David Charles Spurgeon - Bikin and Brotherhood: My Journey

2011, 2014 by David Charles Spurgeon.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

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ISBN: 978-0-7180-3036-0 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917922

ISBN: 978-0-7180-3035-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-7180-3036-0 (e)

14 15 16 17 18 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the men and women who love the thrill of the wind in their face, and the rumble of heavy metal thunder between their legs. Keep the shiny side up.

CONTENTS

H aving met David Spurgeon back in the day, as well as many of the outlaw bikers he writes about in Bikin and Brotherhood: My Journey, I found this memoir to be factually accurate and brutally honest. A full-throttle ride down the highway of life, David tells his life story without excuse or apology, and I applaud him for doing so. The reader will definitely get a factual glimpse into the world of one-percenters that they wont ever get from Hollywood, or the fiction section of their local bookstore.

EDWARD WINTERHALDER

Edward Winterhalder is one of the worlds leading authorities on motorcycle clubs. His books are published in multiple languages and sold all over the world. In addition to his literary endeavors, Edward is a consultant to the entertainment industry for TV, feature film and DVD projects that focus on the Harley-Davidson biker lifestyle.

1%er

A 1%er is the one in a hundred of us who has given up on society and the politicians one-way law.

This is why we look repulsive.

Were saying we dont want to be like you, or look like you.

So stay out of our face.

Look at your Brother standing next to you and ask yourself if you would give him half of what you have in your pocket. Or half of what you have to eat. If a citizen hits your Brother, will you be on him without asking why? There is no why. Your Brother may not always be right, but he is always your Brother. Its one in all and all in one. If you dont think this way, then walk away, because you are a citizen and you dont belong with us.

We are Outlaws, and members will follow the Outlaw way or get out. All members are your Brothers and your family. You will not steal your Brothers possessions, money, woman, class, or his honor.

OUTLAWS FOREVER, FOREVER OUTLAWS: O.F.F.O.

I n light of the explosion of the biker lifestyle in recent years, I felt obliged to chronicle some of the many events that were part of my involvement with it between 1975 and 1990. My experience began with a pure and simple love of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Regretfully, it led me to associations and actions that were detrimental and destructive, both to me and to others.

May this record provide some insight into a misunderstood way of life from one who lived it to its fullest, and then some. I dont know what is more amazing: how some people misperceive how bikers really are, or how some bikers misperceive what they think they are supposed to be.

Though I was heavily involved as a member and officer in one of the largest one-percenter clubs in the world, this book is in no way an attempt to promote the bike club mentality. It is not a how-to book on criminal activity, or an approval, or defense, of illegal pursuits of any kind. It is not a collection of steamy stories of immorality, lewdness, or vulgarity. Nor is it an endorsement of the drug and alcohol abuse that almost destroyed my life, and that often accompanies and is sometimes glorified by the biker lifestyle.

May this book serve as a warning: dont get so caught up with the lifestyle that the love of the machine and the freedom of the road become obscured. I know what Im talking about. Ive been there.

Keep the main thing the main thing. Live to ride. Ride to live.

Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse.

common Outlaw saying

A s I turned my Camaro Z 28 into the dark alley, I could see the body sprawled out in the gravel ahead of me. I knew it had to be Ralph. He had roared past Kato and me on his motorcycle when we stopped at the light at the corner of Western and Hawley Streets, a block from the clubhouse. It was early Saturday morning, about 3:00 a.m.; now Ralph was dead.

Several hours earlier, Ralph had been relieved of guard duty at the Toledo Outlaws Motorcycle Club clubhouse. The rest of the chapter had been in western Pennsylvania for the annual week-long Turkey Day party. We never left the clubhouse unoccupied, especially after dark. Although I was the chapter boss and was never required to pull guard duty, I opted to stay home this time in order to get my bike ready to head south for the winter. The annual New Years Eve party in Florida was approaching fast, so I decided to take advantage of the week to get loose ends tied up.

When the first carload of our members returned from West Penn chapters club house, which we called the Mountain, I was more than ready to head to a local south Toledo bar we often frequented. Kato and I jumped in my car, leaving Ralph behind to wait for someone to relieve him. Though it was late November, Ralph soon showed up at the bar on the only transportation he had, the Harley-Davidson FLH I had built for him.

We had just enough time down at K.O.s Lounge that night to make up for a long week of sobriety and cabin fever. When I saw Ralph there on the ground, my first thought was that he had lost control in the gravel and hit the fence running along the dimly lit alley. His Harley was lying on its side a little further down. Kato and I jumped out of the car and ran to where he was, but when we got to him, he wasnt breathing. I slid my arm under him to straighten his twisted body out in order to do mouth-to-mouth, but when I pulled my arm out, it glistened with the eerie, deep-red glow of blood in the light of the lone streetlamp. It wasnt due to any injury he incurred going down on his bike. Ralph had been shot to death in cold blood.

This became one of the longest nights of my life. Rage mingled with grief. Apprehension over our newly realized vulnerability mixed with thoughts of severe and immediate vengeance. First I called my regional president, a Detroit Outlaw by the name of Taco, and then I called the police, which in itself was a new experience for me. By dawn, homicide investigators began to scour the crime scene. The cold, hard facts were obvious. Ralph was ambushed as soon as he had turned into the alley, heading to the clubhouse at the opposite end. He had three bullet wounds in his back, and his motorcycle had been hit twice as well. Toledos finest were unable to find any other evidence during their inspection of the landscape, and club brothers arriving from neighboring cities were making them very nervous. Several of our men began meticulously combing the area as well, going even farther down the alley than the cops didall the way to the entrance.

At the corner was an abandoned housenot a vacant house or an empty house waiting to be rented or sold and again occupied. It was abandoned, typical of the neighborhood in which our clubhouse was located. It was in a part of south Toledo that had been redlined by the banks and other lending institutions.