Gypsy - A Biker's Ride

War raged on. Red and White killing Black and White. Black and White killing Red and White. The cycle of violence ebbed and flowed like the blood that ran on to the pavement as riders fell only to be replaced by others whose blood would also be spilled in the quest for bigger chunks of the meth trade or hookers or tattoo parlors. A violent range war was being fought from saddles, this time on horses made of steel. Rival Bike Clubs vied for more and more territory on a daily basis.

Gypsy grew up in the clubhouse. He learned the difference between a Knuck and a Pan while other kids were reading Dick and Jane. His father was the Sergeant of Arms in the club and took his son up as often as he could. The life was difficult for a kid, but fun in the way that little boys love all things mechanical. The other club members took the boy as their own and Gypsy saw the country from the front seat of the repair truck while the club rolled the roads. When his time came, Gypsy got his own ride, a beat up Iron-Head Sportster, and was invited to prospect for his own place in the brotherhood. He loved that first bike, working on it until he traded up for an old but reliable Pan Head, a former police bike that he repainted black and tuned it for the maximum performance.

Gypsy's dad went down one day for the last time. It looked like an accident, but skid marks at the intersection gave little room for doubt that the Sergeant was a victim in the long senseless battle between the clubs. This single event galvanized the young Gypsy and he rode hard and long against the enemy. It didn't matter which enemy or what war; Gypsy fought for his brothers and would die for them as they would for him.

Eventually, Gypsy took an old lady and they had a daughter together. He set up a little small engine shop and earned a living fixing things. His real love was still the road. The clubhouse where he grew up was the only real home he knew. His daughter grew up away from him and his old lady didn't want her to know her father, the Biker. For his part, Gypsy was less involved in fatherhood than he was in his duty to his brothers. There wasn't a man who could back Gypsy down. There was not a fight from which he would run.

Gypsy's old lady took the kid south to Delray Beach where her own parents lived. Years passed and many brothers fell, plenty from accidents and some from the endless campaigns across the country. There came a time when Gypsy figured he had more friends in the ground or in lock up, than he had walking around. He had a daughter he didn't know and like all men approaching the half-century mark, he began to wonder if it was all worth it. Maybe he had been fighting for the wrong things. Maybe the cost had become too high.

He checked his leathers, put on his patch and climbed on his bike one late December night. He kicked his 49 Pan, and headed out on the road. Alone.

His brothers never saw Gypsy again. He was the vice president of the club, feared and respected by many. His old lady didn't hear from him. The cops didn't have him. His bike was never seen again. A couple of rival clubs got the shakedown from his brothers but nobody would give him up. It was as though he never existed. There wasn't even a body or an answer. The war continued. It was 1972.

The New Millennium

The road crew was cleaning up Interstate 95. They were working their way through the thick swampy medians, gathering debris and trimming the brush, when one of the workers found a crumpled fender sticking out of the mucky undergrowth. He almost didn't see the booted foot.

The skeleton was wrapped in a leather vest and chaps. The patch was faded, but still legible. His skeletal torso was slumped over the rusted remains of the fuel tank; a broken handle bar pierced his chest immediately to the left of his sternum. The forks were crushed against a large oak tree. His right hand still gripped the throttle as if he were simply out for a ride.

The coroner found a broken front wheel near the old Pan, the only evidence that Gypsy hit something before he left the highway and hit the copse of Cypress trees. It appeared that he never hit the brakes, rode it in all the way. The trees opened up and swallowed him whole. He was headed south. Rolling fast, probably at night.

His thick leather saddlebags were mostly intact. Inside were Christmas gifts for a young girl. That cold December night, Gypsy went to make amends. After all the battles and the times he should have been dead, he went down two exits north of where his old lady lived with their little girl. It was 2003 when they found him. Gypsy took over thirty years, but he finally made it home.