Hard riding

The
emcee has the audience going. But then again, it is a willing audience, already
charged. The 250-member crowd laughs easily, cheers easier, and talks back. At
one point he calls out, “All the females that ride raise your hand.” All the
women — just about half of the audience — raise an arm and cheer loudly.
“Oh,” he says, “they want me to clarify. All the females that really ride raise your hand.” And the
women are on their feet, roaring.

Nearly
50 motorcycle clubs were represented at the Clarion Riverside Hotel on Friday,
September 17. They came in from New Jersey, Chicago, Washington, DC, and New
York City. They came for the first Motorcycle Club All-Star Awards. It was
billed as a gala evening, meant to be the Oscars of the urban motorcycle world.

The
awards show is the brainchild of Nori Vazquez, aka Genie on a Throttle, a
Rochester rider with big dreams. While the show — the planning of which
consumed her life for the past six months — didn’t exactly meet her
expectations, people came. Diamond Cut Divas, Ground Assault, Curve Killaz,
Cuse Road Dawgs, Jer-Z Jewelz, Double Lyte Posse, Endless Curves, and dozens
more were there. Brown Suga, Slow Pain, Butta, Ninja, Snowball, Icey, Smoke,
D-Block — they were all there.

So
dinner didn’t get served, the music act didn’t show, and some people disagreed
with the winner selection — the riders were there, they flaunted their stuff
on a red carpet of sorts, and partied hard in the ROC. And if Vazquez has her
way, they’ll be back next year.

Last summer, Vazquez was
a member of Duce Duce Crew, one of about 12 clubs in Rochester’s urban
sport-bike community. These are mostly black clubs, riding sport bikes. Many of
the riders, at least in Rochester, are men, though more women are riding now,
too. Only a member for a few months, and still learning how to ride, Vazquez
started getting Duce Duce involved in community-service projects. Her focus was
— and still is — kids.

“The
first thing, when I got there,” she says, “I said, ‘Look, I’m not going to be
in an organization that isn’t charitable.’ So two weeks after I got with them
was our Duce Duce Day For Kids. I don’t want to be involved in an organization
that’s not going to give. I just think when you give it always comes back to
you.”

A
freelance artist, Vazquez got the riders over to James Madison School, took
pictures of the kids on the bikes, gave out free refreshments, and taught a
drawing workshop. She knew kids would love the bikes, that these riders —
hardworking black men — would be good role models. Some parents put up a
fuss, called the club a bunch of drug dealers, but the day was a success. And
Vazquez wasn’t going to stop there.

Last
summer, at a Duce Duce meeting at the Mighty Men of Valor room on Jay Street,
TNT plays an old movie on the TV and Vazquez tries to get the members excited
about fundraising activities so they can contribute to more community projects:
a mural at Baden Street for murder victims, care packages for troops overseas,
another kids day. Members are prodded to pay dues. As soon as they finish
business, they get to go out riding. The bikes are waiting outside.

A
year later, Vazquez is no longer a member of Duce Duce Crew. She’s on her own,
riding as Genie on a Throttle, still collaborating with Duce Duce and some of
the other motorcycle clubs for events. She has another kids’ day planned in
Genesee Valley Park, this time with some help from the city. And she is working
on another kind of event, an awards show, which is taking on a life of its own.
A rep from the Associated Press Sports Division wants to cover it. The urban
motorcycle media will be there. People are coming from all over. It’s going to
be something like nobody’s ever seen.

The black
bike-riding community, which a few years ago was a subculture in isolated cities, is now a
media-savvy national network.

“To
tell you the truth,” Vazquez says, “before last summer, there were probably
only about three sport-bike clubs. In the past two years, the clubs have, well,
they’ve just gotten unbelievable.” It was 2003 when the movie Biker Boyz came out, an action
blockbuster full of speed, noise, and stunts. It told the story of the
underground African-American motorcycle racing scene in Southern California,
and it launched the picture of a fringe group into the mainstream: a snapshot
of freedom and danger, of the ultimate cool.

These
days, all the rappers ride motorcycles. It’s the new bad thing to do. In Terror
Squad’s new song, “Lean Back,” Remy raps: “And I just bought a bike so I can
ride ’til I die / With a matchin’ jacket.” Many of the stars of the rap and
hip-hop worlds are riders in their free time, if not just in their videos.
Ludacris and Wyclef have both sponsored custom car and bike shows.

The
media industry has sprung up to serve the growing community of urban bikers:
The magazine UrbanCyclez was founded
in January 2003 with the slogan “more than a magazine, it’s a way of life.”
There are online zines and forums, many clubs have their own website, and
riders shout at each other on Internet bulletin boards from across the country.
There is a National Association of Black Bikers, aimed at promoting and
protecting the rights of black riders. The Black Urban Ryders Network (BURN)
lists more than 300 black motorcycle clubs nationwide. And those are only the
ones with websites.

At the
Rochester Motorcycle Coalition’s Labor Day Picnic in Genesee Valley Park, the seven
member clubs are represented, there are hots on the grill, and about a dozen
bikes are parked off to the side. Kids are running around, playing and vying
for a turn to sit on a bike.

RMC
member Robert Scott of the Tech Rydas is working the grill. He says the RMC was
founded to get the different clubs talking, to organize group events, and to
dispel the public idea that riders are thugs. Scott thinks the image of danger
around motorcycle riding is a misperception, one that has started to change
over the last five years. “That’s why we do stuff like this,” he says.
“Everybody has a job, this is not what we do for a living. Everybody has
families.”

Nori
tells me that the awards show is getting out of hand. She has been in the
hospital three times for stress. Her blood pressure is up. She isn’t getting
enough help and she is getting threats and nasty messages from some of the
clubs that weren’t nominated.

“I
had no idea they were taking it this seriously,” she says. “The reason why I
really have promoted and have done everything for this show [is because] it is
so huge for Rochester. With the public and the people coming in to the city
that won’t come in any other way, it’s opening a lot of doors. You go to other
cities — you go to Florida or South Carolina — and they’re pulling people from
Chicago and California.”

But
she is afraid of being sued, and she is talking to a lawyer.

Danger has a split
personality in this urban biker world. The danger of riding gives it street
cred. It’s what makes it real. People die riding motorcycles, and tributes to
fallen riders are a big deal. A member of the RMC died on West Ridge Road this
spring. All the local riders, regardless of club, came out to escort the
funeral procession. A brother had fallen; another solider was lost on the road.

But
at the same time, many clubs in Rochester are working to counteract the thug
image that comes with the bike. The RMC organizes family-friendly picnics.
Vazquez is talking with some other clubs about organizing another coalition,
one that is open to all races and is community focused — a sort of Rainbow
Coalition of bikers.

Vazquez
has found kindred spirits in some of the other Rochester clubs. NOYS (Nightmare
On Yo Street), according to its website, has adopted the mission of “keepin
today’s innercity youth off tha streets, off drugs, and out tha pen.” LadyMack,
president of Ghetto Superstarz, has started a kids’ group called the
Superstarz. In exchange for good grades, the kids get rewards like CDs.

Radija
Moxley is the treasurer of the MileStonez, a women’s motorcycle club. She’s
still in the process of getting a bike. Right now she’s getting her license,
and taking a safety class. “We got kids and stuff,” she says, “and we’re not
trying to kill ourselves. At least I’m not. It’s really nice, it’s fun, it’s just
something extracurricular. It’s not the basis of our lives.”

MileStonez
president Robin Solomon has had her license for three years. To her, the safest
place to be is hanging with the motorcycle clubs.

“Everybody
polices their own organization,” she says, “so there is no fights breaking out,
no violence, it feels better. I don’t mind bringing my son around them. I like
it mainly for that, because it’s a lot of people, but it’s safe.”

But
the misperception is still there. “I went to a club to see how much he would
charge us to have a party, he was like, ‘A motorcycle club? Umm…’ I said,
‘Each club polices its own members, there won’t be any fights breaking out, no
shootings, nothing like that.'”

At 5:30 p.m.
on the
day of the MC All-Star Awards, Vazquez is upstairs with one of the hotel
employees, almost in tears. The awards are supposed to start now, but many of
the clubs are still on the road, and the red carpet is just two maroon entrance
mats slapped down in the hallway. The only thing to do, she says, is pray.

But
people start to trickle in. They show up in jeans and warm-up suits, garment
bags over their arms. By 7 p.m., the hotel lobby is full of women in sequined
dresses and men in suits, fedoras, and shined shoes. A few clubs stay in their
colors. Some men wear their vests over their suit jackets. But tonight is not
so much about the bikes as it is about the bike lifestyle. Very few people rode
here.

And
though there’s a lot of talk about riding hard, riding real, and riding till
you die — nobody’s riding tonight. Here, right now, the bike is a state of
mind. And besides, tonight everyone is looking good. These clothes aren’t for
riding.

Some
people wander upstairs and take a turn on the red carpet, mugging and posing,
elbowing each other out of the way when someone pulls out a camera. Business
cards are exchanged; I’ll be putting these pictures on my website, everyone
says, be sure to check it out. Two men show up wearing matching black suits
with white pinstripes and fedoras; everyone goes wild. A crowd forms, laughing,
slapping their legs, and teasing. The men have to pose for pictures, and shake
hands. It’s all in fun.

Dirty Luke,
Sergeant in Arms for the Bushmen, and Soul Dawg, road captain for the Sunset Ryders, are
two of the sport’s old timers. Dirty Luke rides a 1000 Suzuki. “Love it,” he
says, “I named it my wife.” Soul Dawg rides a Honda Goldwing Cruiser.

Sitting
at the Labor Day Picnic sipping Bud Light out of cans, the pair is like a
couple of elder statesmen; everyone comes over to shake hands and say hello.
They’ve been on the road for 10 and 30 years respectively.

“You
get teased a lot. ‘You riding a crotch rocket. Why don’t you get you a
Harley?'” Dirty Luke says.

He
remembers getting harassed when he first started riding. “We had to go sit down
and have a meeting with Hell’s Angels and Iron Horseman when we started. They
thought we had their colors. So we had to go sit and talk to them, say ‘No, we
ain’t got your colors, our colors represent Africa.'”

Both
men wear their riding scars as proof of battle. Dirty Luke has nine pins in one
leg and a bone that still sticks out funny. Soul Dawg has broken his shoulder,
four ribs, his collarbone, and he was in a coma for three days.

But
these are marks from falling, not fighting. Soul Dawg talks about the code of
ethics within clubs. Every club has a set of bylaws and officers to enforce
them. Fighting is not allowed.

“If
we go someplace, and one of the club members acts up,” he says, “you can get
fined, you can get your patches taken away from you, depending on how bad the
infraction, and then you have to work back up, build yourself back, get your
colors up.”

He
agrees that riding is getting a lot more popular with young people in the black
community, and he thinks that’s a good thing.

But
“young people are so hard headed,” he says. “So hard headed. They’ve got these
crotch rockets and they want to do wheelies and burnouts and everything. See
that’s not right. We like to get out there, a group of us get out there and
just ride, ride from here to Buffalo, here to Syracuse, stay over there and
then ride on back.”

To
truly enjoy what he loves about riding, sometimes Soul Dawg will head out on
his own, to Florida, just to get away.

“I
just got up early Saturday morning, packed some clothes in there and just…”
he makes a motion with his hand like a bird, gliding.

When enough
people have arrived at the MC All-Stars, the red carpet starts in earnest, two hours
late. A line of people snakes down the hall, around the bank of escalators.
Someone is put in charge of the line, allowing people down the carpet alone, in
couples, or by club. Everyone gets to walk the eight feet of carpet, stop, and
strike a pose. Some flash their club signs. Someone from UrbanCyclez Magazine is there filming the whole thing for a DVD,
and a few random people are taking pictures. These are moments in the
spotlight, and everyone who wants one, gets one. After they give their tickets
they go through a security check before they can sit down.

In
the ballroom, the emcee calls out to each club in turn. When called, the club
stands, fists raised, and roars. Vazquez, who missed most of the red carpet,
reappears. She is up on stage most of the time, jumping in, laughing, waving to
people in the audience.

Awards
— glass triangles with “MC All-Star Awards” etched on them — are given for
best crew, best colors, best event, best president, best PR, best name, and a
dozen other categories. Rochester’s NOYS wins best colors for a male crew.

Winners,
in their acceptance speeches, testify to keeping it real, showing love, and
being a unified community. One winner gets up and announces, “To keep it
gangsta, we always on the highway.” More clapping, more cheering.

The
evening wraps up with a reading of, “When Tomorrow Starts Without Me,” a poem
off the Internet in honor of fallen riders.

Tomorrow
Vazquez will post extensive apologies and shout-outs on her website, thanking
everyone for their support even though some things went wrong. But for now it’s
OK: it’s on to the party and dancing. And then there’s the after-party.

Two days after the awards,
members of the Rochester Motorcycle Coalition performed the ARTWalk Alive!
finale, a motorcycle mambo choreographed by Thomas Warfield. If there could be
an opposite scene from the second floor of the Riverside Hotel on Friday, this
was it: a sedate, predominately white crowd, wrapped in corduroy and denim and
scarves, strolls East Avenue with red-cheeked toddlers in strollers and coffees
in hand. The organizers make sure everyone is off the street, and the crowd
waits eagerly, toes lined up against curbs. “How do they choreograph
motorcycles?” one woman asks, excited.

The
RMC riders ride out and circle around a group of mamboing dancers waving silk
scarves. Then the dancers move to the side, and the riders take turns screaming
down the street, popping wheelies and standing on their seats. The crowd oohs,
kids jump up and down. The riders assemble in the middle of the street and
start laying down rubber in circles, revving engines, and making their bikes
backfire. Clouds of smoke are spit onto the audience, and people back away,
waving at their faces, saying, “Oh my god.” Police officers run into the middle
of the dance before it’s over, telling the riders to walk their bikes until
they put on helmets.

But
it wasn’t all bad PR. One of a pair of little boys, walking behind an RMC
member in her colors said, “That thing with the motorcycles was cool.” She
turned around and looked at him sharply. “You like that?” He nodded. She nodded
back.

Yep,
the kids like it all right.

For
more information on Rochester’s bike clubs, visit these websites:
www.genieonathrottle.com, www.noys-mc.com, www.ghettosuperstarz.com. For
information on the national scene, see www.xtremeburn.com, urbancyclez.com, and
www.nabbweb.org.

This article appears in Sep 22-28, 2004.