Clash at Denver motorcycle expo rooted in history of camaraderie and conflict

In a sense, the deadly confrontation between two biker gangs last weekend at a Denver motorcycle expo was generations in the making — a collision of colors and culture rooted in sometimes-violent traditions of camaraderie and conflict.

The clash between the Mongols and the Iron Order, which unfolded at Denver’s National Western Complex, rapidly escalated into a battle of fists, knives and gunfire that left one man dead and seven others wounded.

But that chain of events, which played out over only a few minutes, evolved from motorcycle club prototypes that emerged over decades, since shortly after World War II.

As groups of men, many of them combat veterans, bonded over motorcycles, the most anti-authority organizations became known as “1 percenters” — a tag coined in 1947 to separate them from the vast majority of law-abiding motorcyclists.

“Their aura is that we don’t want to live by society’s laws, we want to live by our own laws,” says Jay Dobyns, a retired agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives who at one point infiltrated the notorious Hells Angels. “You’re riding a powerful machine on two wheels, flying over the highway, through the desert or over mountains. All the common citizens are backed up on the 405 (freeway) in L.A., and here come some Hells Angels splitting the lanes at 80 mph.

“Man, that’s sexy.”

The rebellious attitude always has been part of the allure of motorcycle clubs, beginning in 1953 when Marlon Brando, hat cocked to the side and leaning against a Triumph Thunderbird, introduced mainstream America to the outlaw motorcycle world in the movie ” The Wild One.”

But Charles Falco, who infiltrated three outlaw motorcycle gangs for federal law enforcement, notes that the reality lies far from the romanticized Hollywood depiction of biker culture.

“They’re not rebels without a cause,” Falco says. “They’re thugs, bullies and weak men, usually, without their patches. The biker gangs, even though they don’t look like it, they’re very sophisticated. They have a hierarchy. They have bylaws. They’re more like military units.”

While bikers uniformly refer to their organizations as clubs, law enforcement has labeled dozens as gangs, a distinction tied to criminal activity.

Ken Croke, special agent in charge of the ATF’s Denver Field Division, boils it down: If the group is running drugs and guns or extorting people, then it’s a gang. If the members ride motorcycles, party and support charities, it’s a club.

The difference isn’t always clear.

“There is a crossover where some of the gangs use the charity as a guise,” he says. “They use it as a cover story.”

Larger, national outlaw motorcycle gangs often have support clubs — sometimes called “puppet clubs” — that operate much like a minor-league baseball teams in relation to a major-league affiliate. They might help run drugs or guns or provide security in exchange for the notoriety and protection of the outlaw club, Croke says.

Outlaw clubs tend to coalesce around a common theme: conflict.

Magnet for veterans

Motorcycle clubs have always been a magnet for veterans returning from battle. The post-World War II era gave rise to the phenomenon, and then the Vietnam war, whose veterans also experienced alienation on the home front, gave clubs another boost.

More recently, veterans serving in Iraq and Afghanistan have added to the pool of potential members.

“Wars make motorcycle clubs,” says Donald Charles Davis, author of the popular biker blog The Aging Rebel.

He invokes a concept that emerged from the 2010 film “Restrepo,” a documentary about a military unit in Afghanistan that one of the filmmakers called “Man Eden” — a place of intense bonding among soldiers that exists apart from traditional social conventions.

Davis suggests that outlaw biker clubs offer “the moral equivalent of war” and one of the few outlets for men to express that kind of brotherhood outside the military.

Conflicts among outlaw biker groups traditionally have stemmed from territorial disputes, often signaled by the state or area denoted by the so-called “bottom rocker,” a patch at the base of a biker’s vest or jacket.

The confrontation that sparked last weekend’s violence between the Mongols and the Iron Order grew out of the latter group’s refusal to show deference, Falco believes. Usually, a club wanting to wear the same bottom rocker as one of the established clubs will ask permission. It sometimes even pays a fee for the privilege or will agree to become a support club.

But the Iron Order bucked that protocol.

“That has (ticked) off the gang element of that world,” Falco explains. “The Iron Order says they’ll go anywhere they want. They have no respect for biker gangs, which is their right, but you have backlash. They’re going to be constantly challenged throughout the country.”

The Iron Order claims a broad membership, but many hold that its inclusion of law enforcement types makes it a “cop club.” The only biker so far identified as firing shots in the Denver confrontation is an Iron Order member who works for the state Department of Corrections.

John C. Whitfield, an attorney for the Iron Order who also is a patched member, acknowledges they anger other clubs, especially the 1 percenters.

The club was founded in 2004 by a former Secret Service agent in Louisville, Ky. The founder wanted to uphold traditions of old-school motorcycle clubs from the 1950s and ’60s while still following the law, Whitfield says.

“We started flying a three-piece patch, and we didn’t ask permission from anybody,” he says. “That’s all well and good when you’re a little club from Louisville. But as you get bigger and bigger, you attract attention.”

As for whether the Iron Order is a cop club, Whitfield says law enforcement officers are in the club. But it also draws from the military, truck drivers, doctors and lawyers, such as himself.

“The 1 percent do not want law enforcement at all. Period,” says Whitfield, who goes by the road name “Shark.” “You put one cop in your club, and all of a sudden you’re a cop club.”

Generally, outlaw clubs have little use for cop clubs of any stripe.

Working undercover within Hells Angels, Dobyns often would cross paths with cop clubs wanting to participate in the social environment of the outlaw culture. That offended him.

“If you, as a law enforcement officer, want to put a biker vest on and go to biker rallies, you’re no longer in your world,” he says. “You’re in their world. And if you’re dabbling in that world, if it’s your weekend hobby, you’re in over your head.”

Multiple law enforcement motorcycle clubs exist in Denver, including the Blue Knights and the Sentinels. Iron Order also has a Denver chapter.

D.J. Alvarez, international president of the Blue Knights, which has five chapters in Colorado, says his group always has promoted a “good guy” image.

“We do not go looking for trouble,” Alvarez says. “We ride our motorcycles. That’s it. In general, as law enforcement, image goes a long way when it comes to public perception of law enforcement. What we do off duty can bleed into our professional lives.”

Outlaw culture

Similarly, outlaw clubs avoid associating with law enforcement rather than risk being suspected of acting as a snitch.

Croke, the ATF agent, would not talk about Iron Order and whether it is considered an outlaw club or a law enforcement club.

“Based on the confrontation this weekend, it kind of speaks for itself,” he says.

Other confrontations have been reported around the country.

“Outlaws live by a code,” says blogger Davis. “Never back down from a fight. So it’s easy to pick a fight with a motorcycle outlaw. You keep pushing buttons till you find a red one.”

Two club presidents, one from a national group and one local, spoke on the condition of anonymity, saying they feared retaliation for speaking out and were bound by an honor code that generally bars sharing information with outsiders.

Now, as Denver’s biker community closely monitors the investigation, some voice fears of a police coverup to dodge any law enforcement culpability.

If no one in Iron Order is charged with the shooting death, predicts the national club president, the Mongols could take matters into their own hands and retaliate. The ATF is monitoring that possibility as well.

Bikers also are concerned that the shooting will affect public opinion of their lifestyles, says the local club president. He worries that more bars will ban bikers from wearing their colors.

“Most motorcycle clubs want to separate themselves from it,” he says of the Denver conflict. “We just all want to do our thing. We don’t want to mess with nobody.”

Both say law enforcement officers living a biker lifestyle are hypocritical. Bikers are anti-establishment and counterculture. In their minds, no one represents authority more than a police officer.

“How can you sit there and say you uphold the law and you hate everything I do and then go out on the weekend and be a biker?” the national club president says.

Although bound by a common love of motorcycles, clubs feature a variety of personalities. Some are founded by veterans. Others accept only Harley-Davidson owners. Some are leather-wearing preachers. Some simply like to ride by day and party by night.

Most follow traditions established by the outlaw clubs.

“You don’t rat on each other,” says the national club president. “You don’t say what you know or talk about what you see. You just don’t do it. That’s why we’re careful as to who we let in.”

His club’s members earn their patches by logging miles on their motorcycles.

“It is a journey based on miles,” he says. “You earn your respect by riding your motorcycle. It’s not a violent gang. You don’t have to beat somebody up. You don’t have to steal someone’s motorcycle. It’s not like the old days.”

Today’s motorcycle clubs try to downplay the outlaw side. Territorial lines have blurred. In Colorado, seven clubs wear the state’s name on their jackets, says Wade Eldridge, an attorney for the state confederation.

But outlaw club structure and tradition endures.

Club wannabes, termed “hang-arounds,” do just that — they hang around with members of a specific chapter. They’re put on the phone list and may be invited to various parties and events. Although hang-arounds may be called upon to perform certain functions, like backing up members in a fight, those aren’t requirements.

But impressing the club at this stage, which can unfold over a matter of years, might take the process to the next level — prospect.

Recruitment

Sometimes also called a probate or striker, the prospect is sponsored for membership and makes a more formal commitment to the club. This status may last from a few months to a couple of years performing any number of menial tasks, from working security at events to guarding members’ motorcycles.

It might involve fielding the club president’s middle-of-the-night call to fetch him a hamburger; it could mean absorbing a black eye for serving members warm beer; it could be as random as fulfilling a demand to ride around the block naked.

But it’s also a time of evaluation.

“It’s all about: Can you handle the pressure of law enforcement?” Falco says. “Once you put on the prospect patch, the (police) gang unit will know you and pull you over. Your life will change. The club will watch to make sure you can handle the pressure.”

Those who pass the test, including a period of hazing, eventually become “patched” members.

“It’s like pledging a violent fraternity,” Falco says.

And while Davis, The Aging Rebel, suspects the motorcycle club phenomenon may be waning, he hedges his bet. He sees outlaw bikers as a manifestation of the American frontier, an embodiment of freedom and self-determination that, for all its issues, has been mythologized and cemented into the national psyche.

“Seeing all the young guys in various clubs, maybe this is an idea that has an almost timeless appeal,” he says. “I don’t know that you can separate motorcycle clubs from America.”

Noelle Phillips: 303-954-1661, nphillips@denverpost.com or @Noelle_Phillips