By: Elizabeth Fajardo
Sixty years after-the-fact, bikers everywhere, including the California Posse, are still
celebrating the town of Hollister's infamous brush with a rowdy motorcycle club, and
the film depicting the event that spurred Marlon Brando into Hollywood immortality as
the ultimate wild one.
Rick, the Ride Leader, and I, arrived at the Grill at 8 a.m. We were greeted by Walter,
Chris, Manny (minus Lourdes who was with her sister), Phil Smith and Dan. Ken was
next to make his appearance, then Doug, followed by Keith and Mary.
Last, but not least, came Liz and Ray. Even if we weren't quite the epitome of Johnny's
"Black Rebel Motorcycle Club" we did photograph well, almost movie-star worthy.
Before leaving, the three amigos (Phil, Ken and Manny)compared the size of their
tools-the metal kind.
All being copecetic, the wait was on. Our departure was set to be at 8:30 sharp. But
Posse time is usually 15 minutes later than expected--like your favorite date who is
fashionably late.
Unpredictability is part of the charm. Once Mike and Fabby rode in, we were off.
The day was unusually chilly, unlike previous Hollister outings, where the sun's rays
gleamed down on one's shoulders, and a tank top and jeans were the proper and
necessary attire. Your only respite was downing a cold one, or dropping spare change at
the nearest kiddie lemonade stand for the opportunity to refresh one's parched throat.
This July 7th chaps and thermals seemed in order.
Although one landmark did warm my heart on the outskirts of the city--the Cinderella
Motel. At the stop, Phil said the thought of princesses reminded him of me. With
sentiments like this, who needed sunshine?
As we pulled up to the familiar Methodist church on 5th and Monterey--both sides of
the street lined with colorful motorcycles of all models and sizes--the enticing smell of
home-cooked sausages and scrambled eggs permeated the air. If Marlon could only be
here, but, then again, he was present in a life-size cardboard cut-out, standing proudly
outside of Johnny's Bar in the center of town.
Breakfast was a humongous all-you-can-eat affair.
Walter led the Posse. In fact, while we were in line, I witnessed many Walters,
silver-haired, bearded, blue-eyed sweeties in leather. Everywhere we turned, it seemed
as if we were faced with our own Walter. Nevertheless, there is only ONE Walter, and
he was wearing his California Posse patch. So we breathed easier; it was not a
flashback, nor a hallucination, just another Santa-like biker on his was to a hearty meal.
After the scrumptious chow (with plenty of French toast and pancakes to spare) Liz
Davis advised the group to meet at 1:30 p.m. to head home. Then we were on our own.
Amid the sounds of loud police helicopters circling overhead, Rick and I mapped out
our shopping strategy, one foot ahead of the other by trying not to knock over the
wall-to-wall people that had gathered.
The heat came on suddenly as we made our way down vendors' row, periodically
bumping into Posse people window gazing along the booths. Free stuff was the name
of the game. I acquired a miniature blue motorcycle, a tiny biker tool chest and a black
leather (yes, free) wallet. We almost decided on a pair of matching, commemorative
Marlon Brando T-shirts, but we were side-tracked by the sight of Walter. Wait, it
looked like our Walter, talked like our Walter...Then came the moment I approached
him.
(Sigh!)It was not our Walter. Now I know the agony of my son Anthony's unyielding
search for "Waldo" and the reason he had to purchase the entire "Where's Waldo?"
collection--even if every volume was larger than the standard bookcase and had more
characters on the pages than, say, the Da Vinci Code. However, Waldo wasn't real. Or
was he?
Back to our journey. In the distant background we heard a loud echo. No it wasn't the
sound of a police motorcycle crashing in the distance. It was music. We were treated
to the Have Beer, Will Travel area, and the beat of The Brad Wilson Band--not to be
confused with The Beach Boys Brian Wilson. They brought to life the lyrics of Stevie
Ray Vaughn (and, of course, I pointed out to Rick, THEY ENCOURAGED
DANCING). Somehow, he didn't believe me. Still, I faked a few dance moves, just in
case.
Soon we were off in the hunt for more free stuff, or at least the chance to find OUR
Walter. Either way, we would have fun exploring the territory. In fact, as we sat on the
first "free" bench that came our way, I pointed to a handsome furry man, and said to
my partner, "Isn't that Walter?" He nodded his head in approval. I went over to the
gent and said, "Are you lost?" Sure enough, as I looked into his eyes, he smiled and I
knew it was Walter. He made a comment about my attire, and how it was too warm to
be wearing all that apparel, or words to that effect. We both laughed and he continued
on his walk.
Before too long a crowd of uniformed cops passed us, and, not far behind them, two
men who had the same look as, yes, our Walter. It was as if they were twins. Then, and
there on the spot, we decided that next year we must get twin T-shirts of any sort, if, for
no other reason, in keeping with the Walter theme.
At 1:30 p.m. Liz and Ray, Ken, Keith, Mary, Doug, Rick and myself, were ready to go.
We made a stop to fuel up in Gilroy, and then we were homeward bound.
As we headed north on 101, we even passed a familiar face, Mr. Steroling, who was
coming our way, his shiny red-flamed bike in tow. But what I'll remember most is
when Walter waved goodbye as he exited in Redwood City and his aqua-ish Harley
sped far, far away, until all I could see was a whisper of gray hair, and a hint of sunlight
on his helmet.
Wherever Marlon is, I'm sure he's smiling down on all the Walters that made Hollister
so special this day.
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