Hells Angels and Harley-Davidsons

I spent quite a bit of time on school benches, but that is not the only place I received an education. I had just turned 18 when I left home for university and to be on my own. The scholarships and student loans I received each year were never enough to cover tuition fees, books, accommodation, and all the other usual expenditures. I, therefore, took any job that was offered to me and worked weekends and breaks during the school year and full-time during the summer months.

My first summer job was on the maintenance crew of a golf course. I would ride my bike a few kilometers to my boss’s place by 6:40 AM to get a ride with him to the golf course where work started at 7AM and ended at 5PM six days a week. It was hard work: cutting grass with a hand-pushed lawnmower, manicuring sand traps and greens, watering when necessary. Rain or blistering sunshine we would be at it all day with two short breaks morning and afternoon and a half-hour lunch. I still remember how heavy a roll of sod is when you are laying it in the pouring rain. That is the only job I was ever fired from. One morning, after almost a month of this regime, I was so tired that I overslept and did not make it on time to my boss’s place in the morning. When I phoned him to apologize, he fired me.  

I was out of work for only a few days when I was offered a position as a security guard at one of the municipal beaches in Hull. After the grueling pace of the previous month, this was like entering heaven after having spent the required time in purgatory: a 35-hour week, a much better hourly wage, days spent strolling on a beach filled with people in swimsuits – and, yes, I must admit that, for an eighteen-year-old, the scenery was quite interesting! Quiet days doing little when the beach was almost empty because the weather was a bit off and the crowds stayed away.

I remember the month I spent on this job being very uneventful except for two incidences. One day, I heard a commotion and a crowd gathering on the shore a few meters from the beach. A water-skier had hit a branch that was jutting out of the water with his leg and they were carrying him ashore. The branch was two inches thick and had gone through his leg and was embedded there. That is a scene I will never forget.  

The other memorable moment involved a biker. I was rather naïve at the time and knew nothing of the reputation of the Hells Angels. The beach area was off-limits to motorized vehicles and that included motorbikes. One gentleman drove his Harley-Davidson to the edge of the water and parked there. I felt it was time to finally earn my paycheck and went over to tell him that parking in that spot was not allowed, and he would have to move. He told me in no uncertain terms that he had no intention of doing that. My response was to advise him that if he did not leave, I would have to call the police. He grinned at me – not what you could call a friendly smile – and pointed to a police officer who was standing next to his own motorcycle a few hundred meters away in the parking lot. “Go right ahead!” he growled under his beard. I dutifully went over to the policeman who, I now have no doubt, had seen the offender, but had ignored him until he had no choice to address the matter because I intervened. He did go see my bearded friend, gave him a ticket, then left. I saw the motorcyclist get on his bike and turn it in my direction and start riding. He kept on accelerating as he got closer to me. Adrenaline flowed through my whole body because I thought he wanted to ram me. When he was close to me, he put out his cowboy-booted leg in my direction and attempted to hit me in the knees. He missed! There was a second security guard working with me that day. When he saw what had happened, he ran to the motorcyclist as he was turning around for a second attempt and wrestled him to the ground. I was amazed to hear some of the comments from people standing by watching the scene. They were accusing my rescuer of “Police brutality!”

The police were called once more and two of them took the Hells Angel gentleman away in a police cruiser. When I had calmed down, I looked at my leg, grateful it was still intact, but the rip in the pants reminded me how narrowly I had been spared. Municipal beaches are hazardous to your legs!

I was expecting to get a call to give a statement about what had happened, and, possibly to testify, but it never came. I spent the remaining time of that summer glancing sideways, half expecting a Harley-Davidson, with its motor roaring ominously, surging toward me at full speed. But, thankfully, that also never came.

That was the first of my summers working to pay for my studies.