J. J., an outstanding thirty-five-year member of the San Gabriel Chapter of the Vagos, in 1990 at Terry the Tramp’s wedding at Pam’s Grass Valley, California, ranch.
TERRY HAD TO BUILD ANOTHER MOTORCYCLE, so he bought a basket case and started to build it in the bedroom of his ground-floor apartment. He did this on top of working two jobs, looking after his son, and trying to build a relationship with the lovely Sheila, all the while flying his Vago patch and being an honorable club brother. This, of course, meant that he honored the code of the one-percenter by having a running motorcycle.
Another obstacle to his growing love for Sheila was Tekla, who entered his life like a fiery tornado from time to time, took his son, threw his motorcycle parts in the gutter, and disrupted every relationship in his life. His relationship with Tekla wasn’t all bad, Terry recalled. “She was there for me on more than one occasion.”
Sheila was the polar opposite of Tekla. She swept into his life like warm sunlight on a summer morning.
Terry had to build another motorcycle, so he bought a basket case and started to build it in the bedroom of his ground-floor apartment.
But Terry wasn’t surprised when Sheila began to move away from him. With the kind of life he led, something had to give, and that something was his relationship with Sheila.
“I couldn’t give her the kind of home she deserved,” Terry said. “I had to let her go.”
“She was way too good for me,” Terry said. They parted ways but always remained friends, even after she married someone else and had one boy and twin girls. “She was drop-dead gorgeous and treated my son as if he was one of her children.”
The new bike started its life as a mid-1950s, 74-cubic-inch big twin, though there wasn’t much of the original bike left when Terry finished with it. Dick Latsky of Atlas Precision modified the frame and built the coffin gas tank, the oil bucket, and the tall sissy bar.
Dick and Peggy Latsky, the owners of Atlas Precision /Pro Magnum, successfully designed and built custom frames to accept Harley-Davidson motorcycle engines starting in 1967. Dick’s talents and accomplishments were known and recognized throughout the Harley-Davidson motorcycle industry.
Dick put years of talent and study into the design, engineering, and manufacture of all Atlas chassis components. Atlas frames were built from the finest material. All mounts and brackets were carefully laser-cut and machined from billet steel. Each tube was bent and machined to an exact fit, and all completed components were carefully assembled and heli-arc (TIG) welded in precision fixtures.
Terry molded the Atlas-modified frame, filling his bedroom with Bondo dust and shavings as he filed and shaped each frame contour. Prophet painted the frame and sheet metal a collage of psychedelic colors. Terry carefully installed chromed high bars, short drag pipes, a custom seat, but never a front brake. What began as a chromed-out, 20-over Wide Glide Panhead ultimately received a Shovelhead top end, and eventually a complete electric-start stroker Shovel engine. This scooter in various permutations stuck with Terry for three decades.
When the multicolored, wild-eyed chopper was completed in 1973, Terry couldn’t maneuver the long, gangly motorcycle out of his apartment. With the help of a brother, he tore a hole in the stucco and stud wall leading into the living room with sledgehammers and pry bars. They carefully rolled the chromed-out chopper to glistening freedom in the California sun. He covered the hole in the wall with a long tapestry until it could be repaired, to prevent the landlord from spotting it.
Neighbors bitched about Terry coming and going at all hours of the night, but the landlord was cool until he strolled into his apartment and inadvertently leaned against the newly hung tapestry, nearly falling through the wall. Once he discovered the hole in his wall and the grease and oil on the carpet, “That did it,” Terry said. “I had to move out.” Before Terry packed his shit and departed, a brother repaired and framed the hole, a Vago installed new drywall over the damaged wall, another brother mudded and textured the area, another brother painted the wall, and still another member of the green cult replaced the living room and bedroom carpeting.
“You could never tell there was a hole in the wall or that I had built a chopper in the bedroom,” Terry noted.
With the help of a brother, he tore a hole in the stucco and stud wall leading into the living room with sledgehammers and pry bars.
This was a challenging period for motorcycle clubs. During the 1970s, motorcycle clubs were under the scrutiny of law-enforcement agencies looking into gang and drug activity. Bikers and clubs began to organize as a means of survival. Vago chapters took on orderly, weekly meetings. Most of the chapters were represented at monthly officer meetings that dealt with heavy business, and annual national elections took place. Parts took on a Vago leadership role as president of his San Gabriel chapter, and he ultimately became international president (IP).
“He thought through an issue before he acted,” Terry said of Parts.
“Time is always on our side,” Parts said of being a leader. “When it’s the proper time, we’ll act.”
It was a time of wild, chromed-out, unreliable choppers, built by men with little mechanical experience but packed with passion for the open road.
“We couldn’t ride in a pack for 12 miles without a breakdown,” Terry said, but his fellow riders had a growing desire to cut a dusty trail for parts unknown.
Just after his long, chopped Panhead fired for the first time, he rode across town to One-Eyed Willie’s pad. Willie was a senior member and Terry was the youngster of the bunch.
“He admired my bike, and then tried to take it away,” Terry said. “I wasn’t having any of that. I only saw him on a bike once. He thought he was tough, but he wasn’t much of a rider.” Willie was a short, wiry, little-bitty guy; charismatic, but evil.
“He would turn from a smiling nice guy to violent bastard in a hot flash,” Terry said.
Willie was in and out of prison constantly, and there was always an evil challenge behind his direct gaze. He liked trikes and constantly worked on severe modifications to turn a 45-cubic-inch, Servi-car trike into a 74-cubic-inch, three-wheeled Shovelhead that was capable of keeping up with any pack of outlaws. He smoked cigarettes, and as the tough years passed his dirty long blond hair turned gray, as did his full beard. He finally finished a trike but flipped it, resulting in a broken hip and a cast that seemed to be a fixture on Willie’s hip for years. Willie’s luck seemed to only get worse; eventually the Monterey chapter member died of cancer at sixty-two years of age.
He would turn from a smiling nice guy to violent bastard in a hot flash.
Terry rode the Panhead as he learned the Vago ways, ways that involved relentless warfare with other clubs. In the summer of 1972, the height of the reds, whiskey, and weed era, inter-club warfare escalated to a new level. In the desert town of Indio, two Vagos, Hard Times and Spider, were shot off a Corvair trike. They were stragglers roaming into a sleepy town turned violent behind drugs and rampant club expansion. All the clubs were fighting and jumping members of other clubs, especially inadvertent stragglers.
According to police Lt. Wayne Hoy, the fatal shootings occurred at 3:00 p.m. in the northbound lane of California 86, just inside Coachella. The bikers were shot with a handgun from a passing vehicle. Hard Times was a San Gabriel Valley member rolling through town by himself with only Spider, a young Berdoo member, packing. They both died that hot desert day, and no one was arrested for the shootings.
Tension continued to escalate. Vago Butch was stabbed near the El California café, and his old lady was run over by a car.
Vago Butch was stabbed near the El California cafe, and his old lady was run over by a car.
Butch was the president of the San Gabriel chapter and a mentor when Terry joined the Vagos. Butch and his longtime girlfriend, a cute blonde babe, stumbled into a violent scene in the parking lot of the café. Someone attacked Joint, a skinny, stringy-haired member of the Vagos Monterey chapter, and stabbed him in the neck. Butch, who wasn’t much of a fighter but had heart, attacked the assailants, members of a rival club. Butch was also stabbed in the stomach, but the blonde came to his rescue. She wasn’t really a biker babe and didn’t know about the code for motorcycle mamas. Her old man was being attacked and she jumped into the center of the fray. One of the escaping bikers ran over her foot with his car. Fortunately, the couple both survived to be life-long partners.
“Joint never spoke too well after that,” Terry said of his neck wound.
The smoldering town erupted in violence and it spread to the Coachella Valley. A young member of the Warlords MC was attacked in a Denny’s restaurant and beaten badly. When he staggered into the street, the rival club members torched his motorcycle.
Ultimately, the National Guard was called in to quell the biker wars. They surrounded the local hospital in the sweltering heat to prevent bikers from entering the hospital and taking revenge on a biker who was in the hospital at the time. He would soon be joined by others. Four more bikers were hospitalized from gunshot and stab wounds after a fight inside Jaime’s bar, just outside Coachella on the highway. Two more members were treated at the hospital after a fight with chains.
“We beat up anyone and everyone we encountered,” Terry said. “It didn’t matter what club or affiliation.”
Coachella Police Chief Lester O’Neil said the gang members came, “from all over the state,” and that they had come to the Coachella-Indio area Saturday because of the annual motorcycle rally sponsored by the American Motorcycle Association. The prudish AMA event, located in a quiet, isolated desert community, was the perfect location for this battle for prominence. Each club wanted to make a stand-up name for itself. The blistering summer sun baking the streets and the drug-soaked brain cells of the bikers set the perfect Western scene for a fight.
“We beat up anyone and everyone we encountered,” Terry said. “It didn’t matter what club or affiliation.”
“We have some 5,000 non-outlaw members of the motorcycle association here,” O’Neil said, “and they haven’t caused us any trouble. The trouble came from the so-called ‘outlaw’ gangs who have decided to hold a rally of their own.”
Poodle, the rider who started the Vagos, and several other members quit because of the pervasive violence.
After the summer heat, Terry’s Panhead started to rattle, and he rode it to Part’s’ house. “Check it out, will ya,” Terry said.
“Rev it up,” Parts said to Terry, who sat on the idling chopper. He was prepared to adjust the antiquated bronze Linkert carburetor.
Terry snapped the throttle. The rear exhaust valve stuck and the piston slammed against the hardened steel valve and shattered the cast cylinder. That was the end of the original Pan engine. Depressed, Terry caught a ride home and walked to Ritchie’s Café to drown his sorrows in a hot cup of Joe. He sat next to Harry Baker, a loner friend who never joined a club, and spilled his guts.
“Whatcha gonna do?” Harry asked him.
“I need to catch some extra jobs and raise $600 for a new top end,” Terry answered. During that era, a common way to obtain more performance and more reliability from a Pan was to adopt a Shovelhead top end: heads, cylinders, intake manifold, and carburetor.
Harry yanked out the long leather wallet chained to his side and peeled off six $100 bills.
“Get it done,” Harry said and finished his coffee.
And that’s how Terry’s Panhead, named Lady and the Tramp, received its first transformation.
Throughout this period Terry continued to work for various studios with Harry Woolman. Harry’s daughter Pam began an acting career of her own, beginning in 1966 when she appeared as the Tahitian dancer in the film, On Her Bed of Roses, with Ronald Warren, Sandra Lynn, and Barbara Hines. The film was later renamed Psychedelic Sexualis. She also played a real dish in the 1965 television series, Mr. Roberts. By the 1970s, she had a five-year contract with Warner Brothers, but her personal life was headed toward upheaval, with one bad relationship after another. While Terry was off pursuing the life of a one-percenter, Pam remained on a piece of rural family property in Acton, where she raised sheep, goats, a couple of cows, and horses.
Riverside cops confiscated a number of Terry’s bikes, including Lady and the Tramp during 1996 raid. As usual, all his possessions were returned.
Terry snapped the throttle. The rear exhaust valve stuck and the piston slammed against the hardened steel valve and shattered the cast cylinder. That was the end of the original Pan engine.
“She had no services out there,” Terry said, “And the VW her dad bought her would break down every other trip. We had to haul water and food out to her cheap clapboard house, but she loved working with animals.”
Pam banged from one dreamy relationship to another, but Terry was always on hand to help pick up the pieces.
Before she turned twenty she hooked up with a veterinarian and ran off to the University of California at Davis to study to be a vet. After a couple of years, she returned to Los Angeles and the studios, where she went to work, checking in with central casting on a daily basis. Then she hooked up with Dennis Wilson, who was a heroin addict. Wilson, who died on December 28, 1983, had been a founding member and the drummer of The Beach Boys. Wilson got Pam into heroin, which almost killed her.
Pam met a studio dolly operator, Nick Papalasky, in Hawaii on the studio set for Quigley Down Under, starring Tom Selleck. Nick was a party guy who couldn’t control his drinking. They married, and her grandparents bought them a home in the City of Industry, California. But when she flew to Hawaii to surprise Nick, she found another girl asleep in his hotel room bed and the relationship collapsed.
More than a couple of times, Terry was called to the scene.
Then she hooked up with the Beach Boys’ drummer, Dennis Wilson, who was a heroin addict.
Terry the Tramp and Pam on their wedding day at her Grass Valley Ranch. They grew up together, but she was spent from excesses of the 1960s and her wandering nature could not compete with his club dedication.
Pam returned from Hawaii and her dad built her and her sister a pair of three-bedroom custom homes behind their original El Monte homestead property. Donna moved out and Alma rented one of the homes to a recovering 5150 case (Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institutions Code allows a qualified officer or clinician to involuntarily confine a person deemed to have a mental disorder that makes them a danger to himself or herself, and/or others). The renter turned violent, slapped Pam, and threatened Alma. This was one of the times Terry received an urgent call.
He immediately climbed aboard his Panhead and flew across town. At that juncture of his life no two people on earth were more important to him than Pam and Alma. He rode directly into the backyard, kicked out his sidestand, and met Alma in the driveway.
“It wasn’t that bad, Terry,” Alma said, but he knew otherwise.
“I pounded on his door,” Terry said. “When the tenant opened the door, he thought he was a big bag of chips and more.”
As soon as he opened his mouth Terry fired on him. “He wasn’t even a pretzel,” Terry recalled. The tenant immediately departed and never returned.
After a stint with another woman, a tall, dark-haired hippy, Pam bought a 55-acre ranch in Grass Valley and raised goats and horses. She enjoyed the outdoors, hunting, fishing, hiking, and riding motorcycles. Terry spent the holidays with her and they took horse and buggy rides to Nevada City.
“I told him I would introduce him to the gates of hell,” Terry said.
“It was a step back in time,” Terry said. Folks rode horses and strolled through town drinking hot cocoa and singing Christmas carols. It was amazing, but a culture shock for the outlaw from Los Angeles.
Pam drifted into another relationship and had twins through artificial insemination, Cody and Cheyenne, but Pam’s new husband abused her and once more Terry intervened.
“He was an ex-Marine,” Terry said, “and thought he was tough.”
As soon as the call came, Terry confronted the six-foot two-inch heavy drinker and his red, bulbous nose.
“I told him I would introduce him to the gates of hell,” Terry said. Instead of taking Terry up on his offer, the husband departed. He ended up in a Utah prison for hustling women.
During the summer of 1975, seven members of the Vagos mustered the balls to undertake a run to Texas to visit a longtime member, Chainsaw, in Dennison. There, Chainsaw owned and operated a shop, The Iron Horse. The trip began one night while Terry and his club brothers sat in their sacred Denny’s in El Monte. Terry turned to another young member, J.J., whom he had given his full patch just a year earlier.
“I’ve got a new top end on my bike,” Terry said. “Let’s ride to Texas.”
“I’ve got to go to work,” J.J. replied.
J.J. was a tree trimmer for the city of Baldwin Park. But his true priorities were chasing girls and playing poker, both of which took precedence over riding his chopped Knucklehead. He was a short, good-looking brother with long, sandy blonde hair, a long, carefully trimmed mustache, and brilliant white even teeth that he bared often.
Every scared citizen in every seedy small town represented potential trouble.
Terry looked at his stepbrother, Parts, and then back at J.J. It was every outlaw’s dream to ride across the county, but the nasty reputation that followed most riders wearing club patches made such excursions treacherous. Every scared citizen in every seedy small town represented potential trouble. From pushy straights to overzealous police to territorial clubs, the potential for danger ran high. In most small burghs, bikers were allowed only the courtesy of a gas stop before being escorted to the city limits.
The brothers tossed the notion around and voted to head out. Things went well enough until they got to Amarillo, Texas, where another biker, a member of the Bandidos MC, scrutinized the scruffy Vagos at a gas station. He followed Terry around, trying to get a look at the patch on his back while checking out Terry’s bike. Tired of his staring, Terry confronted the man.
“Whatta ya need?” Terry asked gruffly.
The Bandido responded with another question: “What club are you with?”
“I’m with the Bandidos,” he said, flatly. “We run this area.”
“Vagos,” Terry replied. “What of it?”
“I’m with the Bandidos,” he said, flatly. “We run this area.”
“Well then,” Terry said, “you must know where we can get a good steak and be left alone, right?”
“I think I can help you out,” the Bandido returned. “Ride up to the Harley dealer; I’ll meet you there.”
Terry and his brothers rode to the dealer, but when the Bandido didn’t show, they rode down the street to a Denny’s, which became Terry’s unofficial office wherever he went. As they settled into a long, upholstered booth, Terry noted a pack of fifteen Bandidos pulling into the dealership.
Parts rode back to Amarillo Harley-Davidson and told the Bandidos about their mission to party with the Banshees and visit their brother. The Banshees Motorcycle Club USA was founded in New Orleans, Louisiana in the spring of 1966. Chainsaw, a retired Vago, returned to his hometown of Dennison, Texas, an oil-rich town, to be near his family. Denison is located in northeastern Grayson County on U.S. Highway 75. It’s only seventy-five miles north of Dallas and four miles south of the Texas/Oklahoma border. State Highway 120 passes through Denison from east to west, and State Highway 84 borders northern Denison.
Chainsaw stayed in touch with Terry and Parts after he opened his shop. He met local members of the Banshees, who didn’t hold his Vago membership against him. “We remained friends with the Banshees ever since,” Terry said. “When we were in their territories, they took us everywhere. They helped repair our motorcycles, partied with us, stood beside us in bar brawls, and treated us like family.”
His mom, Pearl, made the members check their guns at the door. She carefully placed their weapons in a wooden cabinet and they could pick them up when they left the underground clubhouse.
The group spent two weeks in Amarillo with the Banshees, then rode on to Dennison, which borders gently rolling and wooded terrain stretching northward to the shores of Lake Texoma and the Red River. They met up with the Scorpions MC at Dennison and partied another two weeks. The Scorpions Motorcycle club was established in Detroit in 1966 in the basement of a young member’s home. His mom, Pearl, made the members check their guns at the door. She carefully placed their weapons in a wooden cabinet and they could pick them up when they left the underground clubhouse. Their next clubhouse was blown up by a rival club.
In 1976 members of the Scorpions played starring roles in the international cult classic motorcycle film, Northville Cemetery Massacre, in which a young girl is raped and her father and the police wage a bloody battle against the members of a motorcycle gang that recently arrived in town. The violent action saga starred David Hyry and Carson Jackson, but Nick Nolte overdubbed the voice of one of the characters. In a typical Hollywood plot twist for that era of anti-heroes, the bikers were innocent and the vigilante mob had targeted the wrong culprits. Not that it helped in real life; like every other motorcycle club during that era, the Scorpions were the target of constant harassment from law enforcement officials. This despite the club having a reputation as being comprised of solid, law-abiding citizens, striving to live up to the Scorpions motto: “Family plus job plus club equals brotherhood.”
The Scorpions might not have been the type of outlaws who actually broke laws, but they still knew how to have a good time. The Scorpion philosophy might have put them on the right side of the law, but it also included hard riding, having a good time, and causing havoc. This type of club, which Sonny Barger of the Hells Angels calls a “mom-and-pop” club, holds a lot of appeal for many motorcyclists, offering the support and camaraderie of a family without the criminal baggage often associated with outlaw clubs. The Scorpions thrived, spreading into a number of other states. As the club grew they established chapters in Danville, Virginia; Lee County, North Carolina; Dallas, South Dallas, and Wichita Falls, Texas; and Oakland County, Monroe, and Coldwater, Michigan.
“They invited us to a party out on a farm,” Terry remembered. “They had three or four bands, girls, campsites set up all over the area, and a huge farmhouse to party in. We were there four days. Then one of the Banshees, Big Joe Fletcher, asked if we’d like to go for a putt. I said okay, but asked how far we were going. He said it was just down the road.”
A hundred miles later, the bikers rode up to one of Joe’s favorite stops. After four hours of drinking and playing pool, the group fired up their bikes for the return run. They were in the middle of the open Texas plains, but Joe seemed to know every pit stop between the party and his hangout. When it began to rain and then hail, the riders leaned their choppers into a truck stop to escape the downpour and dry off.
Inside, the welcome was less than friendly. Truckers started muttering obscenities. Amidst the cold stares, one trucker with ham hock-sized forearms grumbled over a beer, wondering aloud, “Who let these grubby motherfuckers in here?””
“You longhaired faggots must be from California, and I suggest that you just keep movin’ your asses in that direction!”
Although the club members out-numbered the truckers two to one, the two starkly different philosophies faced off over checkered linoleum and vinyl swivel stools around a half-moon café counter. The hardworking middle-class citizen confronted the non-working, middle-class renegade. The men in the greasy ball caps and tightly cropped hair didn’t understand the men with the long manes, greasy Levi’s, and a taste for adventure.
The big-fisted trucker slammed a clenched side of beef on the counter and stood up.
“You longhaired faggots must be from California, and I suggest that you just keep movin’ your asses in that direction!”
Several truckers pushed back their chairs and stood up. Two more rounded the counter corner clutching pool cues. The threats and ridicule continued until Terry stepped forward and stood face-to-face with the barrel-chested trucker.
“We’ve been riding for a while” he said, bluntly. “We’re tired, hungry, and it’s hailing beer cans outside. You can either back off and let us be or we’re going to go to blows.”
His eyes bore into the bigger man, and violence hung in the air like a dark February fog as Terry broke the silence engulfing the room. “And you’ll be the first to fall.”
The big trucker wasn’t intimidated. He threw the first punch, triggering an all-out brawl as pool cues whipped through the air, chairs and tables tumbled, and fists flew. Terry and the big man stood toe-to-toe and exchanged blows.
Pushed against the counter, his nose broken and bleeding, having felt the intensity of Terry’s unrelenting fists and his adrenaline-powered fury, the trucker now understood that the bikers meant business. When the man raised his hands to indicate submission, Terry respected the surrender and called for the other bikers to stop fighting.
This run to Texas opened the door for Vagos members to experience the open road in search of women, action, and adventure.
A handful of the truckers escaped or were thrown out into the hail to find their way to their trucks, but the bikers stayed long enough for the weather to let up and to underscore their triumphant point. This run to Texas opened the door for Vagos members to experience the open road in search of women, action, and adventure.
The Vagos left the Banshees behind in Denison and headed west, but they weren’t alone. In Gainesville, they rolled through town and spotted a steakhouse. “We rolled into the parking lot, parked and checked our bikes,” Terry said. “We strolled into the restaurant, and it was as if we owned the place. They treated us good, and someone picked up the tab.”
They started their raucous, sparkling chrome choppers, popped wheelies, and peeled down the street to a bar.
“You couldn’t just walk into a bar; you had to knock on the door,” Terry said. As they approached the door a tall good-looking cowboy wearing polished Justin cowboy boots and a tall western hat walked up to Wolfman and Terry.
“Suddenly every patron in the bar pulled a handgun,” Terry said, “and we were looking down the barrel of his shotgun.”
“Good evening girls,” he said and knocked on the door.
“It was on,” Terry said, “and we went to blows.” The fight only lasted a minute before the door opened and the cowboy was pulled inside.
The Vagos followed him in, took a table, and a waitress approached to take their orders. The western bar ran the long length of the building on the left. Two dark pool tables resided at the back of the room and heavy, polished wooden tables were set in the center. The seven Vagos pulled up chairs and sat down. In less than a couple of minutes, the bubbly waitress returned with a tray full of drinks. She set the saloon-printed napkins on the table after carefully wiping it down. Then she set the drinks down, smiled, and stepped away without asking for payment. Mellow country and western music drifted from a glistening jukebox.
Joking and kidding about the fight at the door, the members reached for their whiskey- and tequila-filled tumblers when the door opened and in walked a half-dozen tall, stout cowboys, the biggest cowboys Terry had ever laid eyes on. Leading the group was a slick gentleman carrying a chromed, sawed-off shotgun across his chest.
“He looked like Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazard,” Terry said.
“I picked up your dinner, boys,” Boss Hogg said in a dead serious Texas drawl. “You’ve had something to drink, and now it’s time you got on your bicycles and left Texas.”
Parts was always ready for a fight and mouthed off something about finishing his drink.
“Suddenly every patron in the bar pulled a handgun,” Terry said, “and we were looking down the barrel of his shotgun.”
“The choice is simple,” said the big man the others referred to as Falcon. “You can leave Texas or go directly to McAlester Prison,” referring to the infamous Oklahoma State Penitentiary that housed many convicts from Texas.
“We set our drinks back down and peeled out,” Terry said. 
