The Beginning
I guess it started for me before I was even born. Hell, maybe I was conceived in a clubhouse, or on a run. All I know is that sooner or later, it was my destiny to wear a patch like my old man did. It was never expressed that I would, and his club was long gone before I was old enough. But I'd find my own way to the club life, in spite of the old mans warnings. What do they know anyway? As it turns out, he knew plenty. It seems nothing ever really changes on planet earth, shit just gets recycled.
A Legacy of Brotherhood
This column will be about the life and lessons learned. Back in the "Old Days" and in modern times. Sure, the names will be changed to protect the guilty, but we're certain some will see their reflection in our words. Of course, they will assume it's about them specifically. I mean, isn't it always about them? We will only say this: it ain't about you, or maybe it is, but if the shoe fits, lace that bitch up and wear it. You earned it.
Uncompromising Reality
We aren't going to soften the content or edit the patches to fit society's modern agenda. The ACES Motorcycle Club didn't. That was the whole point of the M.C. to begin with – not to conform to society. You can't change history by removing it from the record books as many would like. This is real. This is “The Life”.
Discovering Brotherhood
I came to the club life pretty naive, I guess. By that, I mean the men I grew up around led the example of what I thought "Brotherhood" was all about. I thought I had found the pure definition of what true love and caring for each other was all about. It didn't take very long to question what I was seeing. I hung around for almost a year. By hanging around I mean I was at the clubhouse as an invited guest every weekend and every "Church" night. They would open the clubhouse up for an hour or so before church, and I'd hang around and have a few beers before I got kicked out so the club could have their weekly meeting. But I'd grab a few beers, sit outside on the picnic table, and wait for them to get done.
The Call of the Road
Sometimes almost two hours. Because after church we'd go rip up the streets and hit a bike night or two. Anyone who rode with a big club will never forget the first time you were invited to ride in a club pack, or even waved up beside a one-percenter and invited to ride next to him. It doesn't come quickly, and for most, not at all. It means you have earned their respect thus far, don't fuck it up.
The Clubhouse Vibe
It felt good. To see people respect each other openly, not because they must, but even more valuable because they don't. Plus, there was the added bonus of partying at the clubhouse with kindred souls. What's not cool about a canteen that never closes, that serves pretty much anything you could ever want, with half-naked women dancing around and the scent of reefer almost 24 hours a day? It was much like the farm I grew up on when the "uncles" showed up.
A Sudden Loss
Unfortunately, the one-percenter from my hometown who I had known and received the invite from passed away suddenly. It was a shock and a devastating loss. Not just to his friends and family, but to their nation. He was a big ole country boy, with a mane of long hair and a giant long full black beard. I'm told a "one-percenter's one percenter," which means he lived it every minute of every day, and he had earned tremendous respect from his nation.
Standing Alone
So here I was, standing alone now with just a thread of consideration and only because of, and out of their respect for who invited me there in the first place. Most would have probably seen that as a time to make an exit. Not me, I'm the guy who tries every bad decision at least three times just to be certain. But more about that next month.
Until the next Church. Keep it Real!
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