Somehow he had become a part of the "apprentice" bikies. One group of bikers had called them the "milky bar kids" after the advertisement for chocolate and the fact that they hung out in milk bars rather than pubs. They became proud of the name. Too young to join the clubs they enjoyed a life of irresponsibility rebuilding and riding vintage motorcycles while they worked and partied hard.

 They didn't really want the clubs. It was motorcycles and camaraderie they loved.

Later he was to become a nominee for the Commancheros and during the birth period of the Bandidos all of the politics and unnecessary agro caused deep disillusionment and he left under a cloud. Lucky he did, a few years later the tension from the internal bullshit exploded in what became known as the Milperra Massacre. It was stupid and some good people died that day.

His best mate at school was the brother of the president of the Warlords who were a small motorcycle club in the leafy Hills District, NW of Sydney. He loved every minute he was allowed to share with them as they built their bikes 

The local townies and apprentice bikers had joined up to fight the skinhead and sharpie groups who were intruding from urban Hornsby and Parramatta into the suburban and rural Hills. Everyone was especially fired-up because of the civilian casualties these gangs were causing. They would cruise with five or six to a car, often in convoy. Sharpies came in both male and female and the females were often armed with razors so the victims were usually found injured and slashed. They had a reputation for not fighting unless they heavily out-numbered their opponents. They would hunt in packs around youth events, like rock concerts and dances, looking for vulnerable targets. The pack would disable a victim and the females would join-in, slashing or beating the then-defenceless victim brutally. The locals were determined to prevent them getting a hold and making their neighbourhoods dangerous.

One night his mate, himself and their girls wandered along a street near his home and came onto the main street of Castle Hill to see two people huddled on the sidewalk. A car raced off to the sound of cheering from within.

On the pavement were an aged couple who had been walking in the early summer evening. The car had contained half a dozen sharpies. They had restrained the woman while one of their number slashed at the man's face with a straight razor. The woman was in shock and just kept crying "they split his eyes!" The teenagers were in the process of comforting her and sending one of the girls off to the ambulance station in a nearby street when the car reappeared. They slowed down to check out their handiwork and both his mate and he exploded with rage and charged. The girls held the sobbing woman as she crouched over her husband and shielded the couple with their bodies in case there was shooting. Bloody wonderful girls!!

It became one of those moments that seem to run slowly and remain burned into your psyche forever. Having seen the two teenagers charging toward him the driver began to accelerate. His companions were howling for him to go faster. The teenager threw himself onto the front of the car and was roaring at them to stop and fight when a steel-capped boot glanced off his skull and filled the night with stars. His companion, Joe had lost himself in rage. He had landed on the hood of the car on his feet. Nothing mattered except kicking in the windscreen and getting at the animals within. He didn't see his friend at his feet, just a red-filled night of screams with enemies at the centre.

It was the girls and the woman who really made the deepest impression. In his ears as he clung to the hood was the voice of that poor woman moaning for god to stop them from hurting her husband anymore. The girls were shrieking at the guys in the car. Calling them cowards and telling them to fight someone who wasn't helpless. It was the first time he had heard so much pain and rage in the voice of someone he loved and it cut scars in his soul.

The car accelerated and Joe tumbled over the roof as he clung to the paint-work desperately trying to reach the passengers and make them fight. The girls screamed so hard that they had difficulty talking for several days. The car swerved and he was thrown about ten metres, slamming down hard and skidding along the road. If they hadn't been such cowards they could have had them then. Both guys were winded and down and out-numbered although those girls could, and would, fight. The car raced off into the night. Sometimes he wondered if they might have recognised the terrible thing they had done and were returning to help.

Both young guys were sobbing in fury and frustration. Tears ran down their cheeks and they walked back to the huddled group on the pavement, embraced them and cried at their impotence. He was never sure what happened here. They were in shock. He had been stomped and slammed onto the road so his memory was fuzzy. A car stopped and someone asked what was wrong. A kinder voice than he expected. More cars stopped and people came out of nearby homes. There was a horrified round of questions and answers and a family in a car bundled the couple off to the nearby ambulance station rather than wait till somebody could get to a phone. No mobile phones back then (mid 1970's).

The teenagers didn't go with them. Despite the offer of a hero's welcome they were deeply suspicious of authority. The police in those days were often corrupt and brutal and it was policy to see all youths in the same light as they saw sharpies and skinheads. They probably would have been arrested for creating a disturbance. The status quo had decided people didn't deserve the freedom to enjoy the motorbikes they worked all week to own and all weekend to maintain even at that age.

He still lived with his parents and brothers in the family's home. His father had converted the garage into a living space so he would have some privacy in his teen years and it was here that they all retreated. They sat on bean-bags on the polished floor cradling their partners in the darkness for the rest of the night. It was a dreadful silence even with the tenderness they extended to each other. They didn't feel like heroes. They had been too late.. The helplessness to do anything about the man's injuries when they got there and the final horrible memory of not being able to stop the car kept them awake all night even without the bruises and gravel-rash.

The old man turned to face the wall. His breath wheezed and rattled as he tried again to push the memories aside so he could sleep.

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The nineteen seventies were an interesting time for suburban teenagers There were bikers, surfies, townies, criminal gangs and corrupt police all wrestling for a place in the sun not to mention unions battling industrialists.

Memories and Stories from an insomniac

Life of a Suburban Teenager #1

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