BIKER 101: The Life of Don: The Trilogy: Part I of III

By Donny Petersen

The Outlaw Biker 1%er
This is not a lifestyle solely based on jungle law. There's a lot of brain that comes with that biker brawn ....He (Donny) is known as "The World's Most Read Harley Technical Journalist"...His from the heart, from-real-experience comments on this entire lifestyle should also be on that required reading list --- for history but also for just exactly what this lifestyle means.
from The ONE PERCENTER ENCYCLOPEDIA by Bill Hayes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775193005

Donny Petersen

no back cover author bio or author picture.

Book preview

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Biker 101:

The Life of Don

You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor.

Aristotle

Other Books by the Author

Donny’s Unauthorized Technical Guides to Harley-Davidson 1936 to Present

Volume I: The Twin Cam: 1999 to 2008

431 pages: ISBN 9780595882250 E-Book, 9780595896011 HC, 9780595439027 SC.

Volume I: The Twin Cam: 1999 to Present

708 pages: ISBN 9781450267700 E-Book, 9781450267717 HC, 9781450267724 SC.

Winner of the New York 2012 International Book Awards (New York City)

Volume II: Performancing the Twin Cam

714 pages: ISBN 9780595627974 E-Book, 9780595515165 HC, 9780595527458 SC.

758 pages Garage Copy (8.25 x11): ISBN 9781440111952 SC only.

Volume III: The Evolution: 1984 to 2000

716 pages: ISBN 9781450208192 E-Book, 9781450208208 HC, 9781450208185 SC.

Volume IV: Performancing the Evolution

718 pages: ISBN 978-1-49173-728-6 E-Book, 978-1-49173-730 9 HC, 978-1-49173-729-3 SC

Volume V: Part I of II --- The Shovelhead: 1966 to 1985

749 pages: ISBN 9781475942835 E-Book, 9781475942842 HC, 9781475942828 SC.

Winner of the 2013 International Book Awards.

Volume V: Part II of II --- The Shovelhead: 1966 to 1985

749 pages: ISBN 9781475973617 E-Book, 9781475973624 HC, 978147573600 SC.

Winner of the 2014 International Book Awards.

Volume VI: The Ironhead Sportster: 1957 to 1985

1026 pages: ISBN 978-1-5320 0810 8 E-Book, 978-1-5320 0811-5 HC, 978-1-5320 0809-2 SC.

Future planned books are:

The Evolution Sportster: 1986 to 2003, (rigid mounts),

The Evolution Sportster: 2004 to Present, (rubber mounts),

The Panhead: 1948 to 1965,

The Knucklehead: 1936 to 1947,

The 45 Flathead: 1929 to 1973.

Biker 101: Life of Don: Part IIand Part III

Disclaimer

This book expresses the views of I, Petersen. I, Petersen do not assume and expressly disclaims any liability concerning the use of, or for damages resulting from the use of any information, advice, or recommendations within. This is not an official publication. Reference to any product, process, publication, service, or offering of any third party by trade name, manufacturer, publisher, magazine, book, or otherwise does not constitute or imply the endorsement or recommendation of such by I, Petersen, Harley-Davidson Inc. or Harley-Davidson Motor Company, H-D Michigan, Inc. and publications, American Iron Magazine, published by TAM Communications Inc., Stamford CT, USA; Canadian Biker Magazine and Masterlink Magazine, published by Canadian Biker Publications Ltd., Victoria B.C. Canada; Canadian Rider Magazine Ltd., Delta B.C. Canada; Easyriders, VQ, and V-Twin (magazines), Paisano Publications, Inc., Agoura Hills, California, USA; HOT BIKE, published by McMullen & Yee Publishing, Inc., Placentia, California, USA; Supercycle, published by LFP, Inc., Beverly Hills, California, USA; Toronto Sun, or U.S. CYCLES Hot-Bike, France, published by A.P.S., Nice, France.

E. & O. E. (errors and omissions excepted)

Use of the word Harley-Davidson, Harley, Harleys, various model names and designations, along with trademarks and copyrights owned by Harley-Davidson, Inc. or any companies owned, connected or affiliated to the foregoing are provided solely for reference, and there is no affiliation between this company(s) and I, Petersen

E. & O. E.

Care has been taken to trace ownership of copyright material contained in this book; however, I (Petersen) and the publisher will welcome any information that enables them to rectify any future reference or credit for future publications.

Contents

Other Books by the Author

Donny’s Unauthorized Technical Guides to Harley-Davidson 1936 to Present

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Preface

Introduction

I am Not Writing about You

My Beliefs and Yours

Many times I use Street Vernacular of the Day

Forward

When Men were Men and Women were Double Breasted

Biker Nicknames

Dirty

Tramp

Sleeze

Big D

The Real Big D (formerly, God, Godzilla, Chickenhead, and D)

Psycho Dave

The not so Toughest Punk in Town

Getting My First Lesson

Can I Beat a Whole Motorcycle Club?

The Masked Marvel: Killer Conroy

The Toughest Street-fighter of all: Baldy Chard

Moose

Canada’s Last Bare Knuckle Prize Fight

Kenny, the Knockout King

A Lady is not always a Lady

Queer Hunting

Tobacco Picking

Our Turn with the Locals

Punk Rocker and Biker Reality

Hippie Scene

Guess Who gets the First Helmet Law Ticket?

Communes: MDA Wedding

Bringing Back Freak-Outs from the Abyss

Detroit Ghetto Commune

Wyatt’s Jungle

MDA Wedding

Don the Hippie becomes a Biker

The Mandatory Haircut

Bike Club Kicking in my Door

The Rock Festivals

Atlantic City Pop Festival

Rock Hill

Toronto Rock and Roll Revival

Escort by the Vagabonds MC

Picking Yer Ass, Digging Deep

Overamping on Speed: Blood Running from all Orifices

Alice Biting the Head off a Live Chicken?

Look who Came to the Festival

The Electric Circus

Joining a Bike Club

Why Join a Bike Club?

Which Club to Join?

The BDRs, and the Original Biker Days

Don’t Fuck with Black Diamond Bikes

The Lancers MC

Satan’s Choice MC

The Vagabonds

Why I Joined the PDRs

Striking for PDR MC 1%

A Most Dangerous Run

Financing a Run

Biker Etiquette: Sleeping on the Floor

A Baseball Bat and a Crutch

Fuck You; I Have had Enough

How Long is the Striking Time?

The Women: Trains, Mamas, and Old Ladies

Mamas

Steady Eddie

Trains

Train Robber

Od Lady

Property Patches

Biker Discipline: The Paddle

Some Clubs Beat a Member for Wrongdoing

Passed Out in a Torched House

Child Molester

The Story on the Street

What Really Happened!

Punching Each Other in the Face: Drunken Fun

Field Day Pickup Sticks

The Field Days

Electric Kool Aid

Pickup Sticks: 1%er Musical Chairs

Balloon Race

Bike Jumps

Drag Race

Chicken Race

What Bikers who Participated in the Field Days Say

Pigpen

Hunter Thompson: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Motorcycle Gangs

LSWas

LSD Proponents Were Brilliant

Speed Kills: Cocaine Endures

A Short History of Speed

Cocaine: Every Wonderful High is Accompanied by a Devastating Low

Cocaine Blow-Jobs

Nailing his Hair to the Wall: Norm’s Room

Coca, a Gift from God

Time to Quit

Opiates

A History of Clubhouse Raids

Rough Justice: What has Fair got to do with Anything

The Real Reason for Fortified Clubhouses

Police Toys, up the Game

Crushing the Prized Possessions: Member Harleys

Winter Icicles Inside the clubhouse

They Took the Stairs!

Fifth Floor Clubhouse

Show Case Raids: Toys for Big Boys in the Sandbox

Flower Pot Barriers Supported by Steel I-beams versus the Ram Truck

They Had a Key: Why Use a Key? Let’s Make a Show!

Old Cop Tricks: The Plant

Shotgun Plant

The Hit

Leaving a Tape Recorder with Prisoners

The Rolling Stop

Modern Cops

Police Euphemism: The Dynamic Entry

Playing with Guns

Different Rules: Different Places

The Gunfight: Dumb as Bricks

Street Fighting and Guns

The Gun Store: Full Auto Rush

Showcase Roadblock: Filming Good Guys Handling the Bad Guys

Tupac Shakur

Bullet Damage: Eight is a Lucky Number

Movies and Real Life

On the Brink of War

Bernie Guindon

Bobby Latus

Back to Bernie and the Brink of War

The Sit Down

The Sudbury Sensation

Sticking his Cock into an Anticipatory Mouth

Moose was Sometimes Worth Five Men

The Killer, Little Man, takes on Street Meat Moose

Sensei Mark Stables on Moose

The Sensei

PDR Carl

Winning a Strip Contest

Is Blowing a Guy wearing a Condom Bad?

The Best Stripper

Beer Drenching Shower

Street Reputation

People Pretending they are Don

Fuck with Me and You Fuck with Don Petersen

Hundreds of Fake Relatives and Friends

Uncle Donny

I am Donny Petersen

What is wrong with these pretenders?

Wife-1 Mugging

Learning Respect

Postscript

The Bro Code

I am the Way I am

The Curse of Shyness

The Misanthrope and Dogs

Buster Saved my Life

The Apple Does not Fall Far from the Tree

Mum

Pop

The First Born

Age One: my First Trophy: Winning (almost) the most Beautiful Baby Contest

My Brother Mike: the Shooter

My Sister Suzie

Back to the Farm

It’s Time to go Pop

The Pretty Door-to door Sales Girl

She Died the Way she Lived

My Lower, IQ

So, what do the Smart Guys Say?

My Introduction to the Good People

Pissing in an Alley

You are not Bright Enough to Stay in this School

Thinking is a Double-edged Blessing

Losing My Virginity

My First and Only Dose

The Seminary: Thanking a Priest for being Mean to Kids

Military Misfit

This Cop Protected Me

Militia: The Failed Art of Discipline

Assault or Street Justice?

The Court Martial

My First Tattoos

Lips on my Ass: 16 Years Old

DFFL: Dope Forever, Forever Loaded

PDR MC 1% Tattoos

Last Man Standing

Horrific Bike Crash

Two Choices: Develop a Steel Trap Mind or Go Crazy

A Summer Ride

Life ain’t Fair

No Escape from Fire

Amputation Ward

The Goof: Doctor Bedside Manner

Hospital Parties

Blood Clots

Removing the Pin

Learning to Walk

The Medical Miracle: Heavy Weightlifter

The Court Case: Feloniously Convicted in Absentia

Rebuilding My Chopper in the Fourth Floor Kitchen with No Elevator

Rodeo Drive

Psychedelics and Street Work

Street Kids: 9 to 5 Don’t Make It

The Housing Project Kids

Teaching the Kids to Ride

Canoe Trips

Youth Work Troubleshooter

Alpha Wolf teaching the Pups: Make Adversity Your Friend

Partying on LSD in the Graveyard

Starting First Psychedelic/Speed Freak Counseling Center

Vietnam, the Hippie Movement, and Drugs

Kids are Kids: Youth Work is Youth Work

High in a Snowbank with no Coat

Rochdale College: Social Experiment on Steroids

Trading Youth Work for Mechanics

Heavy Duty Cycles

Degrassi Street before it was Cool

Bikers in the Old Days were Wilder, much Wilder than those Today

The Bust

Knuckles, King of the Barroom Brawlers

My First Nickname: Mr. Transmission

Dump Trucks with no Wheels in Slum Buildings

The Old Jew

Mum Bursts into Tears

Derelict Building: Birth of HD Cycles

An Instant Success: Money was Unimportant

Money Gains Importance

Mechanic’s License, I Had no Mechanic’s License!

My First Two Customers: The Murderer and the Murdered

Mouldy: Toronto’s Only H-D Dealer

HD Cycle Raids

The Pawn (Auto) Squad

HD Cycles Becomes Heavy Duty Cycles

Bank Robbery: One of the Fools Wore a Heavy Duty Cycle Coat

Mr Big

The Bike Shows, Magazine Features, and Tech Writing

Awards

Selling Gerrard St. Shop: Feng Shui

Nosy Cops

Don Please Don’t Leave: Who will Protect Us

Bullets Through the Door: Sleeping in a Different Place Each Night

The New Heavy Duty Cycles: 2230 Kingston Rd. Scarborough

There is a New Sheriff in Town

The Bitch Slap

The Roofers; One Dead and One Doing Life

Child Molester

High Rise Dive

The Warranty

Murder Next Door

Be Close when in Danger

Selling Heavy Duty Cycles (2010)

Invited to Harley-Davidson

The Secrecy Agreement

Ya’ll Ain’t Gitten in der Boy! Dats were da secret stuff is...

Secrecy

The Archives

The Washroom

Milwaukee’s Secret Race Facility

The $1,000 Lunch

The Prize - We Got’em

The More I say I am not a Criminal …

It Matters Not what I Say

Jamaica Highlands and the Pot Plantations

Check Point

Smuggling Disappointment

The Mob

You got the First Shot

Choked in the Cop Shop

Gun Imprint in my Forehead

How to tell you are under a High Level Investigation

Why do the Cops get so Pissed at me?

Gang Court

The Philosophy of Don

Girls Just Want to Have Fun

Re-slotting

Pills, Food, and Exercise

Abusing the Body

Hatred

Racism

Nazi Regalia: The Swastika

War

Intelligence

Respect

Friendship, Brotherhood, and Death

Religion, God, and LSD

I Respect the Views of Others

Don the Agnostic

Religion

LSD

Out of Body

Hippie Counterculture and Religion: Phony as the Rest

Man Is Important

Dying: The Big Sleep

Freedom

What then is Freedom?

Success

Problems

A Lie Told Often Enough Becomes the Truth ¹

The Pure One Percenter

Drugs

Criminality, Club Idiosyncrasies, and Application of the Law

Police Statistics

The Special Treatment

Justice

Let Paranoia do the Walking

Force

What is a One Percenter?

Beware Hidden Agendas

Original 1%ers went from Hero to Zero

Top of the Pile

Snitches

The Rats will Never Go Away

Dropping a Dime

Take Care of Your Own Shit

Usta Don’t Count; a Part of Punkdom

Are we Perfect?

Lastly

Glossary of Street Terminology

Acknowledgements

To my parents who went through much adversity for their family.

To the two bike clubs to which I have belonged, particularly my current and last one. Once dismissing the greedy, the selfish, and the weak links, I figured out what a pure biker is. This gives me my framework to live by.

To my friends; it is difficult if not impossible to live life without friends. I talk not of the pretenders or fair weather acquaintances but those who hang tough in the bad, dangerous, sometimes losing situations that life can present.

Photo credit for both front and back covers. These pictures were taken by my friend, Matt Pellow during roadside police stops. They were not set up or planned, it is just how I am.

Preface

Speak softly, and carry a big stick. ¹

I am opinionated.

I listen to those who offer educated and thoughtful opinions. I will think them through. On reflection, I may modify or change mine.

I can be rigid.

Other times, very tolerant.

Always, I will be respectful.

Unless, disrespect is warranted.

I have rules which I live by. These have evolved from experience.

They may not be your rules but they are the rules of me and mine.

I abhor, as most bikers do, child abuse, pedophilia, snitches, and elder victimization.

On another level, I find animal cruelty despicable.

Bullying is a punk move. It exposes the insecurity and inadequacies of the victimizer. The truly tough need not flex; they are invariably polite, never feeling the need to brag.

By nature, I am not violent nor is violence ever my first option but I do use force when necessary.

I laughed, when I read the following quote by Winston Churchill. I include it, such is my humor.

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it. ²

¹ Theodore Roosevelt (1858 to 1919), 26th USA President (1901 to 1909).

² Sir Winston Churchill (1874 to 1965), Prime Minister of the United Kingdom (1941 to 1945 and 1951 to 1955.

Introduction

I am Not Writing about You

Sometimes, but not always, I have changed names for a variety of reasons. It may be to protect the individual from unwanted attention. Importantly, it may shield a parent, child, sibling, or close friend from embarrassment or whatever. This book is not about hurting people or their feelings. The book is about my cruises through life. I have run into many characters. You may be a character of similar nature, but this does not mean I am writing about you.

So, if I have inadvertently changed a name to yours, and you have had a similar life experience, be assured I am not writing about you.

My Beliefs and Yours

I realize my views may offend some. Let me unequivocally state that I respect those who have differing opinions, including ones of faith.

Your beliefs are yours.

My views are mine, alone.

I am not trying to push my beliefs on anyone.

Live your own life; I will live mine.

Develop your own truths.

Many times I use Street Vernacular of the Day

Do not be offended by the terms homos, queers, dykes, sexist language, and all the rest. I do it on purpose because that is how people spoke back in the day.

Forward

Some turn on their world for mere money. They write what they know they should not talk about. I am not like others who have prostituted themselves and their former lifestyle. They profit from selling their souls. They lose their honor. One deserving punishment for these profiteers is that they have no clue a book makes little money.

The Life of Don is a bit of a misnomer. Uh, oh, another fifty dollar word. This is a slice of my life not my whole life. Not really a slice either, a sliver would be a better word.

I talk about what I can talk about. I may write about the dead but not if relatives may be shamed, embarrassed, or hurt. If I think the dead will not like what I am doing; I do not do it. I write nothing that will offend current friends and people I care about.

My self-imposed writing rules may seem restrictive but I don’t find them so. There is still a whack of interesting stuff. Did I say whack?

I respect and get respect, for I live by our rules.

Donny Petersen.

Chapter I

When Men were Men and Women were Double Breasted

This chapter, chronicles some glimpses of the Toronto biker/street scene from about 1967-on to about 1999. Bikers in the old days were wilder, much wilder than today.

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me. ¹

Some of the guys I talk about are and were bad muthafuckas. What most people do not know is that all have a soft side, almost two personalities, if you will. When I can, I give the version, I know and have experienced; then I ask a relative or girlfriend to give theirs. I am sure the cops have a third much harsher version. All versions may be diametrically opposed but at least two are also true. Moose, is a case in point. He was so busy fighting life in the neon slime that he could never let his guard down. There was always someone trying to take him down or fuck him up in other ways. He spent his life going from fight to fight, situation to situation that he never had time or inclination to let his guard down. In later years, paranoia, from excess cocaine abuse did not help.

I talk of Moose in the following sections, notably Moose: a BADDD Muthafucka and Sticking his Cock into an Anticipatory Mouth.

Moose had one daughter Shelley, the rest of his kids were boys. First let’s hear what Shelley has to say.

"I have lots of brothers. I was Daddy’s girl. He said, I should have been the boy. He was a crazy but strict Dad.

My Dad was born poverty stricken in Regent Park housing project with five siblings. Food was scarce. He had to do, what he had to do for money. He could not read or write."

I knew Moose for most of my life. I never knew this. He hid it well, not that I was looking. Shelley continues,

"Dad adored Grandma.

When I was ten, some guy stole my Grandma’s wedding ring. I was at the screen door, when my Dad showed up. He had the guy by the neck with one hand and was ringing him with the other. After he knocked the guy out, I helped my Dad hose the blood off the veranda. It was a lot but we got it cleaned enough that we didn’t have to repaint the wood.

I was raised on tough love. He was strict, commanding, and demanding. In Grade 9, he drove me to school one day. As he dropped me off, he asked if I wanted lunch money? I said, sure. He told me to get a job on the way home from school! Walking home that afternoon, I went into Mary Brown’s Chicken and got a job. My Dad laughed hard when I told him. He was so proud of me.

One time, I got into trouble with the law. With Dad’s rap sheet, I thought he would be pleased. His loud voice taught me I was wrong.

Another time, I was walking along the street. I spotted him watching me in his rear view mirror. I couldn’t hide anything from him. I got to the window. He told me to put the ring back in my nose. It looks cool. Come on, jump in.

I got into the pick up truck and he played our favorite song. I sang my version to it. My Dad laughed so loud, right from the belly.

He wound up with another woman. He had everything in her name. After fifteen years, she split with everything. It was my Dad’s fault as he was a womanizer and cheated. He was destitute, once more.

One day, when he was on the outs with my Mom, he called me from behind a metal fence. I went. He gave me some money for her. I put it in my pocket and ran to my Mom and gave it to her.

My Dad then joined you guys. My Mom disapproved but she was scared.

Once, Dad got a farmhouse north of the city for 500 bucks with five bedrooms for all the kids. I never figured out how he got it so cheap until he told me, he went by every day and tore the For Rent signs down until the landlord became desperate.

His passions were his bike and raising pigeons. The kids were afraid to get grounded. If you did, you had to scrape and clean the pigeon coop. When done, you had to undress outside and leave your clothes there. We would be given a towel and told to take a hot shower.

My ex broke into my house and tormented me. I went to Dad. We found my ex in a slum, hotel room. My Dad knocked him out cold. I said, you murdered him. He picked him up and put his face in the sink, full of water, until he gurgled. Dad then said, See he’s not dead.

He was a wise man. There was sadness to his wisdom. He would sometimes say that he knew a lot of trouble in his life, and somehow THAT made him wise!

Dad was a comedian, always telling us jokes. This was a way of coping.

He went from rags to riches to rags. He hit rock bottom and lost everything again. He was a good man and a good Dad but substances destroyed him and ultimately killed him. He was a functional addict for years. He hit rock bottom after leaving the club.

Everyone gave up on him but me.

I haven’t been the same since my Dad’s gone." ²

Biker Nicknames

I was known as Don, Donny came many years later. I might as well get this out of the way now. I invented my name change to Donny to get rid of a dumb nickname, I garnered in the beginning. I, nor the others thought these nicknames dumb at the time, we thought them as part of the biker trip, and indeed they were.

Dirty

My first biker nickname was Dirty. It was cool to be dirty back then. In our world, high fashion was greasy, long hair, dirt ground in to our calloused hands, blackened, torn fingernails, and oil soaked jeans. We were very busy at being different. So, Dirty was a cool name and appropriate for me at the time.

Unfortunately, when I joined the PDRs, there was a member, some called Clean Cut. He had this name because he was the one exception in that he was clean, washed his clothes, and had short hair. However, he had a second nickname that many preferred to call him and that was Dirty. Why call Clean Cut, Dirty when he was not dirty at all? Biker nicknames sometimes rhymed or had a ring to it like Marvelous Marvin or Filthy Phil. Sometimes, they accurately depicted a particular biker like Terrible Terry, Barf, or Pigpen; other times they described the opposite.

Two brothers could not have the same name. This was against biker etiquette. I had to drop Dirty as my name. It wasn’t up to me anyway. Brothers did not refer to me by that name. Therefore, it ceased to exist.

A member rarely gets a chance to choose his biker tag. In most cases, other brothers will assign a name. Many times the brother will not like his new name but that is the way it is. He will be stuck with it, in most cases, forever. He may get a name he hates.

Tramp

My brother Tramp loved dispensing nicknames. Tramp was, well a tramp. He never washed. He was very dirty; he stunk. His lack of cleanliness always caused grief with his old lady. She would insist he have a bath and wash his hair before she would have sex with him. He would resist as long as he could but the desire for sex eventually and always won out. I began to understand why he evolved into the persona of a tramp. Tramp had blond hair with a youthful look. If dirty and smelling, with his foul mouth, people did not get past these characteristics. When he washed and had clean, combed hair, he looked like a nice, young man, almost a fresh-faced choir boy. I am sure his old lady did the scrubbing because he sparkled when done. Everyone knew when Tramp got laid.

One time, when we were on a club run, Tramp wiped out. An ambulance took him to the hospital. The clean sheets in the ambulance were anything but when arriving at the hospital. In the emergency room, his offensive odor began to permeate the otherwise clean air. A nurse went into his curtained section to remove his boots, socks, and blue jeans that were no longer blue. The nurse exited within seconds, gagging uncontrollably. Two more nurses went in. They two came close to vomiting. They came to us and said we had to remove his clothes as they could not handle the stench. We went in. One boot was off. I too felt like puking. We managed to get the other boot off but now the smell was too much for us also. It is good his injuries were not serious. We all wound up leaving without Tramp getting proper treatment. We never criticized his old lady after that as we now understood.

Now, back to nicknames; Tramp always chose the most outrageous, offensive, antiestablishment names possible for new members without a suitable moniker.

Sleeze

We were sitting around drinking beer, which we always did. Tramp started to say I needed a new name. Unknown to me, he had already picked it out. He begins a rambling speech, full of contradictions that did not make much sense. I began to realize that there was an ending. Finally, he said something to the effect, You are too honest to be a biker. It mattered not that honesty with 1% brothers was of paramount importance. You are too nice, too straight, use fifty dollar words, and you actually work, so your name is Sleeze. He started calling me this around the club and everyone picked it up. I had no choice although I was flattered at the time. I guess it made me feel like I fit in.

Why did I dislike Sleeze? I began to realize that a nickname could heavily influence peoples perceptions of me, whether true or not. In this case, tags like Marvelous had a beneficial and positive effect. Sleeze had the opposite result. New people would assume I was sleazy. It was always an uphill battle to get them to realize it was the opposite of me and not my true personality. After I started my bike shop, Mr Transmission, which was another name I garnered along the way, was a great name for business. How do you think a citizen felt leaving their prized possession to a guy named Sleeze?

I began referring to myself as Donny. I refused to answer to Sleeze. If people wanted to talk to me, they would have to use Donny or I would ignore them. After a year or so, my name evolved into Donny.

Even Mr. Transmission, although complimentary to my skill set, was somewhat limiting in my business, as customers would sometimes ask who I would recommend to build their motors.

Today, the older club members try to get under my skin by telling new members what my nickname had been. They delight in calling me Sleeze in front of new guys. Any perceived weakness will be exploited around a bike club either for profit or harmless fun.

Big D

In following years, after I became a heavy weightlifter, I was indeed big. However, in the biker world, there are some much bigger people. Every time, I think I have seen the biggest person I have ever seen, in walks a bigger biker, turning sideways and bending to get through a door.

Brothers and others started calling me Big D. This is a flattering name but hardly appropriate considering the size of some other bikers. I delegated my nickname to the real Big D, Daryl, a 400 pound behemoth, and Middle D to another member that was two inches taller than me and a 100 pounds heavier.

I refer to myself as Little D. I think this appropriate as height lessens with age and thirty years of heavy squats with three plates-and-more. Furthermore, I purposely lost fifty pounds so I could try to learn boxing.

Some still call me Big D but I do not encourage it and many times correct by saying, You mean Little D.

However, Donny is the name most know me by.

The Real Big D (formerly, God, Godzilla, Chickenhead, and D)

A long standing member brought his nephew down to the clubhouse. We would have laughed at this guy if we saw him on the street. However, we showed respect because of who his uncle was.

The uncle told us that his nephew, Daryl was the King of the Punk Rockers. His street name was Godzilla that soon shortened to God. His huge presence was formidable. God lived in a squat in an abandoned textile building near Spadina Ave. as did most of the punk rockers. They took it a step further and slept in cages. God and his punk music band were famous in their world. Daryl had huge influence and a big following in this milieu. So, we became more interested as Daryl had swing. The punk movement was one we had not explored until this time.

Some of the PDR members started hanging out at the squat to learn more and see what was up. These people were more alienated from the straights than us.

Godzilla had his head shaved, except for the center. The center hair Mohawk was up to twelve inches long, spiked straight up with hair spray, or whatever they used for this. The spikes were dyed green. Add this to punk rock attire, with chains and big safety pins with Daryl’s size at about 6’ 5" and minimum 400 pounds. I say minimum because he never admitted to more but we all thought it had to be more, much more.

His uncle broached some subjects delicately since some punk rock vernacular conflicted with ours. He kept calling his nephew by his given name, Daryl. We grew suspicious. He must have another name he went by. One of the members asked point blank. The answer was Godzilla. The member thought Chickenhead more suitable. Finally, a brother laid it down, Lose the hair. The name Chickenhead gradually evaporated, once Daryl looked more normal to us.

The next controversial subject was more sensitive. Daryl’s band had reached some success. It was called the BFG’s. So far, so good until a bro asked what the letters stood for.

We were floored by the answer, which was The Bunch of Fuckin’ Goofs. This was and is inappropriate in the extreme as goof is the worst word in biker or prison lexicon. People have killed over the use of this word.

Daryl quit the BFG’s to become a PDR. This was a big choice because the BFG’s were world renowned and continued to be into the 2000s. After D left the BFG’s, he hated being called Godzilla. If not knowing this, and calling him Godzilla, a smack from the big man would be forthcoming.

Daryl became a proud PDR in 1990.

After leaving the BFG’s, he and another bro, Psycho Dave formed the band Elvis Manson, in the early 1990s and later Brass Knuckle Therapy (BKT). They loved their music. However, Elvis Manson was also a fuck you to all the hair metal bands and cover acts. Why? They were always trying to steal the strippers away from Psycho and Big D. As Psycho now says, We both had much influence on how the Toronto rock scene changed in the 90s. More venues would hire original acts because we would fill the place with women, good rock and roll, and a hint of violence … Daryl’s music with the BFG’s was some of Toronto’s earliest hard core punk, very rare and special to some. His stuff with Manson and BKT is legendary and people were always in awe of his finger speed and dexterity for such a big man. 3

I never thought much about my liking Daryl. He was there. We butted heads occasionally. I learned the hard way that I liked him far more than I thought.

We were riding up north a few years ago. As the pack was leaving, Daryl smiled at me and said, I’ll be along and catch the pack in about twenty minutes. Cool, said I. We rode off. Daryl could make his bike move. He found two slower, riding brothers on the road. They were catching up, when a pickup pulled onto the highway. Daryl had nowhere to go as his hard braking put his bike into a fatal slide. Daryl bled out in the arms of a bro.

Big D was loved by so many. He always had time to talk to all those that came around. He made street people feel special. Many BFG’s and their following attended Big D’s last ride. We rode hundreds strong. We all took turns at the shovels. We bury our own.

Psycho Dave

Psycho’s name is well deserved. He is mostly fun in a psycho sort of a way. He has a great fit in the club, which tolerates his craziness, for he follows the 1%er code and brotherhood ideals.

Many feel that the membership gives to the club only but the club gives much back.

When I was asking Psycho if it was okay to print his thoughts on Big D, he came up with a few more comments that explain a lot about our lifestyle.

Psycho remarks, We have come on a long strange journey ... Daryl, and I used to say that we were lucky to have found the club, and its rules or we would probably be dead or in prison, it gave us pride to live by the code ... and kept us alive.

He continues, Most of the people we knew became junkies and crackheads, the club gave us responsibility and structure, we partied like rockstars but still managed to keep the 1% code ... well most of the time. ⁴

Donny says, The club has an effective, wonderful way of redirecting an errant member’s indiscretions back into our common flow.

We know if a member’s heart is where it must be.

If so, we forgive much.

If not, we forgive little.

We all fuck up at some point. No one is immune. The club is expert at slow, mental torture to redirect a fuckup. We call it humbilizing. It is necessary for the member to have an unpleasant memory when committing an indiscretion, to think twice before a repeat performance.

The not so Toughest Punk in Town

The exuberance of youth leads to many bad decisions. Like any punk, I was not immune to delusional thinking. However, I paid dearly for my errors in judgement. I have always been very good at learning my lessons the hard way.

I never thought I would refer to myself as a punk. Writing this book has made me reflect. I might have thought I was everything and then some but I was wrong. A teenage punk is a punk is a punk.

I started life in the schoolyard getting beat up all the time. I never won. As I became a teenager, I began to do better. At first, I held my own, then noticed that the bullies were not picking on me much anymore. I cannot remember any one fight that led to my dominance because there probably was not one. Looking back, I think it was more of a change in attitude not fighting ability that carried me out from victimization.

My foolish mind began to think that because I was one of the toughest in a small group of friends that this would extrapolate far and wide. When I began to venture not that far nor that wide, I learned some realities of life.

The foremost lesson is that it matters not your prowess when in another’s hood. By this, I mean that every area has its tough guys. You are very alone when venturing outwards with a bad attitude as street fighting is rarely one-on-one.

We were romantics. We romanticized our otherwise dull lives hanging around a park and later, the local pool hall into adventuresome escapades. Fighting was aggrandized. We talked about it far more than ever doing it.

When we were sixteen to about nineteen years old, we would pile into somebody’s car and head to American border towns like Niagara Falls or Buffalo. We went because the drinking age was lower. The bars were lax in checking age identification and the alcohol was much less expensive than Canada. We referred to the beer as piss water because it had slightly lower alcohol content than Canada. We mistakenly and repeatedly thought it impossible to get drunk on it. We were very wrong. We got stupid drunk and found ourselves in all kinds of trouble. It was our fault every time.

The American bar owners tolerated our stupidity to a point. I now realize that when we started acting like idiots, they also tolerated others, whether they be Americans or fellow Canadians punching our lights out.

Getting My First Lesson

I cannot remember what started the fight but the fault was probably ours. Perhaps, fight is the wrong word. I must have been out like a light, lying on the street, while sustaining many dozens of boots to the head. I only remember snippets of the beating. I was getting hit and kicked all over but the ones to the head are what I vividly recall. I was probably in-and-out of consciousness. These types of beatings only end if police arrive or the beaters get tired. The one emotion that pervades is fear; fear of dying from the kicking hurts much more than the kicks.

The police did not show up.

I am not sure how I got to my feet but remember stumbling and running a block or two to our car. Arnie was inside, passed out, with the doors locked. I started banging on the car and yelling for him to awaken.

Across the street, a shopkeeper was locking up his store. The little old man with a very big German Shepherd attack dog watched my antics. He was tired of drunk Canadians in his neighborhood. He unleashed his dog on me. I was helpless as the Shepherd bit me multiple times at will, quickly putting me on the pavement again. This was the second time I was having to endure the pain, albeit a different type. The little old man finally called off his dog, leashed him, and walked away with me lying on the ground nursing my puncture wounds. Arnie slept through the whole ordeal. He was the lucky one that night.

A paddy wagon with two cops in it rolled up as I stumbled to my feet. They simply looked and slowly drove on.

Later, I found out that they had arrested another of the guys, Jake. He did not fare well either. He was in the back of the wagon. He was also involved in a fight. However, the police in the paddy wagon arrived and set their dogs, two German Shepherds, on Jake and quickly subdued him after he sustained his share of bites. They threw Jake into the pitch dark wagon with the two dogs. He was terrorized, lying motionless with the dogs snarling, dripping fangs, ever-ready above his face. The cops let him go after they finished their rounds. Jake was scared sober. These cops were expert at taking the drunk stupidity out of fuck-ups.

Can I Beat a Whole Motorcycle Club?

The obvious and short answer is no.

Bike clubs often complain that they do not start fights. I too, as a now-member observe this fact. This is not to say that we sometimes initiate aggressive action but many times it is citizens antagonizing us. Why, I am not sure, but the following story is about me starting a fight with a whole bike club called The Animals MC in a bar in Buffalo, New York. This was long before, I had any interest in motorcycles or had any inclination that I would eventually join a club.

Therefore, I have seen this phenomenon from both sides.

We wound up in a low-life bar and began our ritual drinking. After a while, bikes began pulling up and a bike club started to file in. I had never seen a real bike club. They came in all shapes and sizes, some very big. They were minding their own business while socializing with each other.

I am not sure why I became offended; the word punk, now comes to mind. Maybe I sensed they were content with themselves. Maybe their power bothered me. I do not know why, except possibly, my immaturity.

I was staring in a not-so friendly way.

When they could no longer ignore the idiot who could not possibly win, the Sergeant at Arms walked up to me. I did not know what this title meant but he had a patch declaring this on his colors. He was a 300 pounder for sure and taller than me. He asked if I had a problem. I sucker punched him in the … actually, I have no idea where I hit him as an onslaught began as my punch was landing. I was on the