hildreth

It was at the trail end of my journey in California that I stumbled upon a darker side of the Bay area.

Blonde hair. Red lips. Black dress. She sat at the bar alone. She appeared to be single and she watched the strange cult of dancers in the far end of the joint. One man, in his later 40's pulled up next to her, and conversed with her briefly. She looked away. He paid for his shot and stared straight ahead.

I was watching her off and on, sizing up the situation and egging Andrew to find out her real story. Meanwhile, the three of us, Andrew, Brad, and Randi set up camp nearby and stared off to the same dancers.

Then, seemingly out of no where, he appeared. The man she was waiting on. 6'1", broad shoulders, armored in black leather from neck to toe. Across his back "EAST BAY RATS" in grungy yellow, framing an emblem in the center. Perhaps the size of his jacket added to the dimensions of his body, but nonetheless, he looked like a human tank. He was clean cut, shaven, tan, and from what I heard, way out of his district being in this bar.

"These guys are like the Hell's Angels of the Bay," Andrew told me. Clearly, I was out of my district, too.

I flew into Los Angeles on a Friday, and by the following Wednesday I was headed to San Francisco by rental car. 6 1/2 hours each way. I wasn't even entirely sure if I would be able to afford or have time to make the inner-state trip happen, but I decided to go for it. My quest in California turned from meeting old friends who had relocated to putting physical presence with internet-only friendships. I met the coordinator for Suicide Girls, who I had been talking to on a weekly basis about photography and other things. I had also met a friend who I've known for 15 years, but had never met until this trip. More to come on that.

On the way back from San Francisco, I started to dwell on the thought of biker gangs. Where I live and where I typically go, aside from the dive bars I frequent (and that's not very often), I never really see bikers in droves.

I did, however, see them as I drove southbound on Hwy 5. Battalions of black warriors rode past on hot steel. They were northbound and a center-divider away. The sun was setting on them, but even still, all-black attire made them silhouettes against any backdrop.

I had to make a pit-stop at a gas station off the Bakersfield exit. There were fifteen rows of tightly packed goods: jerkey, ice cream, candy bars, cereals, DVD movies, tobacco, pipes, etc. In the far back, machetes, axes, and other blades. I made no assumptions of the future owners of these weapons. I only wondered. I stepped outside. Noticed a biker, leaned against his ride, checking some device in his hand. Black bandana. Dark shades. Alone. I passed him and walked to my car.

Hwy 5 is two lanes: one with rigs and one with commercial vehicles. Either side is surrounded by farms, some with trees in full bloom, and others waiting on vegetation. They roll off out of view, or are sometimes cut off by California hillsides. Peaceful, really-- the drive back and forth, but it made me think a lot about the various underground factions in California. It made me think to my journalism degree and the direction of my photography. Maybe it was in San Diego, at a car show, when I felt a journalistic current fueling my camera trigger. Perhaps it was the street life in the Gas Lamp district, or meeting a reporter for California's Channel 10 at the Starlite restaurant. It could have even been meeting a graffiti artist and hearing his story of his battle for turf with other taggers. I wish I had the guts to pull my camera out and photograph the bikers I saw. I decided some things are best left for my memory, and to have little proof of otherwise.

I'll be writing more of this trip in future blogs. Stay tuned.

[The image on this blog was taken in San Diego.]