Brush with Bandido was unique but hardly scary

The April issue of Texas Monthly magazine contains a great article on the history of the Bandidos motorcycle club and how it has grown from a Texas-based version of Hell’s Angels into a worldwide organization.

The story tells the evolution of the group from leather-wearing, Harley Davidson-riding, drug-taking, crime-committing thugs to a kinder, gentler breed of bikers who still have the occasional run-in with various forms of law enforcement but they are not nearly as feared as they were 20 or 30 years ago.

It was during that past period of lawlessness I had fairly regular contact with a member of the gang who, in fact, was an officer for the national organization.

Time has erased my memories of his real and gang names, but for the sake of the story, I will call him “Terror.�

I moved to Lubbock shortly after graduation from Lee High School to attend Texas Tech. In order to finance my extracurricular activities after classes, I got a part-time job delivering food for Lazario's, a local Italian restaurant.

The restaurant offered citywide service, so I was sent all over the county delivering everything from pizza to cannelloni to hamburgers and I had many regular customers.

Terror was one of them.

Terror lived in a part of town many might call undesirable. The homes were older and run down and many of the residents were transient. I don’t remember my first few encounters with Terror, but having grown up in a very sheltered Midland environment, I do remember being frightened every time I had to go to that part of town. But I soon grew familiar with the long-haired, bearded man wearing a leather Bandidos vest who answered the door of the home I delivered to at least once a week. I looked forward to going to his house.

Terror was a sweetheart. He was funny and kind and always took time to ask me about my life. I wasn’t naive enough to notice Terror might have had a little illegal help in being so happy all the time, which also probably had something to do with why he was hungry and ordering food.

Terror also always gave me a tip. For anyone who has ever delivered food, you learn early on that many people don’t tip. They wouldn’t think twice about leaving something to someone who brings food to them at a table in a restaurant, but for those who put wear and tear on their own car and bring food to the front door, the tipping courtesy is forgotten.

But Terror was always good for a couple of dollars. If not, he always wanted to reward me for my time and over the months my tips included a deck of cards, an actual Spanish doubloon recovered from a shipwreck and a joint.

I didn't inhale.

About a year after I first started delivering to Terror, I learned of his passing. Wanting to pay my respects, I decided to go to his funeral.
Dressed in my Sunday best -- and for those of you who know me now, stop laughing at the thought of me wearing a dress -- my boyfriend and I headed to the church on Broadway Street where Terror was to be eulogized.

The scene outside the church was one of the most unforgettable, spectacular sights I have ever seen. Thousands of motorcycles three and four deep lined both sides of the street for blocks in both directions. My boyfriend and I stood out among the crowd of men and women dressed in their Bandidos vests and other leather accouterment.

Chapters from all over the country came to pay their last respects to one of their own. The service was unlike anything I’ve ever seen and those in attendance were filled with a remorse and respect for Terror’s passing one might not expect from that demographic.

To be honest, I do remember Terror’s real name. After our short but memorable relationship, how could I forget? But that’s between us.

RIP, Terror.