Hell’s Angels Brawl At Bike Week—Daytona Beach, Florida

It was a little over a week as I sat in the airport on board a plane that would take me away from the Northeast & # 39; hellish winter. Feelings of excitement crept up my spine, my body teeth with impatience. In a few hours, I will be lying on a beach in Florida, where the only thing that I will be studying anatomy and the woman is the drink menu at the helm. As we board the plane, the visions of the beach babies and rum coconut dance through my head. I turn to my travel buddy Jim, who is the king of music blaring from his helmet. In the light of words, I think I could make the heart pump words of Kelly Clarkson “Since You've Been Gone.” “Jesus man, what are you listening?” “Dude, I get pumped! “Has he yelled back. Different strokes for different people. All I know is that we were ready to cut loose.

Two hours later, the pilot came on the intercom voice, “In a few moments, we will land at Daytona Beach, Florida. The temperature is 83 degrees and sunny. Have a great spring break and enjoy bike week. “It was music to my ears. I did not know it was bike week, but the more the merrier, right? Jim and I approached the baggage carousel and is eagerly awaiting our luggage. As the red light started flashing and spinning motors on the conveyor rumbling started, we focused on the hole spitting out bags, knowing he was the last responsibility that we would have to deal with for the next six days.

Our bags plopped finally, we grabbed it immediately. Outside the terminal, we gathered with our taxi driver, a disheveled, haggard looking fellow named Gilberto. His face was topped by years in the sun, it could be an advertisement for sunscreen. This guy has a character and oh boy, did he have stories. He told us stories about girls, cyclists, crocodiles — everything you could imagine-it completely filled, but entertaining. He continued to feed us information ridiculous, and he knew we were eating. Thirty minutes, $ 26 dollars, and a few good laughs later, the good old Gil we dropped in the sea off Spray Motel. It was not the most beautiful housing, but it would be enough for the two guys on spring break.

Jim and I changed into our swimming trunks and click on the boulevard. We were new to the city and so we decided to consult a bar recommended that Gilberto called “The Oil Spill.” As we entered the bar, it seemed like the thing to a movie instantly the crowd silent. The music could have jumped. We raised the bar, ordered a drink and the crowd seemed to continue on their conversations and stories. What Gilberto forgot to mention is that the bar was a Hell's Angels drag. Jim and I caught like a sore thumb, to say the least. We relaxed and chatted about plans for the rest of the week, but grew nervous as we heard a great roar from outside. It seemed that 500 motorcycles were slowly around on our site.

That's why, when Jim and I knew we were in trouble. A scrawny man with long gray hair, and an even more goatee, looked out the window and shouted, “Banditos!” And with one word all motorcyclists jumped to his feet. Whether it is far too brutal to actually discuss, but there was a brawl. Fearing for life, Jim and I sat at the bar and the only thing we could; hide in the corner under a table until the bartender took us out through the back door. Apparently, an Angel stole a loading ramp of the Banditos, they did not take too kindly.

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