Posted by Norm Joseph – RSMC Member
since 1991.
Posted by Norm Joseph – RSMC Member
since 1991.
His
face, a mustache and a lot of hard miles, crinkles like finely worked copper
into a big smile. His black hair, woven with occasional strands of gray, is
pulled back into a pony- tail, and a single gold earring gleams dully in the
gray light of a cloudy fall afternoon as you pull him another draft from one of
five huge kegs of Miller High Life that stand against the tree line next to a
40-galIon pot of simmering chili beans. The
crisp mountain air is redolent with the aroma of savory sirloin steaks spread
sizzling across a broad grill. "So how many beers you had?" you ask by
way of conversation and to ascertain whether he speaks English. "Oh, one,
two, three, eleven! ' , he says, beaming, cackling at his own joke and stomping
around in his thick motorcycle boots in the mud that has formed around the kegs.
Communication is established.
The back of his sleeveless denim jacket flaunts the
colors of the "Rising Sons Motor Cycle Club," identifies his home turf
as "Yokohama" and, of course, bears the ubiquitous emblem of
Harley-Davidson, the machine of choice at this party. He gestures freely with a
thick, sinewy arm around the large clearing in the tent-sprinkled forest at Camp
Ta- ma, a U.S. military recreational area in Kanagawa Prefecture, where about
150 gleaming Harleys line the periphery, a bonfire burns in the center and the
Rolling Stones "Memo from Turner" blasts through massive amplifiers
while one of two live rock'n'roll bands un- loads at the far end.
"This," he says, gesturing grandly and generously, "is my dream.
This has always been my dream! Harley-Davidson is No.1, like riding a wild
horse! Like a woman!" Then he wanders off into the milling crowd, looking
for adventure. Born to be wild. But also the owner of two motor- cycle shops.
And he was right, the scene is dream-like. It is the weekend of the twice-annual
Camp Tama run of the Rising Sons M.C., and there is more the atmosphere of a
laid-back happening from 1960s California than of straight-laced, economic
power- house Japan in the 1990s.
The president of this bunch
is a chunky, personable man of 50 named Dave Uland, who hails from Oregon by way
of Washington state. One of the men who founded the Sons, in 1987, Dave stands
bear-like, a paw on his sparkling Harley, wearing jeans, boots, a Harley cap and
a black-leather vest that reveals his ample and hairy girth. Formal dress is not
required at this blow-out, and you are somewhat relieved to discover that it is
nearly
impossible
to be either over- or under-dressed.
A guy named Rocky, with shoulder-length hair, a leopard-skin T -shirt and black-leather, fringed chaps, moseys by as if to reinforce this sudden illumination. Dave is talking about the club membership, which he says now stands at somewhere between 170 and 200, with new prospects showing up at each bimonthly meeting and creating a pattern of steady growth. "There's only one criteria for membership," he is saying. "You must own a Harley-Davidson motor- cycle and like to ride." Dave, a senior civilian employee. at a U.S. Military supply depot. rode Harleys in the States and brought the lifestyle along with him. "Ride to live, live to ride," one of the many T-shirt, tattoo and bumper sticker aphorisms common around here say. They might well be applied to him personally. "The main thing is that we love to ride," Dave says smoothly and articulately. "That was what got us together to begin with. It all started, as many things do, one night over a glass of beer with our Japanese friends. We had a common bond - to go out and tour Japan together. Then we began a program of benefit runs. Now we have an orphanage in Kinugasa that we support." Most of the proceeds from this party will go to that, Dave says, looking around at his hulking buddies with a twinkle in his eye. "I say most of the proceeds," he adds, "because we keep enough for the next party coming around! This draws good-natured laughs and guffaws. "Yeah, we have a Christmas party and turkey dinner at the orphanage, take the kids for rides on our bikes and give 'em gifts. .." “There was this one little girl up there," says Mike, a grizzled sailor who plans to retire in the near future somewhere in Asia with his Filipino wife, "who was about 7 or 8, and I couldn't get her off the bike! She just loved it!" The original Rising Sons are from Yokosuka, but now there are chapters also in Sasebo, Iwakuni, Atsugi, Yokohama, Kyoto and Nagoya. A cheer rises from the crowd as another group wheels in Harleys roaring and growling, and vibrating the earth beneath your feet, glistening as they are parked in a neat row and their riders disembark. Someone says it is the Kyoto group, and Dave leaves to officially greet them with bear hugs, beer and warm salutations. It's not a motorcycle. It's a way of life.
Later, after more greetings and refreshment, Dave
waxes rather philosophically about the international bond that exists between
people who own and ride a certain brand of motorcycle. "A Harley rider
," he says, "is a Harley rider, no matter where you go in the world.
.. You go to Germany, Sweden they
are the same people. You're kind of welcomed
like a family member. It's a
strange phenomena."
Mike chimes in: ..Like now, we've got an American president and a Japanese vice president. When Dave speaks at a meeting, for those Japanese who don't speak English, the vice president will translate, and vice versa, so that everyone knows what's going on. If we have a vote on something, everyone knows and everyone votes."
The
ratio of club membership is about 75 percent Japanese and 25 percent Americans.
The prime criteria -ownership of a Harley -is not that easily met. Predictably,
several Harley dealers were in attendance at Camp Tama, both Japanese and
American, and while military personnel can get a small price break, it is not
significant. The bottom line is that a new or used Harley-Davidson will cost
somewhere between Y1 million and Y3 million.
One
dealer named Tron, a big, affable gent who looked like he might have run about
130 kg of gristle, volunteered cheerily that the top end of the Harley price
range was "unlimited." Tron also says that he sells, about 10 bikes a
month, and, during good months, has moved 15 or 16. There is a considerable
financial commitment involved in being a Rising 'Son.
There
are a number of Harley dealerships in the Kanto area. Generally, however, parts
must be ordered from the United States, although most riders claim that is not
a disadvantage in the modern world of the fax and air freight overnight
delivery. Part of the charm of Harleys, in fact, is the flexibility of being
able to interchange parts from different years makes and models, which is
generally impossible with other brands of motorcycles.
A
Harley dealer from New York named
John says, "Let me show you a bike with real character!" and offers a
nearly-full bottle of Jack Daniels on the trek across the clearing to a
low-slung bike with no chrome, and which is painted entirely black. "Now
look at these forks. These are vintage 1948. And this seat is custom." He
pushes it with his fingers. ' , And look at the electrical system! ' , John
opens a black-leather pouch with a battery and wires stowed in- side. " And
best of all a snake skin gas cap!" , The builder and owner, a guy in a
camouflage hat from Nagoya, beams and says, "Thank you, thank you!"
The pride of ownership. The Rising Sons' logo, which was designed by a Japanese
artist and is worn on each member's back, shows a stylized version of the
Japanese rising sun with seven spears of flame. Dave points out that these
represent the 7th Fleet, which is headquartered in Yokosuka. The theme of
brotherhood is ever present. Beneath
the Rising Sons logo are the words, "Never Alone," the truth to which
each member will testify -with a story of breaking down on a lonely road at some
weird hour of the night, and calling a brother rider for aid. Rising Sons seem
to delight in the accusation of being either a henna nihonjin or a henna gaijin
(strange Japanese or strange foreigner) , with the supreme tribute being the
prefix of ichiban (No.1) before either .
"Being
a Rising Son," says J.D., a , civilian aircraft mechanic at Atsugi E Naval
Air Station and president of the
Atsugi chapter, "means you can call at any time of day or night, and t it's
OK. You'll be helped because you're a brother."
The
club has even released a video, which is sold at the better Harley 4 dealerships
throughout Japan. It is I entitled, "Never Alone." The cover photo
features a beautiful red and chrome cycle on which is draped a gorgeous, young
Japanese Brazilian woman named Luela, wearing brief leather shorts that reveal a
green dragon tattooed around her upper thigh. The surprisingly sophisticated
video opens with a guitar riff (original music, produced by the aforementioned,
leopard-shirted Rocky), that is reminiscent of the old rock group, Steppenwolf.
The video includes vignettes of last spring's Tama run, a Yokosuka meeting shot
in atmospheric black- and-white, and the quite emotional greeting by the club
this summer of some of its members when they re- turned from the Gulf war on
board the carrier Midway.
The
difference between this group and Stateside "outlaw" bikers who are
often on the criminal fringe, Dave says, is that the Rising Sons are basically a
bunch of guys who enjoy the freedom of riding, of having a good party and of
being together. To once again raise an analogy from the 1960s, the Rising Sons
aren't the "Hell's Angels on Wheels" of bad-guy biker flicks. Rather,
they seem cut from the earlier, more wholesome cloth of Captain America and
Billy searching the byways of the nation in "Easy Rider."
While you probably would not mistake these guys for
the sensitive, "soft males" of the 1980s, you might recognize in them
elements from Robert Bly's novel of the 1990s, "Iron John," the fable
of rediscovered "good" masculinity. And while you could most likely
gamble that very few of the Rising Sons have ever read Walt Whitman's poetry,
his psychological vision of the open road might seem oddly familiar to them if
they had. Most of the Sons are hard-working men who play just as hard in their
own -somewhat unusual -manner. Makoto "Mac" Matsushita, a Yokosuka
member, is a well- dressed sales representative for a multinational company
during the week, and a Harley rider in hi: spare time, a common pattern in the
club. Another man, also named Mike, is a naval lieutenant who was looking for a
way to explore Japan: and meet interesting people. Voila !
Occasionally,
when the Rising Sons ride together in a pack, J.D. admits, they get some strange
looks from the local folks, and sometimes people are even afraid of them.
"One time last winter," the Arkansas-born rider drawls, "we were
ridding in the mountains and boy was it cold! We stopped at this noodle shop and
this little old lady wasn't goanna let us in. But when she saw that we .were
cold, she said we could come in .or five minutes to warm up. So we started
joking with her and cuttin up, and we were in there for at least five hours. She
wouldn't let us leave!"
As
the afternoon rolls on, J.D. has a club member who is a tattoo artist
permanently imprint a golden eagles head on his big meaty arm, and shows it off,
gingerly removing bandage. The tattooer then sets work on Seiji, an import
company ice president who wears a straw cowboy hat and shades, and who says with
a grin, "It don't hurt. Feels like mosquito! Ha, Ha! " and has another
drink. "
The beer helps," Dave says, ughing.
When the work is complete, Seiji
proudly shows off the Rising Sons' club emblem, with the motto,
"Never Alone," and under that, "For Luela," who is Seiji's
wife. On his Colors is sewn a Brazilian flag, as well as Japanese and American
ones. Seiji rubs the fresh tattoo. Wish my arm wasn't so skinny!" says.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
As the sun sinks and the woods darken, the bonfire
flames higher and the numerous children who have come with their parents begin roast marshmallows. More
bikers are
arriving in small groups from over Japan. Then the band plugs in and booms out
an old Buddy Holly rocker, and
before long, everybody is dancing, silhouetted by the casting crazy shadows through trees.
Special
Thanks to RSMC Member Rover Mac who provided this article for posting to this
website.
