HOW YOUR WORLD WORKS
↓GREAT
UNKNOWNSBig questions.
Answers you can‘t find on the internet.A
24 June 2019 _ PopularMechanics.com
Do you have unusual questions about how things work and why stuff happens? This is the place to ask them.
Don’t be afraid. Nobody will laugh at you here. Email [email protected].NYPLACE THEY WANT, PAL. And don’t ask questions.
It’s disrespectful. End of column. Meet you back here
next month, when we’ll help out someone who knows
to mind his own business. In the meantime, pick your
broken teeth up off the pavement. We don’t need any
flat tires.
Relax—we’re kidding. Sort of. The world of motor-
cycle clubs (best not to call them “gangs” unless you work for the
Department of Justice) is a byzantine maze populated by diverse
enthusiasts who organize
themselves in a variety
of ways to pursue dispa-
rate goals, all governed by
an etiquette calculated to
ensure everyone’s dental
work remains intact.
A full taxonomy is
beyond the scope of this
column, but the most
important distinction is
between clubs made up
of so-called one-percent-
ers, and everyone else.
The one-percenters, who
generally display a dia-
mond-shaped patch with
a “1%” logo on their vests,
or “colors,” are what we
civilians would consider
“outlaw” clubs: the Hells Angels, Pagans, Mongols, Bandidos, Sons
of Silence, Gypsy Jokers, et al. This designation, proudly claimed
by those who qualify, has its roots in a famous biker-perpetrated
punch-up in California in 1947, after which the American Motor-
cyclist Association, defending the integrity of the pastime,
allegedly argued that “99 percent of the motorcycling public are
law-abiding; there are 1 percent who are not.”
Indeed, there are plenty of legit motorcycling collectives, some
of which call themselves riding clubs—as opposed to motorcycle
clubs—to further distinguish themselves from the outlaws and
thereby minimize potential conflict. (For the same reason, many
riding clubs omit chapter-location patches from their vests, lest
they be construed as territorial claims.) These good-guy groups
may be populated by folks with common cause, such as veterans,
Christians, or cops; or simply represent a bunch of born-to-be-mild
regular Joes who happen to get off on a little of the old “heavy-metal
thunder” between preparing tax returns.
So where are all these folks going, riding in those big packs?
It depends. They may be headed to a biker rally—Sturgis, South
Dakota, hosts the best known, but there are many more. Or they
may be engaged in a charity event; many clubs host “toy runs,”
especially around Christ-
mas, wherein participants
donate presents for kids
in need, then motor off
to a barbecue or another
end-of-the-road throw-
down. Mostly, though,
they’re just riding around
for kicks.
“It’s a cliché, but it’s
two-wheel therapy,” says
Matthew Sabini, New
York City chapter pres-
ident of the Florian’s
Knights Motorcycle Club,
composed entirely of fire-
fighters. “The objective is
to spend time with your
brothers and just kind of
relax and lose yourself in
the ride. It’s more about the ride itself—not necessarily where
you’re going.”
Ray Lubesky, international president of the Iron Legacy
Motorcycle Club (a “proud member of the Alliance of Law Abid-
ing Motorcycle Clubs,” per its website), further explains that
riders employ a pack formation for safety. The idea is to prevent a
car from merging into the pack. Motorcycles can’t slow down as
quickly and safely as cars, so if a car were to invade the formation
and abruptly brake, riders might not be able to compensate in
time, says Lubesky. One reckless driver could easily kill or injure
several riders. And that’s probably the best reason to steer clear
of bikers—literally.When you see a pack
of motorcyclists
with matching jackets,
where are they going?
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