The Saturday ride is the three-day rally's main event, kicking off at noon and winding across 30 miles from industrial north St. Louis through downtown, down through south city and all the way to Sylvan Springs Park in south county, where there's a skatepark. (Naturally, a moped or two makes its way onto the ramps.) From there it's a short shot to Broadway, taking the group back up to Shady Jack's, the north-city biker bar that serves as the rally's home base, before a portion of the group heads further north to the velodrome at Penrose Park, where riders rip around the track on a 28-degree incline.
The majority of the rest of the rally is spent at Shady Jack's. It's the fifth consecutive year the event has been headquartered at the bar.
"It takes a tremendous load off, having a place that can handle 100 people camping out there overnight," says Behrmann. "They need food and water and basic toilet functions and life necessities, and having it all right there in the lot where you're at — it takes a whole lot of the headache out of it."
Over the years, Shady Jack's has been an invaluable resource.
"We had our first rally at the Mad Art Gallery, which was really awesome, a great place to host a rally, except for the fact it's smack-dab in the middle of a neighborhood," says Matt Kaufman, 43, another Ruffian. "So the neighbors complained. Luckily there was a cop that owned the gallery, and he kind of held the cops off. But we knew we couldn't have it there anymore."
The group started searching for a new place to hold the rally, preferably somewhere that would allow camping. That's when they had the idea to ask the biker bar.
"I kind of jokingly said, 'What about Shady Jack's?' thinking he'd laugh at us and tell us to get the fuck out of Dodge," Kaufman says. "But I went up there and talked to Jack and he was all about it. That was five years ago, and we've been back every year since."
Any reservations the group may have had about taking what are comparatively toys to a big-boy biker bar faded away in that first year. Rather than giving the moped riders a hard time, the bikers seemed to admire their commitment to their tiny rides. The bar's namesake, Jack Larrison, gladly welcomed the group.
"He had respect for the guys out there wrenching on their bikes a few hours before the ride," Kaufman says. "People working on their own shit, sleeping in a gravel parking lot. It shows some dedication.
"As long as he stays open," Kaufman figures, "we'll keep having it there."
But for the first time, that is looking like it might not be a guarantee. The bar, which opened twelve years ago after Larrison rehabbed an abandoned, burned-out building, is currently embroiled in a bit of a war with the city, as well as one of its closest neighbors, Hibdon Hardwood, a company that imports wood to make blanks for guitars.
Last July, Larrison, 74, was given a public nuisance notice by the Department of Public Safety, alleging the bar was the site of "disturbances, drug use, assaults, and other unruly behavior." (Larrison denies the accusations.) Then, in August, the owner of Hibdon Hardwood, Bill Hibdon, filed a complaint with the city about the noise of the motorcycles. Larrison says his bar has since been besieged by city officials: a street inspector, multiple building inspections, a bill for uncut weeds (later dropped), and on and on.
When Larrison's wife, Ann, went to renew the bar's liquor license, she was told that there was a note in the bar's file saying that it should be renewed only on a month-to-month basis. The city excise commissioner, Myles McDonnell, instead gave them a six-month license — Larrison has owned a dozen or so bars in St. Louis over the years, which he figures bought him some goodwill. If the bar is free of issues during that time, McDonnell told them, they can go back to the standard year-long renewal. McDonnell blames Hibdon's complaint for the extraordinary move.
The shortened liquor license has already caused problems for Larrison, who regularly hosts groups of bikers from all across the country.
"I can't plan something when someone who is doing an event says to me — and this is happening now — 'Are you gonna be open if we have an event in November?'" Larrison explains in his gravelly voice. "I'm like, 'Yeah, I think I'm gonna be open.' They say, 'Jack, I can't take that risk.'"
After several hearings with the city and an unsuccessful mediation with Hibdon, not to mention the ongoing stream of city inspectors, Larrison has become convinced that Hibdon has connections at the top.
"He's been trying to close me for years. Slay would never pay no attention to him, but he knows the new mayor," Larrison alleges. "My attorney found out that he's a friend of the new mayor. Not only is he a friend of the new mayor, he's a contributor to her campaign. He hates bikers, and I heard that she does too."
Hibdon, 75, has operated his business from its home two doors down from the bar for some 25 years. He flatly denies having friends at City Hall. In fact, while he admits to frequently calling the police over excessive noise, he says that staffers have proven basically useless.
"We've tried to meet with the captain of the fourth district, Renee Kriesmann, and no luck, can't talk with us," Hibdon says. "Can't meet with the mayor. The mayor sends out one of her assistants and gives us some lip service, but nothing's happened. And nothing is going to happen. So if somebody has a connection to City Hall it's Shady Jack and not me. If I had connections this would have stopped long ago. But I don't."
Hibdon's main complaint is with the noise that comes from motorcycles racing down the stretch of Collins Street between Dixon and Cass, which is directly behind the bar's parking lot. He and his wife live on the third floor of their building, and he says the constant, deafening sound makes life unbearable. It's not so much mopeds that are at issue, nor does Hibdon have a problem with the Harley guys who frequent the spot. It's the street bikes, he says, that simply scream.
"I have nothing against Shady Jack," Hibdon says. "I don't have anything against his bar and restaurant. What I'm against is the loss of quiet, of peace and quiet. I mean, I'd like to watch occasionally a basketball game on Sunday afternoon — no chance. You cannot hear anything. Can't play music, can't read. And these are double-pane glass.
"I don't anticipate that anything is gonna happen until I sue somebody," he continues. "And I'm just about to that point. I've given up on City Hall, I've given up on the fourth district. Yes, we call repeatedly, because that's the only thing that gets a response. And then when the police do come they never bust anybody, they don't give out any tickets. They just kind of shoo 'em back into Shady Jack's parking lot and it starts all over again."
It's true that bikes frequently use the small strip of street to pop wheelies and do burnouts, and it is equally true that those bikes can be pretty damn loud. Hibdon takes issue with the stretch of public street being co-opted entirely for the motorcycles, pointing out that cars can't even use it most of the time. Larrison, who'd like to see the city formally vacate the street and turn it over to his business, defends the bikers: "We're not affecting nobody. It's all vacant buildings behind me."
The running theme between each man's complaint is essentially the same: dissatisfaction with the city.
"There is a story here, in that the city is not backing up people who are really trying to make a difference. I'm not saying they're backing up Shady Jack. They're just indifferent. And that's wrong," says Hibdon.
"I told them at another hearing — I've been to four — pay me for my property and I'll burn the building down if you want me to," says Larrison. "Because you seem like you want vacant buildings."
