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Motorcycle Madness
Risky hobby fuels stunt riders
By Eric Murtaugh
Contemporary Culture Editor
Motorcycle stunt riders climb all over their bikes at speeds exceeding 30, sometimes 40 mph. A burst of acceleration stands the bike on one wheel, allowing grown men to scramble from handle bar to seat. Balance meets bravery on high-powered machines. A group of close friends gather in an empty parking lot on the southwest outskirts of Phoenix. Puddles of rainwater, scattered throughout the lot, create the illusion that nature intentionally set up slippery obstacles. The chill has everyone wrapped in layers, except for a rider wearing short-sleeves and a cowboy hat. Hand shakes, lewd comments and a few grunts later, motorcycles roll off the back of pick-ups. The bikes project obnoxious screams when fired up, as though the machines are giddy with anticipation. These riders are like rough and tough ranch hands, mounting 600 cc’s of motorcycle instead of angry bulls or untamed broncos. The pavement is the true enemy, a blacktopped monster hungry for skin.
In this sport, the high-speed thrill of an adrenalin rush supersedes crashing. Who would ride a motorcycle with no hands at 55 mph and hope to lose control? The rush, the ability to teeter on a fragile line between bloody wounds and unscathed adrenalin, is an addictive drug for stunt riders. Their toys look like ordinary motorcycles, and for the most part they are. Dashboard gauges have been removed, extras like steering dampers upgrade control of the bike and the majority of riders don’t bother with headlights. A light bike free of unnecessary gadgets and gizmos is easier to pop up on one wheel than a heavy one. Guys who used to stunt in the streets are growing up and taking their sport to empty parking lots. Securing a spot to ride on the weekends can be a mentally painful aspect of the hobby. If skateboarders can’t skate rails on private property, why should a man riding a crotch rocket be able to burn out and pop wheelies in a lot? In the era of rampant lawsuits, “liability” is a frightening word. Some folks who don’t ride and happen to own a parking lot actually appreciate the sport. Aggravated Assault, a small team of stunt riders, rendezvous every Sunday in a private lot they use with permission. Michael Peristere, who rides for Aggravated Assault, has spent close to $10,000 on his stunt bike in one year. Simple maintenance and upkeep, things like an oil change and new tires, run Peristere an average of $100 a week. Sometimes, an engine will blow, a costly repair he doesn’t think twice about. His girlfriend gets annoyed with the amount of cash he drops on the bike, but that doesn’t slow him down. Peristere likes to boast about how far he can balance an “indo,” a ride on the front tire with a potential face plant written all over it. He admits he’s a showoff, a quality every stunt rider uses for fuel. A man buried in a jacket nods his head in approval after Peristere rolls out of a perfect, long distance indo.
Recently, Peristere didn’t make the proper adjustment to his steering damper as he got up on the front tire at 60 mph. The indo master’s body flipped over the handlebars and skidded to a halt on the cement. He brandishes a series of healing scars on his right arm as he shrugs the incident off. “You get used to crashing since you crash all the time,” Peristere says. “It’s road rash and you’re going to get it.” Riders like Peristere and Eshalom say perceptions of the sport are based on guys who stunt in the street. The street is where the hobby originated, groups of people getting together for a cruise that turns into a high-speed stunt carnival. Peristere has heard of guys who, while evading the police, lost control of their motorcycles and met untimely deaths on the freeway’s pavement. Peristere and Eshalom used to ride the streets. Peristere has had a few slumber parties in the city jail after being spotted on one wheel in traffic. If they find stunt riders on the street, police will slap them with a reckless driving charge, impound their bikes and haul them to holding cells.
Put the sport on private property and law enforcement backs off, allowing the riders to stunt at their own risk. This explains Peristere’s and Eshalom’s drive to remove the underground hobby from the streets. Riders get arrested and die in the streets, not in parking lots. “A lot of people love our sport when they see us in the parking lot,” Eshalom says. “I don’t ride in the streets anymore, because riding in parking lots is a lot more fun and a lot less dangerous. The two stunt riders hope the public will recognize the legitimacy of the sport, looking past the initial perception that these guys are lunatics with nothing better to do. This is a serious, expensive hobby that keeps some riders away from alcohol, drugs, and trouble. The stunt bike community is making strides. Some riders have participated in shows at venues like the Glendale Arena. Fans and riders meet at large competitions held around the country, where small pots of cash are doled out to those who do the “sickest tricks” and to the “best teams.” The bikes are slowly coming off the street and into parking lots, at least in the Phoenix area. “We’re trying to develop a positive vibe on the sport,” says Peristere. “People hear motorcycle and wheelie in the same sentence and they are automatically opposed to it.” Hooked on the heart-pounding rush associated with stunt riding, Eshalom compares his sport to jumping out of a high altitude plane with a parachute. “The thrill is just like skydiving, except we do it on the cement,” says Eshalom. |
| Last updated: April 10, 2006 Paradise Valley Community College- URL-http://www.pvc.maricopa.edu/Puma/ © 2006 Maricopa County Community College District. All Rights Reserved. Click here for Questions or Comments. 
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