Sonny Barger

Deer carcasses exude an almost bovine smell, though muskier, almost a charred, burnt ash. I see the carcasses, usually, but not always. Sometimes the vehicles barreling across I-94 West hit them so hard they fly into the ditch. I smell them and I see the crows nearby. It's a bad day to be a deer near the highway here. Many have fallen, dozens, from the nearby Wisconsin woods. They are all fresh kills and this is a dangerous place for a motorcycle traveling at 75+ MPH, in the light, yet constant rain.

What if one of these kamikaze wood-rats decides to lunge in front of the speeding black bike? I need to be aware, both hands on the grips, hit the animal hard, try to run through it, like an NFL lineman chasing down a tailback. Head down, full bore. Hang on for the ride, hope that the bike stays upright and that I don't land on the road shoulder or ditch. If I'm not lucky, it would be a bad day for me as well. I wonder, briefly, what odor would be my decay? Adrenaline-infused, flop-sweat, the excrement from Noodles and Co.'s Wisconsin Mac and Cheese, the cheap smell of Travelodge soap-cake.

I'm heading towards Fargo, North Dakota, staying with the good friend of a great friend of mine, and I'm sofa surfing for the evening. When I think of Fargo, I think of the Coen brother's movie and I think of wood-chippers.

How deer carcasses and wood-chippers lead me to Sonny Barger, the famous - or infamous, depending on your point of view - founding member of the Oakland Hells Angels, I can't really say. But there it is: my mind wanders when I'm riding.

I've talked to Sonny three times, all inadvertently, twice at Arlen Ness's Victory/Indian dealership in Dublin, California, and once at the Corbin July 4th celebration in lieu of the original Hollister motorcycle rally. He's an old man now, has an entourage of Hells Angels protectors whenever he travels. He rides a Victory Cross Country, the same as mine. He said once that the fastest way to get killed on a motorcycle is to ride a black one. Mine's black. So is his.

He wouldn't remember me, of course, just another biker in the long list of bikers he's met over the years. The first time we talked he had just finished filming a season of Sons of Anarchy and he proceeded to tell me what happened in the coming season, not that I wanted to know. But I wasn't going to stop him. He went into details about a movie he made and was trying to get a distributor, Dead in 5 Heartbeats. The second time, he had ridden from Arizona where he now lives and decided to stop at Arlen's on the way to a rally somewhere. He had an iPod, one of the monster ones that holds entire catalogs of music; some musician, I can't remember who, had given him the entire collection of Hank Williams Sr.'s recordings mastered from the originals, the perks of being notorious, I guess.

July 2013, Sonny glad-handed at Corbin's, the motorcycle seat/parts dealer, to help with the signing of Phil Cross's book, and to meet with his admirers. I went up to him to shake his hand with my right and with my left hand, as I'm wont to do, I unconsciously grabbed his right tricep with my left hand. The reaction from his crew was swift and menacing. It could have been a bad day for me that day but I realized my mistake quickly and withdrew my left hand. Sonny didn't seem to even know that they were ready to do to me what the trailer-tractors do to the wayward deer along the highway. He just kept talking.

Later, Melissa had her picture taken with Sonny and he had one of his paws on her breast the whole time.

I didn't say a word.