LSD and The Magic Carpet Ride

My mother was quite the artist. Her far out creativity was all over our house, the car, and our clothes. We lived in a modest three bedroom house, which my mother and father purchased with my dad's V.A. loan, when they were married. The most memorable area of the house was our hallway. Sounds strange, doesn't it? All my friends would report back to their parents about our black walls. Nobody had black walls in their house, except us. Better yet, the entire hallway was painted and decorated like it's own party room.

I wish I had an actual picture of it. When you entered the hallway from the living room, you walked through a panel of floor-length beads, which hung from the ceiling. Yes, the walls were black, but they were also decorated with wild psychedelic paintings and drawings in flourescent colors. Even the ceiling was splashed with flourescent paint. Blacklights hung from the ceiling at each end of the hallway.

There were lots of flourescent lime green, hot pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers everywhere, peace signs, phrases like "sex-drugs-rock-n-roll", and other words I was too young to read. Mom would drop some LSD and just start painting whatever images were flashing through her mind as she was hallucinating.

Our bedroom door was right there, off the hallway. Many nights, when a meeting (church) or party was taking place, they would congregate in the hallway. There was always alot of loud voices and music from outside my bedroom door. I would hear them laughing, using nasty words at each other, and falling against the walls, often falling down. Usually, when someone fell down, they would stay there, tripping on all the colors swirling around the hallway.

Now I know where the song,"Magic Carpet Ride" must have come from. My sister and I sat in our room, hoping nobody would try to come in. We always locked our door. Inevitably, someone would try like hell to open the door. I don't know, maybe they were looking for the bathroom, or just a bed where they could pass out.

Summit of Despair

A run through Hell on deadly curves ~ Afraid of what could be ~
Miles of twisted roads run on inside of me ~
Riding out Hell's Dark Canyon ~ Roads have been so rough ~
Climbing the highest mountain ~ One ride that's made me tough ~
Darkness appears as clouds ~ Loneliness and despair ~
Blinded by hopelessness and fear which lead me there ~
Drowning storms reaching and tearing at my soul ~
Unable to see the light above ~ At times so bitter cold ~
Waiting for the landslide around the curve ahead ~
Hopeful for the Meadow of Peace appearing there instead ~
Deepest valleys with gouging pain ~ Strength only for today ~
Costly tolls for bridges burned ~ Each day a price to pay
Bound with no escape riding circles around this place ~
Studying the pools of water ~ The reflection is not my face ~
The lair of scars runs deep within forming tales I'll one day tell ~
Memories of painful battles along the roads through Hell ~
Thankful to the Angels of Mercy while broke down on the road ~
Don't feel so lost ~ I know now I do not ride alone ~
Twists and turns won't seem so deadly ~ Just a better ride ~
Fear, despair, and anger now released from inside ~
More winds to ride before I rest ~ My Angel guides me now ~
Ridin on, Free from fear ~ I'll make it, I won't go down ~
Ridin higher ~ Lookin ahead to the summit around the bend ~
Losing sight ~ Not believing ~ Won't ride through there again ~
Smoother roads are calling beyond the Summit of Despair ~
Thundering winds calmed to a whisper ~
Faith will get me there ~

copyright Cherie LaLanne 2005

Holy Awesome Biker Suit!

The Dark Knight's Leathers

Leathers sure have come a long way! The suit itself is made from hi-tech components Batman himself would struggle to find. Strong Cordura Mesh Base with Heavy-duty 4 way stretch Spandex inserts, for example. There’s also removable CE-approved body armour on both the jacket and pants. All this combined with a highly detailed, removable lightweight interior lining, form-moulded leather and Kevlar armour sections, make for a suit that’s as tough as it is awesome. The only thing it doesn’t come with is Batman’s mask. I'd wear them!

Every biker takes great pride in their leathers. It really is the only thing between you and the hard surface you may come in contact with when you go down. When it came time to purchase my first set of leathers, I made sure they were high quality. We checked out the gear at the swap meets and at the Easyrider show. You can find a pair of chaps for $20, or you can invest in a $200 pair. The difference is in the thickness of the leather and the stitching, basically. Well, it's worth it in my opinion.

My father, an old school biker, used to call me a preppy wannabe biker. Whatever. I'd show him! My leathers were new. His were worn for years, and lived a long, hard life! You could practically see the miles and the number of times the rubber left the pavement in the wear and tear. I admire an old set of leathers. Especially a cut (vest) decorated with patches and pins. They don't just come that way! So, I had to get riding in order to have a story to tell with my leathers (and to gain a little respect from my dad).

Then there's the chaps. The biker babes are usually the only ones who go so far to decorate their chaps with beads and patches. Mine were fringed, and beaded in red and black. Those are the colors of the Vietnam Vets M/C Club, who still hold a very special place in my heart.

When I see someone on a motorcycle, wearing shorts and sandals, it sends shivers down my back. We've all seen it. I've never done it. It was always my practice to wear my leathers whenever on a bike, regardless of the weather. I guess because I've seen the damage even minor contact with the road can do to flesh and bones.

A Biker's Poem

I saw you...
Hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.
But, you didn't see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you...
Pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.
But, you didn't see me playing Santa at the local mall.

I saw you...
Change your mind about going into the restaurant.
But, you didn't see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the cyclone relief.

I saw you...
Roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.
But, you didn't see me driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.

I saw you...
Frown at me when I smiled at your children.
But, you didn't see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you...
Stare at my long hair.
But, you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you...
Roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.
But, you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those who had none.

I saw you...
Look in fright and judgment at my tattoos.
But, you didn't see me cry as my children were born and have their names written over and over in my heart.

I saw you...
Change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.
But, you didn't see me going home to be with my family.

I saw you...
Complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.
But, you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you...
Yelling at your kids in the car.
But, you didn't see me pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.

I saw you...
Reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.
But, you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you...
Race down the road in the rain.
But, you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you...
Run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.
But, you didn't see me trying to turn right.

I saw you...
Cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.
But, you didn't see me leave the road.

I saw you...
Waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.
But, you didn't see me. I wasn't there.

I saw you...
Go home to your family.
But, you didn't see me.
Because, I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker...
A person with friends and a family.
But, you didn't see me.

Spaghetti Joe

Don't you just love the name? It actually is the roadname of a biker who used to read children's books to me when I was a little girl. What is a roadname? It is a nickname given to a biker. It is a name he inherits, usually from one of his club brothers. His roadname, if it sticks, is embroidered onto a patch, which he proudly wears on his cut (vest). I'm thinking Spaghetti Joe was Italian.

One of my earliest memories in life is of a night, complete with fear, family, security, and confusion. This vivid memory is one of a collection of memories which planted internal lies, identifying who I thought I was over the next thirty-something years. Picture two little girls, all of about four and five years of age, sitting in a car, right smack in the middle of a biker brawl. Well, it was much more than a biker brawl. It was an all out war.

My sister and I were seated in the back seat of my mother’s car, while a family friend read a story to us. Mom was a wild flower child and drove a baby blue Comet. She was a bit eccentric and pasted large Daisy decals all over the outside of the car. The storyteller was a very dear family friend who reeked of greasy Levi’s, mixed with the earthy scent of his black leather vest. His hair was long and his face, unshaven. The other men from his motorcycle gang called him Spaghetti Joe. I used to giggle at the mention of his name, no matter how often I heard it. I just loved saying it.

His eyes were friendly and his voice low and raspy as he nervously and quickly read through the pages. I recall him distracting Jami and I from peering out the car window at what was going on all around us. It was dark, and we were parked in front of King’s Drive-In. I remember King’s being a popular spot on the strip through downtown San Jose. There were always dozens of motorcycles and loud, fast cars parked in front of the place. We usually stayed in the car with one of Mom’s friends while she was inside grabbing burgers for us, or hanging out with the club.

This night was very different from the others though. We were afraid, as we were told not to pay attention to what was going on outside. Telling a child not to pay attention to something just made us all the more curious to press our faces against the windows. It was fun to fog up the window with the warmth of our breath and the cold of the air. I suppose it was good the windows were fogged.

I heard men yelling and cursing. One man fell onto the back of our car. Spaghetti Joe continued to read to us with more urgency in his voice. I put my arm around Jami and moved in closer to Spaghetti Joe. The car was shaking from the fighting taking place all around us. They were swinging large steel chains and beating each other. At one point, I heard several cars honking their horns on the main drag, then tires screaching. One of the men had thrown someone from the other club out into the traffic!