on the seat and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Tail-lights far up ahead coming closer, faster and suddenly – zaaapppp – going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea.

The dunes are flatter here and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-slick … instant loss of control,  crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe on of those two-inch notices in the paper the next day: ‘An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway 1′.

Indeed … but no sand this time , so the lever goes up into fourth and now there’s no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centreline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.

But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin and no room for mistakes. It has to be done right . . and thats when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that the fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are the wind and the dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it  … howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica … letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge … The Edge  … ”

Makes you want to ride, yes?  When he was on it, he was definitely on it, and the writing shows his passion for a throttle and motor.  

If you haven’t read the book, you can find it on Amazon.