About the oddest thing that happened to me involving bikes and clubs was my first day as a full patch member. It was almost my last day.

I had a rather short tenure in our local version as a "prospect," and I made full status on the first vote. This was 1969, and I found out that I was one of the club's first fifty members. I was issued a set of colors that were handmade by a little old lady in our president's neighborhood, and my rags look different from the machine made versions now.

For the entire day my girl friend hand stitched them to a brand new jean jacket, feverishly pushing a needle and thread painfully through both the patches and the denim fabric to make sure they would last the rigors of club life. I was stoked.

As is custom, we celebrated a new member at a local watering hole. I was student at that time, living in the rundown Mifflin/Bassett neighborhood. Fortunately, they chose a bar on State Street, within walking distance, or in this case, stumbling distance.

As we broke up for the evening, I meandered down a dark side street, and within eyesight of my apartment I heard a townie snarl, "Hey, Rider...!" Sounded like an out-and-out challenge. I turned and closed distance on the drunk, I had to defend my new, snow-white rags.

When I got face to face with the clown, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The first thing out of his mouth was, "Hey, I don't know you." My response was a blue-soaked invective. He put up his palms and pleaded that he knew our president. I responded that he ought to have his ass kicked for his attitude. He stumbled off, and I forgot the incident while stumbling home myself.

The following weekend I pulled up up in front of Joey's Anchor Inn for the ride, and our president came tearing up to meet me, and he was none too happy. I got my ass chewed out, but good.

During the tirade he yelled, "And why on earth would you threaten the guy who cuts my lawn?"

Clubs being what they were at that time I faced a good whoopping or the loss of my rags for disrespect to the president. And while not a good way to begin, I rode as a full member for five years. The night I went inactive, it was the same president who voted me my colors, which I still have--for all forty of these past years.