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The Tale of Local Legend Jack “Shark” Jordan Originally titled “Twilight of the Immortals”

By R.J. “Cowboy” Carter

            The year was 1946, as gallant members of America’s Armed Forces returned home from the fiery skies and bloody battlefields of World War II, who might have thought that an insatiable love of motorcycling, combined with their new found spirit of adventure, would soon lead them to become the founding fathers and quintessential cornerstones of what would be considered today, as some of our Nation’s oldest and most respected motorcycle clubs. Clubs with names like The Boozefighters, Hells Angels, Top Hatters and Sharks. Today the founding fathers of these clubs and clubs like them, are rightly immortalized in the annals of motorcycling history as pioneers and deemed, for all time as the taproot of a very special breed of man, the American biker.  

        It’s a brisk Saturday morning, and yet another great day for a ride as a silent dawn breaks over the Sierras. The day’s first rays of sunlight have begun to gently transcend the snowcapped peaks on their way to warm the towering oaks that stand guard adjacent to a sleepy little hamlet, miners of the gold rush referred to as Mud Springs. Known today as El Dorado, Calif, the burg itself, while unceremoniously transformed by time and grounded in history, is surrounded by well-paved roads and gorgeous mountain scenery making it a considerably traveled hub for any and all bikers wishing to squeeze the ultimate rush from their great American escape machines.  Undoubtedly the most recognized structure of El Dorado is that of the world famous biker bar and restaurant, Poor Reds, where inconspicuously works one of the original members of the Sharks Motorcycle Club, Mr. Jack Jordan.  Migrating to El Dorado from the mean streets of L.A. in 1964, Jack didn’t waste much time finding the perfect job as part-time bartender in the quaint little biker bar.         

           I first met Jack as I was bellied up to the bar in Poor Reds, tossing back a couple beers.  I was proudly flying my club’s green and white colors at the time, while sitting amidst a veritable potpourri of weekend warrior type bikers including, the ever-present Brando wannabes, trying hard to look hard in their brand new leathers. The difference is a club’s patch is something sacred. It’s a flag that is sometimes a target, but it’s always and most definitely a statement. That’s why we wear it. But like statements, some are shallow and pointless. Then again, others have the impact of suddenly being face-to-face with a Great White in deep water. The patches of the old, long-established clubs command respect. Seniority always carries weight. Any group can come up with a clever, cute or ominous sounding name and get some cloth sewn into the idea. But history and decade after decade of riding within a brotherhood isn’t created by a seamstress. Wearing a club’s clubs patch is an outward sign of a person’s inner spirit, one that only gets richer and stronger with time.

              So anyway, there I was nursing my drink and thinking I must have walked into some sort of crazy-ass biker fashion show when out of nowhere I was suddenly, but gingerly, approached by an elderly gentleman dressed in the refreshing sight of some well-used leathers eluding me to the fact that there was probably at least one well ridden scooter parked outside besides my own. He extended his hand to me, in what seemed at the time, to be something much more than just a casual introduction, I knew right off the bat this guy wasn’t just another asshole tourist, curious about the somewhat strange name of my motorcycle club. It was then he took a firm grip of my hand, and then went on to say how it was a great thrill for him to once again shake the hand of a Boozefighter. The man’s handshake and his words soon proved not only to be a living link to a legendary past but something very vital to the present.

           The sight of my patch must have called to Jack, now nearing 80, like a hazy beacon from his past, beckoning him back into the social baptism of his youth. Back into a time that apparently wasn’t dead and buried after all. With a single handshake we both suddenly realized that we had just encircled more than a half-century, transporting us into the other’s time. He recounted how in the late 40’s and early 50’s he was a member of the Sharks Motorcycle club in South L.A., recalling how close our two clubs the Sharks and Boozefighters had become over those early years. Both clubs had formed within two years apart and at exactly the same dot on the map, the All American Bar in South L.A.  The older of the two clubs the Boozefighters formed in the summer of 1946 with the Sharks soon following suit two summers later on the eleventh day of August 1948 the same year as the Hells Angels. Back then the All American Bar or “Big A” as its patrons called it, was the place to be if you rode a motorcycle, matter of fact if you weren’t a biker or an ex-G.I., you were much better off just staying clear of the “The Big A.” In my minds eye I’ve always pictured the “Big A” as a sort of a mystic biker Valhalla with polished golden walls and busty beer tenders at your beck and call, so you can imagine the blow when Jack recalled how the famed All American Bar wasn’t much more than a gas station with a small bar inside that only sat about ten people at a time.  Jack began frequenting the joint soon after his release from his Army unit the 232nd Military Police. He recalled how the clubs were mostly comprised of ex-G.I.’s and it really didn’t matter which club you belonged to since all the different clubs normally rode everywhere together anyway. Some active members of the Boozefighters were even sworn members of the Sharks and Yellow Jackets motorcycle clubs at the same time.   Back in those days the clubs were very close-nit and since, the American Motorcycle Association (A.M.A) deemed and listed the Boozfighters as an “Outlaw” club (not allowing them to participate in AMA events) nobody had a problem with the Boozefighters belonging to more than one club at the same time so they could race in more events.

              He then took me on a once-in-a lifetime stroll down his memory lane recalling how clubs like The 13 Rebels, Boozefighters and Sharks would often get together on weekends to stage races between themselves and other area clubs they called field meets. Jack went on to say that usually a field meet consisted of three or more clubs just getting together on a Saturday afternoon, finding a vacant lot and letting’er rip, that is, until the property owner eventually showed up to toss ‘em all out. Standard practice was to draw straws before the event, the loser having to be the flagman, which was a really crappy job but was necessary to start each event. The meets usually consisted of a variety of different events including things like slow races, weenie bite competitions, racing around a designated course, and of course drag racing.  He even recalled one time when the clubs all threw a wooden plank over a fallen tree to see who could ride over it the furthest without falling off. “Ohhhh the memories, those were the days” Jack sighed.

              It was at that very moment his eyes glazed over and his trembling hand once again rose, this time clutching pictures in large manila envelope suddenly making it obvious that our encounter wasn’t by chance.  He said they were of the old days and since I was a Boozefighter, he wanted me to have them. He went on to say that Patricia his wife of almost 50 years had passed away not long ago and it was while in the attic sifting through a large steamer trunk containing her belongings he came across two pictures taken of the three clubs altogether before a field meet. “How long has it been since anybody’s see these pictures?” I asked “50 years, maybe never,” Jack replied. It must have been the writer in me but those four words alone, left dazed and shaking like a Frenchman in a thunderstorm.  As I carefully turned and scrutinized each of the faded black and white photos they slowly began to weave an intriguing historical tapestry, chronicling the by-gone days of motorcycling and club life in its truest form.  An unbridled black and white look, reminding me how once upon a time in America, something so innocent and so simple eventually grew into the billion dollar pastime so many of us readily enjoy today.

           Still desperately trying to recover from an immense state of shock, it took all I could muster just to gracelessly thank this now, misty-eyed monarch of motorcycling and offer him a cocktail. Jack just shook his head and politely replied that he had, for more than one reason, had sworn off the demon alcohol years ago. He then politely nodded, slowly turned, retreated from the bar and rode off, leaving all the other bikers in attendance, except for myself, unaware that they were, for a few brief moment in time, graced by one of the very few remaining legends left from motorcycling’s glorious yesteryears.

             Of course Being the President of the Sacramento/El-Dorado Co. Boozefighters MC there was simply no way I was going to let Jack’s wealth of historical knowledge concerning my club simply slip through my fingers and fade quietly away into oblivion. As luck would have, it the Boozefighters were planning a huge birthday bash down in L.A. for their oldest living member, Les Haserott.  Of course, along with Les there would be several other immortals of the Green and White such as Jack Lilly, Jim Cameron, Gil Armas, who is considered the grandfather of speedway racing and Dago, an original Boozette, all together again in one place at one time for the sake of a good party.  Well, I got to say it didn’t take much prodding to get that “Ol Shark” Jack Jordan up and ready to ride down with a pack of Boozefighters to party hearty with all his long lost buds. 

         Upon arriving in South L.A. and motoring into the mansion-like estate of “Original Wild One” Gil Armas, Jack was immediately recognized and tearfully welcomed by several of the remaining immortals. First to approach Jack was his old friend Jim Cameron, a man made famous for his mischievous exploits, like the time he rode his bike into Johnny’s bar during the world famous Hollister Calif. dust-up of 1947.  Jim’s infamous ride into the speak-easy was later depicted in the 1954 cult classic movie “The Wild One.” Back in those days Jim Cameron and Jack were real close friends, with Jim even living 6 years or so of his life in Jack’s parents house across the street from the old Mustang motorcycle factory on 103rd street in South L.A.

           As I quietly approached, the two Bro’s were busy sharing a story.  Jim was recalling how he once grabbed a policeman’s arm and he and the Boozefighters first President C.B. Clausen got thrown in the poky for the heinous deed. Pooling their money, they went before a Judge the next day, but unfortunately for the two wild ones, the Judge, wasn’t in the best of moods, and certainly wasn’t interested in their pocket change.  “It’s going to be fifteen days to the man that grab the policeman’s arm” the Judge roared. With that C.B. stood up and said, “I’m the man you want your Honor.” Jim, bowled over by what C.B. had just done looked up and said “What the hell do ya think your doing C.B.? I was the one that grabbed that cops arm!” C.B. just quietly turned and said; “Hush Jim you got a job and a family at home besides, I wasn’t planning on doing much for the next fifteen days anyway.” Now that’s brotherhood!!

           Great story, but I wasn’t willing to let Jim Cameron of the hook that easy, I still needed to hear the story about that famous ride into the bar 60 years ago. Man-o-man can you imagine hearing it straight from the guy who pulled it off. So with recorder rolling, I said, “Jim here’s your chance to set history straight How did you get in that front door of Johnny’s since I noticed it swings outward?” Jim said, “Well it happened like this. I was sitting on my bike outside Johnny’s when some dummy in front of the door opens it up for me. Then he hollers at me Come on in so I did”. “How many beers, did ya have that day I asked laughingly?” “Well, I didn’t have any beers but I had a little brown liquor. It was just some cheap Goddamn stuff we bought at the last stop earlier in the morning. So anyway getting back to the ride. I popped up over the curbing, and well, I didn’t think that Goddamn chopped Indian had that much clearance, but it did. The bar came all the way to the door so once inside I just parked it over in the corner, walked over and ordered another whiskey, only because I didn’t want to mix up my alcohols.”

               Just then Jim turned the conversation back to Jack.  “Jack its been 50 years since the Big Bear Run, so where ya been?? Jack ya still ridding C.B. Clausen’s old bike?? You must remember that 41/61 stroked to an 80 inch that C.B. built for Fatboy Nelson before Fatboy ran out of money and sold it to the 13 Rebels, if I remember right, you ended up trading something to one of the 13 Rebels for it didn’t you???  So where ya living now Jack???” All of this was just driving me crazy. I wanted to document every shred of this primeval history of motorcycling, yet it almost felt sacrilegious for me to intrude on them like some sort of asshole paparazzi raining down on their conversations with a camera and a recorder, but of course, I did anyway. On and on the questions poured and the answers sounded, as a flood of golden memories, hugs and tears rushed back and forth between these two remaining living legends of motorcycling.   After leaving Jim and walking Jack back inside the mansion Jack recalled to me yet another story about how a Boozefighter he once knew always left his bike out in the rain on purpose, even going as far as to douse his machine with water and then just walk away. Jack said, the bike was always sparking clean, but it was always wet, he never dried it off. Jack never bothered to ask him why but always wished he had. Jack said he got a big kick out of watching the Boozefighters and their antics, like that mysterious wet bike thing. Besides it also kind of eased the pain of the Boozefighters winning most of the field meets.               

              Next stop for Jack was today’s guest of honor and BFMC birthday boy, Les Haserott.  Along with being the oldest member of the Green and White at 87 Les is also known to history buffs as “The Baja King”. Les made his mark in the history books as being the first person to race from Ensenada to Cabo San Lucas, While transcending the hellish route on a motorcycle, a 1937 45 inch iron-head to be exact, a feat that even today’s most accomplished bikers on far superior machines find nearly impossible. Imagine, if you will, racing over 900 hard fought miles of dirt, snakes and prairie dog holes, with it being 120 degrees in the shade. Not only was Les the first to race the Baja on a motorcycle, he amazingly accomplished this immortal feat 20 times between 1950-1954.                

           As Jack and I approached Les, a strange look came over Jack’s face, he turned to me and said in nothing more than a whisper.  “That’s the guy”… “Guy, what guy??” I replied. Just then Jack yells at the top of his voice.” You know the guy, the guy, with the wet bike all the time, its Les, he’s the guy”!!  Oh that guy, I replied.  Reluctantly deciding to leave Les and Jack alone with their memories for the time being, I headed off to the bar down-stairs. An hour or so passed before I hooked-up with Jack once again out by the Barbeque, and I just couldn’t help it.   I had to ask Jack if he found out anything about Les’s wet scooter. He smiled and replied, “rust”  “Rust,” I said, what the hell do ya mean rust?” Jack replied, “Les kept his bike wet so that all his nuts and bolts would rust.” “This is some sort of joke right Jack??” “Nope” Jack said laughing, “Well its simple, the Baja King said he didn’t need his bike flying apart somewhere out in the Baja desert, he kept his bike wet so his nuts and bolts would rust tight,” We laughed and both agreed that the mystery of the wet had, after all these years, finally been solved. 

              Just then the word trickled out that Dennis Sanfilippo and his film crew, Big 7 Productions had arrived and were ready to begin documenting this historic reunion.  That’s when the call went out that they now needed all the “Original Wild Ones” still scattered about the party to regroup at the top of the hill for the photo opt. With the sun beginning to set in the background, the already large and raucous crowd of Boozefighters and club supporters began to repeatedly chant, “Boozefighters-up” as the living legends began to emerge from the house and take their respective seats on the film crew’s set. A sudden hush fell over the crowd; silenced not only by the amazing sight of the last remaining immortals of motorcycling all in the same place at the same time, but also the horrible realization that it would probably be for the last time.

              As the last few “Original Wild Ones” were now finally all seated, I noticed still one empty chair. But why would they have put out a chair for no reason I asked myself?  That’s when, almost in unison, these few remaining heroes of yesteryear turned, then pointed to Jack who was standing in the back of the crowd and yelled  “Hey you! “Shark”!!  What the hell ya waiting for, get over here and sit your butt down” With a smile that beamed from ear to ear, Jack proudly made his way through the crowd and sat down with the rest of the pack, immediately wrapping his arm around his old racing buddy, Jim Cameron. The two Bros now etching-out an incredible scene of brotherhood for all to see, one I’m sure I’ll never forget as long as I live. With that, the colors of the two clubs were now once again blending harmoniously together, back into the only two colors that ever really mattered, that of the faded black and white of pictures portraying a generation of heroes.  

               Little did the “Ol Shark” know is that soon he would be officially pronounced a member of the Sacramento/El-Dorado Chapter of Boozefighters M.C. and as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon it suddenly occurred to me, that with this reunion, Jack’s life had now come full circle. As for myself, I now realize there is no twilight for these immortals, their lives will continue to live on, burning bright for all eternity deep within the hearts of all who ride. Remembered in our minds for all time, not as elderly gentlemen in the December of their lives, but rather as they once were, the young, strong, clean-shaven immortals of yesteryear dressed in rolled up blue jeans and button down shirts, racing their fender-less motorcycles through the streets of Hollister.  These are, and will forever be, the pioneers that founded America’s first clubs, the clubs that first and foremost taught us the most valuable lessons of trust, loyalty, respect, and brotherhood.  For them, there will be no twilight, for it is in the moral messages alone these pioneers have brought into this world, and gracelessly handed down for generations to come that will ensure their own immortality. 

THE END