In April 2011, after several years of silent contemplation, I walked into the Ventura Clubhouse and announced I was done. It was a good run but it was time to walk away and start a new adventure. At the time I had no idea how crazy that adventure would be but I was at a significant personal crossroad and it was time for me to ride a different road.
Within weeks my status and the circumstances of my separation was spun by my political adversaries within the club and I found myself in the middle of a public social media shaming. Ridiculed and disrespected by club supporters that in all likelihood have never been closer to the world of the outlaw motorcycle culture than the keyboard of their computer.
This was no longer the secret world I help build -- we had indeed become the people we rebelled against. The one thing I knew would never change when I made my choice to leave the club was “either you’re in or you’re out”. It became very clear to me that I was now out. The reaction was a little more than I expected but I had been through much worse in my life. I would get through this.
As the next few months passed I became familiar with my exile and my solitude became my friend. That all ended August 12, 2011 as I awoke to the sound of my pitbull Ruby’s bark, the same bark she had always used to alert me when someone who didn't belong was near. I got out the back door and heard my neighbor call out to the intruders "Are you guys really FBI?". Quickly it all became clear... The FEDS were raiding my house. My next adventure had begun.