Way back when, Mr. Hunter S. Thompson decided to tag along with the Hell's Angels for two years of unrefined grease and grime that, to this day, still live on in the folklore of his mysticism and genius insanity. They were modern outlaws with no sense of direction, and yet every sense of renegade style; the cowboys of the wild west coast, if you will, with nothing but their boots, fists and sense of wild adventure. Like them or not, they changed the course of the open road, taking the road less travelled only to leave it battered and bruised with a bloody smile.
California, Labor Day weekend...early, with ocean fog still in the streets, outlaw motorcyclists wearing chains, shades and greasy Levi's roll out from damp garages, all-night diners and cast-off one-night pads in Frisco, Hollywood, Berdoo, and East Oakland heading for the Monterey Peninsula, north of Big Sur...the menace is loose again, the Hell's Angels, the hundred-carat headline, running fast and loud on the early morning freeway, low in the saddle, nobody smiles, jamming crazy through traffic and ninety miles an hour down the center stripe, missing by inches...
- Hunter S. Thompson via Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga
[images via Aesthetes Anonymous]
