Ray Ray- Freedom on Two Wheels

The American persona has always been framed by the impulse to keep moving. During the early 20^th Century, personal transportation like cars and motorcycles became affordable and were integrated easily into a new recreational lifestyle.[1] The American Motorcyclist Association (AMA), established in 1924, was created in an effort to promote wholesome, mainstream values of exploring the expanse of the American landscape on two wheels and having fun. The AMA was the ‘establishment’ of American motorcycling.  But during the 1950s a ballooning youth demographic of teenagers was motivated by new subcultures: adrenaline-enriched options, Rock and Roll and dangerous Hot Rod and motorcycle cultures that rewrote what ‘fun’ meant.

In places like Southern California, the post-WWII industrial economy was expanding rapidly and family income surged. Teenagers had access to their parent’s unprecedented financial resources, which translated into purchasing motorcycles and used cars. In 1950 the U.S. median family income was $3,300 but this skyrocketed to $5620 by 1960. It was no coincidence that hot rodding and motorcycles took root in California. The state was a major hub for high-paying defense industry and manufacturing jobs.

Some say the iconic image of a young, masculine, fiercely independent and ‘testy’ motorcycle rider is related to the late 19^th century closure of the free-range West, and the end of the American cowboy era.  One cultural form of independent ramblers took up the mantle of the older version, with a new visceral intensity. The United States has been a nation for the young since its earliest days[2] but during the post WWII Baby Boom years (1946-1964) the youth demographic in places like California expanded and collided with novel cultural options.[3] Images of the Hollister Riot (1947) were horrifying for the over-40 crowd, but intriguing for younger people.  The media imagery became motivating social cues, and morphed into Brando’s character Johnny in ‘The Wild One’ (1953)[4] and later youth market drive-in movie features: The Wild Angels (1967), The Glory Stompers (1967), The Born Losers (1967) and finally, Dennis Hopper’s epic Easy Rider (1969)[5]. These films glamorized two-wheeled freedom, counter culturalism, customized velocity and danger. Across the globe, similar post-WWII youth-based rebellious motorcycle movements emerged in the UK (Ton-Up), Europe, and Japan (Bosozo-ku)[6] during the 1950s that each tweaked rebel identity to suit their national character.

The American Motorcycle Association denies ever making the legendary post-Hollister “1%” statement, but whatever its source, the phrase struck a deep, complicated Outlaw nerve.  The 1% banner gave legs to a nascent and evolving impulse for young motorcyclist and hot rodders, who challenged the status quo and pushed back hard against cultural expectations, in favor of doing their own thing. In post–World War II California and elsewhere, motorcycle ‘Outlaw Clubs’ coalesced around the 1% credo and spread the outlaw mystique. California motorcycle clubs like the Market Street Commandos, the Boozefighters, the Galloping Gooses, the Pissed Off Bastards of Bloomington and a few others caught the eye of the media, as well as state and federal law enforcement.  It also intrgued a lot of American youngsters who were attracted to the old outlaw archetype in a new form, many of whom decided the path of ‘wrong-doing’ made more sense to those left behind by increasing technological innovation and the need for a good education for economic advancement.

Ray Ray was born in 1948 at the close of WWII into a Brooklyn, New York that was no-fucking-joke working class rough and deeply Hubert Selby[7]. There were for-real guys on his block whom he idolized, who set the tone, riding big Harley Davidsons and controlling the streets with uncompromising, brutal panache. At seven or eight years old he rode around his neighborhood on the back of his idols’ fancy bikes, and the experience stuck with him indelibly. During his early adulthood, he made some bad moves and got locked up for serious time ‘Upstate’. His lengthy incarceration prodded him to value his personal independence and freedom, so even when asked, he never joined a 1% biker club. Ray Ray relates, “I was Upstate from like ‘71 to ‘80. That’s a long time, but that saved my life, bro. I was so fucked up in the street that I was going to end up the way all my friends did. They didn’t die of old age. I lived two lives. I got a good life now. I’m just chillin’.”

“When I was a kid I loved cars. My father used to take me to the New York Coliseum. I must have been eight or nine years old. Every year he bought me the book that showed you every car that was in there. The weight, the wheel base; you know, all that bullshit. I loved cars. That was my first love. I was six years old; I had a motorcycle jacket on; a motorcycle hat. You know… what kid don’t like motorcycles? This is ‘56 maybe. I grew up on a block where there were bookies who ran a candy store. Me and my friends used to rob the candy store. At night we’d take twenty dollars’ worth of quarters and go shoot pool in the pool room. But the guy who owned it and his friends are what I call knock around guys. They did crazy shit. They both had big fucking Harleys. I rode on ‘em with the guys. I’d jump on the back of the big fucking seats. They’d say, “Come on Ray!” I loved it man. I loved just the smell of it.

“I consider myself a street guy but I was a good guy. When I graduated high school I worked construction. Good money. I used to fix up my cars. Oh man, I had some bad cars. I had a ‘69 Thunderbird; I had a ‘77 Buick Regal. But see, I’d get a regular car and I’d make somethin’ look really fuckin’ nice. On my Regal I put gangster white walls; the real ones. This is over thirty years ago. You didn’t see fuckin’ cars with gangster white walls. I used to go out there every day with a fucking Brillo pad… They were the whitest white walls you’d ever want to see. I’m tellin’ ya. People used to, “Wow! Wow! Wow!” The car was black, it had a T top. You know, you take the glass off. It was a beautiful fucking car.”

“I didn’t do it but I grew up watchin’ street racing. I was too young. But on First Avenue and thirty Seventh Street every night they had fucking races. Guys used to come with their race cars on fucking flat beds. They’d race for registrations. The firemen used to come hose the street down so they wouldn’t race. As soon as it was dry… Wow! What a fuckin’ race track that was. I was like twelve years old but I loved that. That got me into the cars too. They were racing stock cars. Then you’d get cars that were souped-up. They’d race for each other’s cars; for registrations. Put up your registration. Whoever loses, loses their car. That’s some serious shit. If you lose, you give up your car. You back out of it you wind up gettin fuckin’ killed. There’d be more than a hundred people watchin’. You couldn’t get down the fuckin’ avenue. It was dangerous too. Whenever you’d fly down the street there’s always a hump. A guy got killed. The Corvette came off the ground, and when he was up he had turned the wheel, when he came down the car went ba-boom, knocked over the Johnny pumps. The motor came out of the car; the guy was dead. Then they really started breakin’ balls down there. I think that ended it; after that guy got killed.”

“First bike I bought I was eighteen. And I’ve had a bike ever since. It was a ‘69 Sportster. All stock. It was 1000cc’s. It was an Iron Head. All engraved. I did a ton of work on it. I’m not a mechanic, I’m lucky if I can change a spark plug. But I am into detail. I like to do spike nuts instead of acorns… The way I hook things up, people like it. It’s fucking dangerous riding around Manhattan. Especially the cabbies. All they want to do is race around and get the next fare on the corner. The pot holes, the traffic, the cops. You need to look around at ten different things before you pull out. It’s a challenge. I love it.”

“I changed a lot of things on the bike I got now. I had a three inch wide, 21 inches high tire on the front. Then I seen a bike like mine with a low sixteen inch tire and wide like the motorcycle cops. I liked the look of that. It’s a fat, heavier look. I changed it. I am always thinking about my bike. If I had a couple extra thousand dollars I’d have the bike stripped down. Whatever ain’t new on there, I’d make it new. I’d have a new wiring harness put on it. My bike is thirty-three years old. I got an electrical short now. I want to put my blue lights on and there’s a fucking short. It bothers me. Even if it’s the fucking day time and you don’t need the lights, it bothers me that the blue lights don’t work. I like my shit to be 100%. I get upset. Most definitely, besides my family that’s the only thing I think about and worry about. If I had a thousand dollars in my pocket and it was going to cost me one-thousand and two dollars to fix my bike and I was hungry; I’d borrow the two dollars and go hungry. It’s a passion. I’m fucking obsessed. When I ride around the city, my head’s that big.  I’ve been riding forty fucking years. A lot of people know me.”

“My bike was a twelve-hundred when it was built. Now it’s got a ninety-six inch stroker motor. You know the whole nine yards; high performance spark plugs, a new coil. You know, all the good shit. I’ve changed the paint job in the last twenty years maybe five times. Changed my tires, changed my rims. I’ve changed everything. You get tired of the old stuff. You want to be creative. I can change my bike every day. Whether it’s like changing’ the position of a skull that I put on the bike. Puttin’ another skull somewhere else where there was none. I just like being creative and doing my own shit like everyone else.  Everybody is the same way. No matter what bike you’re lookin’ at or who you’re talking to, everybody wants to do their own thing. And they think it’s cool and so do I.”

“Bikes can change you. I had a friend; he’s dead now. He was a super technical guy. He had a high tech job at a water plant. Nicest guy you could ever meet but when he was riding you could never see his teeth. No smiles. It was strange. On the bike he was Mr. Mad Man. Just a mean fuckin’ look. Off the bike he’d be smilin’. I ride around; I don’t smile at people because you gotta give these mother fuckers a mean look. They are two inches away from you. I look like, what the fuck you wanna go up my fuckin’ ass? One day goin’ along Fort Hamilton Parkway, the mother fucker behind me with his horn. I see the red light a couple hundred feet ahead so I go even slower. I get to the light; the bitch comes along side of me. It turned out to be a woman. So I’m lookin’. I say, “Open your window.” She cracks her window and I say, “If you were a guy, my bike would be off and I’d break your mother fucking face.” I said, “You got balls!” Know what she did? She closed her window and pulled away like I didn’t even say nothin’ to her. I’m lookin’ to go to blows with this guy and it’s an old lady. She looked at me and closed the window like nothing happened. I thought, you got balls lady. She blew my mind… I need a girl-friend like that.”

“I like goin’ fast. I don’t do it all the time but I do it when I know I’m on a familiar road. Where I don’t have to worry about holes. I don’t want to hit a hole doin’ ninety. I’ll pick a particular part of the parkway where I can go and get my shit off. Other than that I don’t mind just blastin’ around the streets.”

“When somethin’ happens to my bike, it’s my attitude. You can’t talk to me. My wife don’t even want to look at me. I’m a different guy. When my bike is down, I’m down. Don’t even say hello to me. Until my bike is fixed then I’m in a better mood. It could be the slightest thing but I won’t be able to sleep. I take it to that extreme. Look, I got a heart condition. If I don’t take my medication for my heart I say, I’ll take it tomorrow.” What’s the big deal? But if something’s wrong with my bike I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be calling people up tryin’ to fix it myself. I’m telling ya. It’s not just a passion but it’s somethin’ more. Somethin’ a lot more than passion. You have to find a new word for the feelings I get outta my bike. It ain’t even human. Can you dig that? I don’t have another feeling that can compare to that. My bike is a completely different thing. To me it’s the greatest feeling in the world. Can you understand that bro? It’s down to the point exactly where I want to get at. In my own mind I am talking to a higher authority when I’m on my bike. Definitely. Whether other people see it that way or not, I really don’t care. That feeling of passion but it’s a bigger word that I can’t explain. That’s the way it is.”

[1] See ‘A Girl and Her Scout- Josephine Vandell’. The Vintagent, McCabe, April 1, 2024.

[2]  The median age of the American population in 1776 was very young, likely in the late teens or early twenties, though precise historical data is scarce. The population was characterized by high birth rates and low life expectancy (around 35 years), meaning a large portion of the population was under the age of 18. While the average life expectancy was low, the average age of the signers of the Declaration of Independence was around 44, and a number of them were 35 or younger.

[3] The U.S. national median age in 1950 was about 30.2 years, but California’s median age was slightly lower, likely in the high 20s, and the national median age declined to 29.5 years by 1960.

[4] The wardrobe selections of both Bando’s black leather jacket and Marvin’s striped Breton sweater went a long way to produce ‘Biker’ cultural stereotype identities.

[5] The motorcycles used in Easy Rider – the Captain America and the Billy bike – were designed by Cliff Vaughs and built by Ben Hardy. Both were African American and at the time of the film’s release, were not properly credited and unfairly under emphasized.

[6] See New York City Bosozoku, The Vintagent, August 18, 2025, McCabe.

[7] Hubert Selby is known for his epic book, Last Exit to Brooklyn (1964) that graphically portrays life in the working class borough.