Written by The Alpha Biker, Preacher Chuck D.
Well, if you’re not doing anything wrong and have nothing to hide…
Published in New York Rider Magazine.
If I was granted the ability to punch a deserving asshole in the face without legal repercussion every time I either read or heard these words in relation to being a biker, I would be a much more well adjusted individual. We have all heard these words at one time or another. Typically we hear this in the context of “why are you upset that the officer stopped you”, “what do you care if they search your person/vehicle/home/clubhouse”, or how about “just show him your identification, what do you care”.
Well, I do fuckin’ care. And I am not one to sit back and tolerate it. We all have the right to not be harassed by law enforcement or other government agencies. Most bikers who have not formally participated in the 1%er scene cannot grasp the level of harassment that occurs to these motorcycle clubs, as it is too “over the top” to be believed sometimes. The thought of 200 agents, 40 vehicles, a mobile command vehicle the size of Kid Rock’s tour bus, and a fuckin’ helicopter overseeing your barbecue sounds like the trailer for the next Hollywood action film… not a Saturday afternoon in suburbia with friends.
So what does this have to do with the “average guy"?
For the past couple of months we have covered current events and discussed harassment of the type described above. I am going to step back and talk about the effects this bullshit has the average biker who does not wear a patch, be recalling a personal story, that hopefully will resonate with everyone.
About eight years ago I was out in Sturgis, South Dakota for bike week. At that time, I was not directly associated with any motorcycle club. Sure, I had a few support t-shirts, but I myself, was an independent. My buddy from Staten Island rode out with me. He was a member of a firefighter club that was a one-piece patch organization. For the most part, on the surface, we were a fairly benign pair of bikers out to have a good time and ride across the country.
We had given a friend in the motorcycle industry a few bucks to crash at her house near downtown Sturgis for a few days during bike week before moving on. After a day of riding out to Wyoming to see Devil’s Tower, we decided to spend one night, one fuckin’ night, partying in downtown. I am not personally a huge fan of the “main street” scene, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
As the saying goes, don’t let the sun set on your ass in downtown Sturgis. Because any attempt to hop on your scoot and make your way to your campground, or anywhere else, will be met with a full gauntlet of police road blocks… all in the name of public safety. Knowing this, we opted to leave the bikes at the house and walk the few blocks to downtown, as moderation was not the word of the day.
After a successful night of revelry, we begin making our way home on foot. For context, I am a bald man with a goatee wearing a black leather vest with no center patch. I also have a blue handkerchief on my head to keep the remaining layers of scorched skin from falling into my beer. Finally, I have a pair thick prescription Ray Bans that double as my riding glasses. These are not the most attractive things, but at least I don’t have to change glasses if I need to quickly hop on my scoot, thumb the starter, and get the fuck outta dodge quickly. It works for me.
Now the fun starts. We are strolling down the outer edges of, I believe, Main Street. There is a chain link fence to the left of me as I walk down the sidewalk. My buddy had just ducked down an alley to relieve himself. We are the only two out and about in this area. A John Deer golf cart with a dump truck style back rolls past me in the opposite direction that I am heading. It has six cops in it. Six, full size, corn fed, mid-Western, boys in blue. I recall thinking the Shriners and their little cars have nothing on these guys. Unbeknownst to me, this clown car turns around and rolls up on me. It hops the fuckin’ curb in front of me and the front end slaps into the chain link fence blocking the sidewalk in front of me. The goon squad hops out and surrounds me. My buddy is still pissing in the alley.
Now, I have done absolutely fuckin’ nothing to provoke this situation. I am simply walking down the fuckin’ street by myself (my buddy is still fuckin’ pissing) late at night. I wasn’t even so much as whistling. The leader of this gang barks “show me some ID”. The following is verbatim how this conversation went:
ME: “I’m not showing you any ID, I have no reason to show you ID. Why did you stop me?”
HIM: “You look like a {insert national MC name here} ”
ME: “Last time I checked, it was not illegal to look like a {insert national MC name here} nor even BE a {insert national MC name here}!”
HIM: “You look like a {insert national MC name here} that we have a warrant for”
ME: “Oh really, what’s his name, and when you say we, who is we? Are you a member of Sturgis police force?”
HIM: “I’m from Wisconsin and…”
ME: “You’re from Wisconsin? Do you even have authority here? What are you working a fucking security detail or something?”
HIM: “Well I… JUST SHOW ME YOUR GODDAMNED ID OR WE ARE GOING TO BRING YOU DOWNTOWN TO FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE”
ME: “Is that so, well…”
Then my buddy shows up on the scene. Now, my friend is not so in tune with the civil rights “thing”, so he has a different perspective on this situation than I do. He quickly introduces himself as a fire fighter from New York, shows them his ID, and then turns to me and the following ensues:
FRIEND: “Just show them your fuckin’ ID and let’s go”
ME: “FUCK THAT… I’m not doing it, I’ll go fuckin’ downtown if I have to, but my ID is NOT coming out of my fuckin’ pocket”
FRIEND: “Jesus Christ! Just show them…”
COP TO FRIEND: “Will you vouch for this asshole?”
FRIEND: “Yes”
COP: “Then get him the fuck outta here!”
Now, this went down exactly as described. On the walk back to the house, my buddy and I debated my choice of time and place for civil rights activism. Apparently, he felt that 3am after a night of partying, and a switchblade in my pocket that I had totally forgotten about that he had given me as a gift a while back, was a poor choice. Regardless, I felt vindicated. However, without my friend present, I was going to jail that night…. probably for disobeying an officer, drunk in public, a weapons charge, and who knows what else these assholes could make up.
What’s the moral of this story you ask?
I was an average biker that particular night. No club affiliation. No support gear. I was just an average guy who happened to be a biker. I was minding my own business and doing absolutely nothing illegal. This can and will happen to you! Shit runs downhill. The stuff happening to the 1%ers will come to your front door as well. It came to mine a few years back before I had participated in any club, as well as many times since then. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, you are lucky. Get involved and make a difference… and stay vigilant.
Peace & Motorcycle Grease,
~ Preacher Chuck D.
