The sun never sets on a Hells Angels' patch.
You get to know them, they get to know you and see if they like you. Then they'll vote on you to become a prospect. You have to be sponsored by a Hells Angel.
So it just goes to show you that it was always the Hells Angels first. They were the originals and all other clubs try and imitate what the Hells Angels have already done.
There was no club but the Hells Angels as far as I was concerned.
I'm in California a lot; I go overseas sometimes and I meet more Hells Angels than other Angels do.
No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it off to forced conscious expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.
It was obvious that he was a man who marched through life to the rhythms of some drum I would never hear.
A man who has blown all his options can't afford the luxury of changing his ways. He has to capitalize on whatever he has left, and he can't afford to admit - no matter how often he's reminded of it - that every day of his life takes him farther and farther down a blind alley.
The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.
The highways are crowded with people who drive as if their sole purpose in getting behind the wheel is to avenge every wrong done them by man, beast or fate. The only thing that keeps them in line is their fear of death, jail and lawsuits.
The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.
There is not much mental distance between a feeling of having been screwed and the ethic of total retaliation, or at least the kind of random revenge that comes with outraging the public decency.
Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream
The Edge...There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others-the living-are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there.
If 'The Wild One' were filmed today, Marlon Brando and the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club would all have to wear helmets. I used to be afraid that when (Hells) Angels became movie stars and Cal the hero of the book, the bikerider would perish on the coffee tables of America. But now I think that this attention doesn't have the strength of reality of the people it aspires to know, and that as long as Harley-Davidsons are manufactured other bikeriders will appear, riding unknown and beautiful through Chicago, into the streets of Cicero.
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