To see a lone Angel... «Hell's Angels»
thespiritofadyingmosquito3 октября 2022To see a lone Angel screaming through traffic – defying all rules, limits and patterns – is to understand the motorcycle as an instrument of anarchy, a tool of defiance and even a weapon. A Hell’s Angel on foot can look pretty foolish. Their sloppy histrionics and inane conversations can be interesting for a few hours, but beyond the initial strangeness, their everyday scene is as tedious and depressing as a costume ball for demented children. There is something pathetic about a bunch of men gathering every night in the same bar, taking themselves very seriously in their ratty uniforms, with nothing to look forward to but the chance of a fight or a round of head jobs from some drunken charwoman. But there is nothing pathetic about the sight of an Angel on his bike. The whole – man and machine together – is far more than the sum of its parts. His motorcycle is the one thing in life he has absolutely mastered. It is his only valid status symbol, his equalizer, and he pampers it the same way a busty Hollywood starlet pampers her body. Without it, he is no better than a punk on a street corner. And he knows it. The Angels are not articulate about many things, but they bring a lover’s inspiration to the subject of bikes. Sonny Barger, a man not given to sentimental rambling, once defined the word „love” as „the feelin you get when you like somethin as much as your motorcycle. Yeah, I guess you could say that was love.” The fact that many Angels have virtually created their bikes out of stolen, bartered or custom-made parts only half explains the intense attachment they have for them. You’ve got to see an outlaw straddle his hog and start jumping on the starter pedal to fully appreciate what it means. It is like seeing a thirsty man find water. His face changes; his whole bearing radiates confidence and authority. He sits there for a moment with the big machine rumbling between his legs, and then he blasts off… sometimes in a cool, muted kind of way, and sometimes with a roaring wheel-stand that rattles nearby windows – but always with style, with elan. And by cutting out in the grand manner at the end of each barroom night, he leaves the others with the best possible image of himself.
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