Free Under and Alone by William Queen

my bike, grabbed my helmet off the mirror, put it on, and mounted up all in one motion. I gave the kickstand a nudge with my boot. The blast from my pipes matched those of the pack, and with a roar like that of a squadron of F/A-18s, we were off. The pack moved in unison, and as a lowly hang-around, I assumed my position at the rear, sucking up the requisite amount of burnt motorcycle oil and exhaust. Every now and then I would have to duck out of the way of mirrors and other motorcycle parts that flew off the bikes ahead of me.
    I was awed by their stunning display. We made our way across Los Angeles to a cemetery on the southeast side of town, where we met up with what seemed to be the entire Mongol Nation. As we parked amid the rows of bikes, other Mongols welcomed our pack with the traditional loud-clapping Mongol handshakes as well as hugs and kisses. To outsiders, Mongols are as deadly as a pride of lions, but among themselves, they can be remarkably loyal, kind, and affectionate.
    After the greetings, everyone moved toward a particular gravesite. They surrounded the headstone of a fallen brother who’d been killed two decades earlier during the original war with the Hells Angels, and with reverence, the Mongols’ national vice president conducted roll call for the members of Chapter 13—the brothers who have died and whose memory is revered by club members. Strict military-style decorum was maintained until the ceremony concluded. As a Vietnam vet, I was moved by the respect and sincerity shown by these wild-haired, tattooed, knife-scarred men. The silence was broken when a solitary Mongol screamed: “Who are we?”
    Everyone responded with the Mongol fight song:

    We are Mongol raiders
    We’re raiders of the night
    We’re dirty sons of bitches
    We’d rather fuck and fight
—HOOAH!
    We castrate the sheriffs with a dirty piece of glass
    And shove our rusty buck knives up their fuckin’ ass
—HOOAH!
    Hidy—hidy—Christ Almighty
    Who the fuck are we?
    Shit—Fuck—Cunt—Suck—
Mongols M.C.
—HOOAH!

    The memorial ceremony broke up and the Mongol Nation erupted in a frenzy of life. We were headed to Simi Valley for a massive party weekend. Directions were handed out only when Mongols were mounting their bikes. Ever vigilant of being tailed by the law, the Mongol leadership had decided that no one was allowed to know the run’s destination prior to this moment. And who but an overeager cop would want to crash a Mongol party?
    “Fire ’em up!”
    And there was a thunderous roar of Harleys—Panheads, Shovelheads, Evos, Softails, FLHTCs, and so on—as we began to roll out of the cemetery. More than 150 bikes formed into ranks, winding through the streets of Los Angeles like a great anaconda. Under Red Dog’s direction, the sergeants at arms from the various chapters blatantly blocked intersections like rent-a-cops as the procession moved through the city. With impunity we blew right past real cops—stunned LAPD officers, overwhelmed California Highway Patrolmen—as well as red lights, stop signs, speed limits. No law had any bearing on this outlaw army. As we rode through one intersection after another at breakneck speed I realized that the Mongol Nation—like those shrieking warriors on horseback terrorizing the known world under Genghis Khan—were in absolute control of any territory they occupied.
    After a trek of some forty miles, the procession rolled into a campground on the west side of Simi Valley, an upscale bedroom community on the easternmost edge of Ventura County, at the border with Los Angeles. After such a well-orchestrated caravan from the cemetery to the campground, I expected something similar in the selection of camping areas. What actually took place, though, was a kind of Chinese fire drill. We rode around the area looking for what we felt would be a good area for the SFV Chapter to set up shop. Like a prognosticator with a divining rod, Domingo stopped and declared a specific