In Memoriam - Don Flynn

DON FLYNN

Don Flynn was one unusual person. He was a pretty tough biker, but really good-natured. I first encountered Don in the fall of 1970. He was the leader of a club called the Warlords, which was at the time in St. Louis the only predominantly black "outlaw" motorcycle club. I said "predominantly" because the club did include one white member. Don was, at that time, about 38 years old, which made him the oldest Warlord. Also in this group were Jimmy Logan, Joel Robinson, Lindsey, Robert Porter, Will, 2 Sonnys, and a few others whose names and images have faded with time. All the core members of this group rode either Harleys or Triumphs. Don rode an ancient 61 inch Harley Knucklehead with the original hardtail (no rear suspension ) frame and later model, telescopic forks. It was customized in a style that defied description. It was clearly a chopper, but at a time when extended forks were considered de riguer on such machines, Don's bike had a stock length front end. He used a 19" front wheel with, incredibly, a large fender attached to the bottom triple clamp. This gave the machine a motocrosser-like gap between the front wheel and fender which was completely incongruous with the rest of the bike, or any other Harley that ever showed its face in public, for that matter. Other "features" included a towering sissy bar, ape hangers mounted atop tall risers, an enormous gas tank of uncertain origin and a ratty paint job. Don had a fascination with horseshoes and access to welding equipment at his job, so his knucklehead's sissy bar was capped with an array of horsehoes, and the brake pedal bore one as well. Don even fashioned a belt buckle out of a couple of these good luck charms. All of this made for a pretty unique machine. Don told the story of one observer commenting that the bike "wasn't the prettiest he had ever seen, but it sure was the God-damnest."

Don's bike matched Don: thoroughly unique. Like Don, some of these unique qualities also brought unusual problems. On one ride I recall following him on a curving two lane road. When Don rode near the center line, the sissy bar was so long it seemed to actually intrude into oncoming traffic. I got the definite impression that some drivers were veering toward the shoulder at the sight of these chrome-plated horseshoes heading at them. On another occassion a few of our group, including Don, decided to do a little lane-splitting in some bumper-to-bumper highway traffic. This is illegal in Missouri, and, as luck would have it, they were spotted by the State Patrol. Not all of us had ridden between the lanes, but the officer was sure that Don was one of the offenders because he could clearly see all those horseshoes above the traffic.

At one point Don decided that he could plug some bigger pistons out of a 74 cu. inch (1,200cc) engine into his 61 cu. inch motor for a little extra pep. Against Lindsey's recommendation he bored and bored and bored his barrels out until he could fit the slugs from the 74. These were cast iron cylinders without liners of any sort, but the problem was that they only had so much suitable density around the original bore, and going too much past that got you into more porous metal as well as reduced the strength of the cylinders. The result was increased friction and dramatically increased heat as well as cylinders less capable of withstanding even normal loads. Upon re-assembly the bike seemed to run fine, and Don took off for a visit to Chicago. On the trip back, however, the motor grenaded, the rear cylinder disintegrating into small pieces, leaving a big gap between the head, which was still attached to the frame, and the engine cases, from which peaked the gnarled remains of a cherished 74 piston. Don finished the last couple of dozen miles of the trip towed behind his girlfriend's Rambler. He brought in his pockets several pieces of the destroyed cylinder as souveniers of his misguided engineering.

Some of the stories about Don I didn't know whether to believe. His machine had high, upward pointing exhausts called "stacks." It was said that Don was riding along one day with his cutoff's trailing behind him when a spark from the stacks set them alight, half destroying his colors. On another occasion, Lindsey reported that an automobile driver didn't stop on time and bumped Don from behind, knocking him off the machine. Don leaped to the hood of the man's car and started jumping up and down. This tale went on, but the rest I only remember vaguely. Lindsey can't be asked, because he's been dead for some years, too.

Don never got very political, but this being the time that it was, with the Viet Nam war still raging, the civil rights movement just beginning to wind down, and the close contact between bikers and hippies, some politicization was almost to be expected. Don's girlfriend was a Washington U student, which provided a conduit of ideas from the student and anti-war movement. Don was also known among black shit-disturbers like Percy Green, who had a couple of years earlier asked Don to join in picketting the theater showing the movie "Patton." That movie had some harsh critics in the black community for its failure to depict the contribution of black soldiers. In 1970 Don did get drawn into a political conflict when he participated in a counter-march staged to protest the hardhat's support-the-war parade. That year there were parades across the country by "hardhats" (construction workers and other blue-collar types) which were themselves staged to protest the large anti-war rallies. Don once again managed to find trouble, as well as mention in newspaper coverage of the event, when he tangled with some of the hardhats who apparently took exception to the presence of the "freaks."

Don was a big dope-eater. He thoroughly enjoyed drugs, and made a little extra money on the side selling them. I was at his apartment one evening when Don was on the nod. His girlfriend and a couple of other people were there, and we were sitting around watching TV when we heard some people in the rear of the building yelling for Don. The girlfriend (Amy, I think) went out to the fire escape (which in practice was the main point of entry since it led to the parking lot and few people walked up to the front door on the other side of the building) to investigate. There ensued an interesting yet frightening conversation in which Amy determined that these unknown people were looking for Don for the purposes of a drug transaction. No big deal, really, but they were down at street level, and Amy was up on the third floor, and the exchange was being yelled loud enough for anybody in the general vicinity to hear. I thought maybe it would be a good time for me to leave.

Don's use of drugs did get him into trouble on at least one occasion. He appeared at the jail of a small municipality just outside St. Louis to visit his son Roadblock (real name either Donnie or Ronnie). Some altercation ensued with the jailers, with the predicatable outcome of Don's arrest, making for a nice father/son combination in the tiny jail. What most people wouldn't have predicted was that Don was holding at the time, probably not the smartest thing to do when you're entering a law enforcement establishment. Six months in the workhouse ensued for Possession of a Controlled Substance.

The last time I saw Don was in the mid-80s. I don't think he had a bike at that time. The front room of his apartment was dominated by a five foot tall cage made of wood and chicken wire in which there was a rather large monkey. The smell could be charitably described as memorable. While we were shooting the breeze, a young man arrived and proposed that Don shoot him. The idea was that Don would wound the man so that this guy could then accuse a person whom he had previously assaulted. This would, it was hoped, get him off a serious charge. Don tried to be sympathetic, but I was gratified to hear that he had enough sense to turn this character away. I didn't think he was doing this for my benefit, since I always felt that he trusted my confidence.

Don didn't live too many years after that last meeting. He did make it well into his sixth decade, which was good for this bunch. Joel Robinson died apparently of an unhealthy lifestyle. He couldn't have been much past thirty. Lindsey died somewhere in his forties. Even relatively clean-living Otis Morgan of the Night Hawks, a guy I really liked, died without reaching 50. Jimmy Logan is still alive and kicking, having cut it close in bike wrecks a couple of times. Jimmy would stretch it, but not break it. He's a survivor. Don got away with it for a long time, too. Don was one of a kind.