I sipped my second beer and started to relax. So far my second trip to the biker bar was uneventful. Spotted Cow was on tap, \Hell's Bells"" was blasting from the ceiling and I was chatting up a retired Army captain. I saw the photographer, Lauren, take practice photos of the bar and laugh at something a biker said from across the room.
Everything was fine.
""Take one picture of me and I'll snap that goddamn camera in half.""
The heavily bearded man sat on the bar stool, a scowl on his face. His stained, ripped shirt only accentuated the tattoos crisscrossing his massive arms. He was drunk. It didn't look like he was joking.
Lauren laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. It didn't help. As I wandered over from the bar, the man conferred with a friend sitting next to him and slowly stood up.
As I reached Lauren, I knew immediately there was a problem. But by then it was far too late. As the biker approached us, I braced for a confrontation. The night had just taken an ugly turn.
Cracking the exterior
From the get-go, I expected some intimidation from Madison's biker community. Still, their outright hostility toward outsiders shocked me. A week earlier I had joined an online biker forum in the hopes of figuring out where to find the best biker bars in Madison. Their responses to my queries were varied.
Some were direct: ""F#$! off. And you can quote me.""
Some thought the concept of a biker bar was stereotypical and responded in kind: ""And what do you get at college bars ... kids puking, selling dope, waving anti-Bush signs and the boys are suckin' each other off as an expression of personal freedom and making a statement to the world!""
In between the insults and the barbs, I received helpful advice. Namely, to understand a ""biker bar"" I had to actually visit one. I needed valuable advice from an expert who wouldn't get me killed.
Enter Erin Kischer, aka, Zipper, aka The Painted Lady. A guardian angel in leather, Kischer had been on the back of a motorcycle since the age of three.
""It's something that I grew up with, so it's only natural to me that I ride and choose to surround myself with people that share the same love,"" Kischer said.
I needed clarification about Madison's ""biker bars.""
Instead of actual ""biker bars,"" the city has a lot of ""biker-friendly"" bars in the city where a lot of bikers and ex-bikers feel welcome. It's not that the bars don't receive non-biker patronage, it's just not your typical college bar. Kischer recommended I go to the Anchor Inn, 1970 Atwood Ave.
I set out on a Friday night.
Shadowed stereotypes
Rough looking patrons in leather and a bar brawl puts the Halloween riots to shame. The heavy oak doors opened to the sight of drunk people dancing to ""Hell Bent for Leather."" The lighting was good. The place was clean. The building had obviously been renovated.
That's not to say the place was your standard bar. The bar's patrons stood out. The usual assortment of popped collars, high heels and over-applied makeup were non-existent. Grungy T-shirts and torn jeans seemed to be the standard. But the dress code was secondary as 10 pairs of eyes followed me to the bar. I wasn't exactly nervous. I was terrified.
According to Kischer, bikers are a close-knit group. They don't like outsiders or researchers and they hate when guys trying to act tough enter their bars.
As I sat at the bar and ordered a beer, I worried about approaching the locals.
The locals decided to test me first. ""What's up preppy?"" asked a large 50ish-looking guy on my right.
""Preppy?"" I asked him. He gestured to my torn, oil-stained khakis. ""You some kind of frat boy?"" These pants would have gotten me thrown out of the Overture Center. Later I learned the only people who wear khakis to biker bars are cops who break up bar fights.
Thankfully, my fashion faux pas didn't cost me. After buying rounds for my new buddy ""Scooter"" I heard how it feels to hop on a hog for the first time, what happens when you hit a deer going 60 mph on a Harley Davidson, and how a 350-degree tailpipe feels when it accidentally lands on your exposed legs.
As time passed and liquor flowed, more information poured out. I heard how each guy began riding his bike (Scooter thinks ""It's gotta be a genetic thing""), and why they hugged each biker that stepped into the bar (a lot of bikers die in motorcycle crashes every year, making each encounter an emotional experience).
Every biker group wasn't dealing meth or causing bar brawls. In fact, they do good for the community.
The annual Madison Ride for Kids raises thousands of dollars to fight brain tumors in kids, and Wisconsin's bikers raised more than $30,000 last year for the Lions Kid Club Camp.
They weren't perfect angels.
Scooter had been in jail for more than 15 years (he declined to tell me the reason), and other bikers at the bar were familiar with a good brawl.
""You really don't want to mess with us,"" Scooter warned. ""We're like one big family.
""Don't piss off the family,"" he added.
End of the Road?
Back at the bar, my positive encounters with Scooter were going to mean little if the large biker headed toward Lauren and I decided he didn't want a photographer in the bar. As he reached our part of the bar, I readied my Tae Bo.
To my utter shock, he grabbed Lauren's hand and kissed it, murmuring apologies for his behavior earlier.
""You have to forgive me,"" he said. ""Back when I was a part of the Outlaws, we would have broken that camera or pulled a knife or a gun on 'ya."" He threw his arms around us and grinned.""But my buddy John over there told me you two were alright,"" he said.
""And besides, I'm getting mellow in my old age.""
Two hours later, we left the Anchor Inn.
We would have left earlier but we had one more drink with our new friend Spooner, who made us promise to return and share the photos.
It's hard to look beyond our stereotypes and break out of our comfort zones.
But it's always a journey worth taking ... even if it's not on the back of a Harley.
