In
1968, I was six. My family was holed up in a tiny derelict shack on
Stierlin Road in Mountain View, California, out by the city dump. The
place was so small that my younger sister and I bunked on the back
porch. Our neighborhood was made up of sprawling family farms
interspersed with clusters of World War I era homes. There was a bar
with six stools, a corner store, and a handful of weathered Victorian
mansions. It’s all gone now. Our little enclave was bulldozed to make a
parking lot for Shoreline Amphitheater. The rest has been swallowed up
by the ravenous Googleplex. Amazingly, the impressive palm tree that was
in our front yard is still there. Whenever I drive by and see it, I
reminisce on those simpler times.
The Northern Rebels outlaw
biker gang had a clubhouse around the corner from us on Plymouth Street,
they occupied one of the old Victorians and raised unholy hell in it,
day and night. The President and founder of the club was Danny Maupin,
who had actually lived with us for a time just ahead of his
one-percenter days. My mom took him in when he was a teenage delinquent
in need of a place to crash. The two became lifelong friends.
Mom
would drop me off at the clubhouse to hang out with Danny and other
times she let me cut across the field behind our house to go for a
visit. The gang would race their bikes up and down the street and it
wasn’t too hard to get a ride around the block or even a joyride
downtown. I once got a lift to my grandma's house. She turned three
shades paler when I pulled up on the back of a three-wheeled chopper.
After inviting me and my friend Chomp inside for chocolate chip cookies,
she sent us on our merry way.
A pair of towheaded brothers lived
on the farm behind our house, one was my age and the other was a few
years older. They began ambushing me on my treks to the clubhouse,
pelting me with rocks or sniping with pea shooters. One day, Danny was
showing me his collection of colors; he had 13 club vests, or cuts,
nailed to the wall of his office. Each represented a rival gang that had
been vanquished by the Rebels. I figured he could give me some tips on
how to deal with my adversaries. Sure enough, he handed me a slingshot
and took me out to the yard. Once I was able to take out beer bottles at
ten feet without missing he sent me on my way with his slingshot and a
pocket full of rocks. The next run in with the towheads was the last.
Later that summer the Hells Angels stormed the Rebels’ clubhouse,
laying it to waste. They busted out the walls with sledgehammers, shot
out the windows, lit beds and couches on fire, then set off dynamite in
the fireplace. They gathered the Rebels in the front yard and stripped
them of their colors; officially disbanding the club. But it didn’t take
long for Danny to become an Angel himself. They nicknamed him "Danny
Reb” and he went on to become the much revered President of the Daly
City chapter. He passed away last year and is fondly remembered by his
brothers, as well as our family. RIP (Copyright 2019 Jon Kinyon / excerpts from Facebook.com)
GO TO: Raising Hell, Raised by Hells Angels @
I use to drink with him at a bar on El Camino between El Monte and Miramonte. It is gone now. That was around 72' I think he had a Sportster with a Death Head on the gastank. Long time ago. I had a 48" Panhead. Nice guy. Always by himself. Riding even during the winter. Later, I joined the Mtn View Police and later a motorcycle officer with the CHP. Complete change on my part.
ReplyDelete