I am not even sure where to start the story. I really want to figure out how to base it on race, without sounding like a racist. The majority of white bikers that I have met aren’t really down with black dudes. The history of American bike culture has been ruled by honkeys. Toph loves to get me into crazy situations. When Toph pitched me the idea of hanging out with a black biker gang (club, gang just sounds cooler), he was excited and hoped that I would get beat up or something.
An entire paragraph devoted to Mike’s genital inferiority, homoeroticism, and stereotypes portrayed in black pornography have been edited and saved for future extortion. I’m sure you can find the photos on the internet. Toph
I know I shouldn’t make comments about race. At this day and age, Americans should be over the whole black versus white thing, right? Well, let’s face it: there is still a lot of hostility and ignorance in the world. I don’t like to perpetuate either, but I have no way of knowing how the other guy feels, let alone a whole group. The stereotype of tough bikers combined with the outdated fear of the black man makes for one scary cerebral image. I am imagining the look on Archie Bunker’s face as a large negro (Archie’s words, not mine) shows up on a chopper to pick up Gloria on prom night.
BJ, founder of Klutch N Khrome (KNK) motorcycle club, just finished a documentary about black biker culture and is trying to change that notion and responded to my Facebook request for an interview. Toph (Bossman at Baggers mag) enthusiastically agreed and sent me on my shaky little way to Chicago’s South Side.
I’ve got to be honest. I was actually a little nervous and excited. I had no clue what kind of guys I was going to meet. Of course, I imagined the worse situation. Fuck man. The race war ended way too long ago to still have fear of the black man. But modern culture has still embedded it into my noodle. I worried whether I would be accepted by them or shot on sight. As you can see, as the minutes passed my brain fell prey to many stupid racial stereotypes.
I heard the deep bass of Easy-E at a faint distance even before I heard the roar of the bored-out baggers. I figured it was coming from a souped-up ghetto-mobile rollin’ on a set of 22-inch rims. I was in the hood after all. The bass thumped louder and louder. I looked up and saw what was approachinga mob of leather vests with patches navigating an armada of Harleys. They were not your typical Midwest weekend-warrior clones of honky biker tradition! I felt like a white, nerdier version of Steve Urkel while they pulled up. Luckily I still had an ’11 Victory Vision 8-Ball on loan instead of my embarrassingly scooter-like 11-year-old PC 800; on my petty journalist pay, that’s all I can afford. They stopped dead in front of me, gave me the lookover and smiled with a friendly curiosity that made my nervously puckered ass a bit more relaxed.
KNK gave me a tour of the South Side neighborhoods that few whites frequent. About 10 guys showed up. Well, not just guys. A handful of females showed up on baggers as well. The women here certainly boost the overall biker image here, too, said BJ, explaining the difference between the Chicago biker community and others. We have some of the most independent, creative, stylish, hardworking non-backseat-riding women that I’ve ever seen with their own bikes, clubs, etc.
We met at Rainbow Beach for a meet and greet and to take photos. We took South Shore Drive to Lake Shore Drive north to 39 Street and rode to Chicago Chicken & Waffle on 42nd and Martin Luther King Dr. We ate, laughed, took pictures, shared stories, and BJ shot some video. Everyone was impressed that I ordered catfish and eggs with grits. I never seen a white guy that eats grits! said BJ. After that, in my mind, I was made an honorary brother.