Speed Tribes: Riding with a bunch of Japanese hoodlums

Down Town Tokyo, on the outskirts of Arakawa. Away from the glitz, skyscrapers and salarymen. Old, low-rise houses and shops, worn down by the heat and pollution. And the noise! A gathering of cars and motorcycles, screaming their engines in neutral whilst the drivers and riders pose. Brylcream hair slicked back, stripped off shirts showing tattoo muscles; wide grins with hard eyes.

I had tagged a ride with a group of Japanese drop-outs who didn’t make it through the rigorous educational process that the Japanese deem necessary to inflict on their kids. There were still plenty of manual jobs where they could earn easy money and the ever open option of finding a career in one of the gangster groups whose influence went all the way into the top companies and highest political positions in the country.

I wasn’t sure how seriously I should take this mob, calling themselves the Midnite Devils. Oh sure, they were evil looking bastards but the badass image was highly stylized - how can you take someone who wears flared trousers with turn-ups seriously? And the machines wouldn't have raised an eyebrow at any half decent custom show.

Harsh licensing practices in Japan made it difficult to attain the seat of anything more than 400cc, not that the massive car park that most of Tokyo resembled gave much point or need in buying anything bigger than 50cc. The rush hour in Tokyo was gridlock time when even a nifty fifty had trouble navigating a path through the endless rows of stalled cars.

My own attempts at riding a CB125 through the chaos had ended when I'd been viciously cut up, crashing over into a group of startled pedestrians. The police had not been very amused at the lack of licence, insurance and valid registration documents. I was only let out of the police station after telling a pack of lies about representing an international magazine and that their tourist industry would be profoundly damaged if I was locked away in prison. They kept face, mind you, by confiscating the Honda.

It was whilst at the cop shop that I met this dubious character, who after hearing my litany of complaints about brutal police behaviour decided I must be a hardcore kind of chap, inviting me to a motorcycle run on the back of his machine.

One thing led to another, more out of boredom than anything else, I turned up at the appointed time and place. Five taxi drivers had refused to take me there, the sixth demanding cash up front and about six times what the meter registered. Still, a bunch of bikers that actually obeyed the law and played along quite happily with a crowd of auto toting thugs failed to impress me.

The Midnite Devils were part of a growing Japanese cult of disaffected youth, Bosozoku maniacs who bored out of their heads with conventional Japanese life become speed tribes that deliberately set out to upset the rest of society. As laughable as these youths might seem to a superficial western eye, they are so intricately interwoven with the Japanese Yakuza (gangster) scene that the better part of valour was to keep a straight face and avoid direct eye contact. I was getting enough hard looks for just being where I shouldn't have been.
 
These speed tribes are not just famous for roaring up the road at an inconsiderate pace, they are also feared for their massive and frequent abuse of methamphetamines, having developed a strain of speed that gives you a six hour high then suddenly switches you into a murderous depression so black that the only way out is to consume yet another handful of pills. Couple that with a liking for potent brandy, and I was pretty sure that the night’s run would turn up some very interesting antics.

I was to be pillion on the back of a Kawasaki GPz400, a bike of inordinate ordinariness only made tolerable by our lack of crash helmets and the nervous way the pilot's hands shook. The bike’s only modification as far as I could see was a pair of clip-ons that were ill suited to the standard pegs and a couple of decals with weird Japanese characters that could have meant anything from Fuck You to Have A Happy Day.
 
You could tell that these kids didn’t have that much spending power... the cars were jazzed up Toyotas and the like that would have had the editor of a custom car magazine in hysterics... weird Japanese stickers were stuck over the worst rust patches and the interiors were velvet bad taste. Having noted a collection of large knives in the back of one of the autos I naturally refrained from expressing my thoughts on these, er, hot-rods!

All these vehicles had one thing in common. A lack of silencing. After a minute or two of madly revving engines my head was throbbing with the pain of it all. The convoy, maybe twenty bikes and thirty cars, sped off towards Joban Expressway after the late evening rush hour had dissipated.
 
Cars skidded out of the way, narrowly avoiding causing mass pileups. The sheer noise of the convoy was enough to send car drivers scurrying out of our path. The wind whipped my head from side to side, other pillions punching their fists in the air, either in sheer joy or repressed anger. The pilot wobbles as the crowd of machines slows down, all this effort and pose is apparently wasted on speed and it’s much more fun to block off the whole Expressway with a 5mph crawl.
 
The Kawasaki wobbles about so much that I’m fingering the back of the machine, trying to work out if I'd be able to step off without doing myself permanent injury if the rider loses the bike completely. Looking down past the guardrails of the elevated expressway I can see the midnight lights of northern Tokyo and my mind is filled with visions of being flipped off the side, spinning down and down until flesh is torn asunder.

Once the traffic is piled up to the back of us as far as the eye can see and the road in front is clear of vehicles, a race to Moriya begins. Vibes blitz the poor old Kawasaki as the rider misses the second to third change and the revs go right through the red. I’m perched high above the near midget at the controls whose head is anyway buried in the clocks, so take the full wind blast in my face. Even with my eyes closed in an Oriental squint, tears begin to flow as the bike wobbles up to 100mph or so. We can’t burn off the cars, they might look pretty mundane but have had their motors tweaked.
 
Some sport flashing purple lights in imitation of the Japanese cops who so far have been entirely absent from the proceedings, others an assortment of orange, red and blue lights that flicker on and off with enough intensity to throw a disco maniac into the wildest of frenzies. 

Speed doesn't seem to faze anyone, there are some pretty strange antics. Women on the pillions climb up on to the seats, others in cars stick there bodies out of the windows. Flags are unfurled and stuck out of windows in victory at having taken over the road. Lights flash, horns blare and disembodied screams manage to filter through the rush of wind.
 
This rolling convey of anarchy and rebellion roars over the landscape in total exclusion to every other, sight, sound and sensation. I was already slightly drunk before slinging a leg over the saddle and am now finding it hard to sit in a composed, upright stance. The temptation to join in the screaming is great!
 
When there are no vehicles left behind the procession slows right down again. Cars start doing handbrake turns spinning through 360 degrees with such precision that they avoid colliding with each other. Some of the motorcyclists try to imitate these manoeuvres and cause a mild pile-up of tangled limbs and broken machinery. Luckily, my pilot limits his excess to a number plate scraping, seemingly endless, wheelie. My head feels dizzy and my stomach was left behind a long time ago. I have to cling desperately to the rider to stop myself falling off the back, feeling foolish as well as frightened. I am not a very good pillion at the best of times and this is certainly not the best of times. More like sheer hell!
 
The cars at the back form an effective road block whilst the rest of the motorcyclists turn around to go back to aid their fallen colleagues. About fifteen minutes later there is a massive tail back of cars, who strangely don’t sound their horns in anger, and still no sign of the cops. One girl had broken an arm and is bungled into the back of a car which speeds off to the nearest hospital. The rest are merely bruised and bloodied, the machines kicked straight. No-one has turned off their engines and the almighty row has left my head feeling like it's been pumped by a pneumatic drill.

The rest of the journey is mostly clowning around. Everyone trying to cross each other up without actually knocking each other off. But there is more youthful exuberance than dedicated skill in evidence. By the time we hit Moriya there have been two more collisions, one of which degenerated into a fight. I stayed well in the shade as the participants flayed each other with knives and vicious kicks. All out war was but narrowly avoided. The horde descends on a huge parking lot belonging to a restaurant. It’s 3.45am and what few diners are around at that time hurriedly dash for their cars and exit with squealing tyres. No-one tries to intercept them, and apart from sheer numbers and noise there has been no violence vented on innocent citizens.

Tokyo is normally one of the safest cities in the world to wander around, the iron grip of the Yakuza makes indiscriminate, raw violence a rare occurrence. The gangs will cut each other up like no-one else but unless there’s lots of money up for grabs they stay within their own orbit. At least that’s what I kept telling myself!
 
To add to the chaos of cars and bikes, the surface has been dug up and showers of loose gravel rain down on everyone as wheels are spun. Everyone takes this as an excuse to go completely berserk, whatever little decorum and cohesiveness there was on the road dissipates. I leap off the back of the Kawasaki just in time to watch the owner drop the clutch with what must be 12000rpm on the clock. His face turns to surprised shock as he loses it all and turns the bike over on its back wheel. The GPz lands on top of him, his head hitting the ground with a sickening crunch.

He’s out for the count. Hands grapple with the 400lbs of alloy and steel in time to stop him being covered with a couple of litres of fuel. His mates gently boot him back to life, the blood streaming out of a large gash in the back of his head. His previously lacquered hair is all over the place which probably causes him more concern than the loss of blood. A bandana is used as a bandage and he starts picking over the Kawasaki like a concerned parent with a child who has just suffered a fall.

Meanwhile, several mini-skirted girls who look no more than 14 have emerged from nowhere. They eye the riders as if they are movie stars rather than juvenile scum. It takes no more than a few minutes for them to scurry off to a barely lighted grass area besides the restaurant. I quickly lose count of the number of men they pleasure but feel pretty damn sure that worries of AIDS didn't enter their heads nor affect their actions.

Brandy is passed around, quaffed with handfuls of pills. Everything is falling apart rapidly. The restaurant had quickly closed its doors and no doubt summoned the cops, so the real fun is only a matter of minutes away. A group of distraught Japanese youths are pointing fingers in my direction, trying to give me the evil eye whilst I look into space pretending that I am invisible, couldn’t possibly exist and therefore couldn't be beaten to death by a bunch of irate, drunk and drugged youths.  

Our attention is suddenly focused on two beat up Datsuns that have turned the car park into a chicken run. The heavens rain gravel as they viciously spin their back wheels, snaking off the mark, each at an opposite end of the car park. They close rapidly, no-one willing to give an inch they crash head-on at maybe 50mph. Amazingly, the drivers crawl out of the wreckage, shaky on their feet but apparently avoiding serious injury. The cars seem to have fused together and not even the combined efforts of the assembled mass are able to pull them apart.

Another fight has broken out, this time over a girl. Not any girl, maybe 17, she had enough looks to make it on to the front cover of Vogue. What the hell she was doing with this motley crew of hoodlums I could not comprehend. She looked on as two louts, stripped to the waist, showing off vivid tattoos on their backs, tried to kick and punch each other into oblivion. I felt weak at the knees, whether from all the alcohol I'd been consuming or the all pervading atmosphere of violence and madness I couldn't be sure, probably a combination of both.
 
The GPz400 owner was frantically trying to start his machine. This caused me some concern, the last thing I wanted was to be stranded in the car park when the pigs turned up. Blood was seeping out of his bandana and his pupils had disappeared into pinpricks. He gave me a vacant look as if he’d never seen me before.
 
The Kawasaki eventually clattered into life but the poor idiot didn’t have enough energy to clamber back on board. He fell into a heap next to the machine, adding to his injuries by trying to clasp the hot engine with his left hand. The fight had progressed to the stage where one of the youths was writhing on the floor, curled up into a foetal ball whilst the apparent victor rained kick upon kick down upon him. The girl had a wild smile on her face and eyes that were popping out of her head from an overdose of pills and alcohol. Suddenly, the guy on the floor unfurled and tried to rip a hole in the belly of his opponent with a flick-knife that had appeared from nowhere. There was a sickening crunch as his arm was broken over the knee of his intended victim and the knife clattered on to the tarmac.
 
I had prised the apparently dead Japanese youth off the Kawasaki, stopped myself throwing up at the sight of the bone deep burn and decided it was time to do a runner. The sudden intrusion of wailing sirens produced all the diversion I needed for a quick exit. About twenty police cars sped into the car park and disgorged riot clad cops waving big sticks and guns.
 
The rest of the youths ran to their vehicles, laughing maniacally and throwing their fists in the air in an anti-salute to the law enforcement agencies. I was moments ahead of the mass exit of screaming vehicles, taking the Kawasaki on an assault course over a large embankment which dropped the machine right back on to the expressway. The back wheel skidded every which way, making me think the bike was going to pitch me off but we soon rattled and thumped back on to the tarmac.
 
I was unsure how the gang would react to my half-inching one of their fallen members’ pride and joy, so rode with the lights turned out at about 110mph until I could find the relative safety of the first exit and abandon the machine. By then the first hint of the rising sun was trying to break through the darkness of the sky and I could join the hordes of Japanese salarymen commuting back into central Tokyo.
 
It wasn’t until I got back to the hotel that I realised why I was getting so many horrified glances. I looked a complete wreck. My face covered in exhaust fumes, my clothes dishevelled to the point where I'd have no problems pasting muster as a tramp and my eyes bloodshot, out on storks, making my face look about twenty years older than it really was and madder than a mass murderer who'd quaffed a bottle full of sulphuric acid.
 
The incident at the restaurant made the early evening news, twelve arrests had been made and my pilot carted away in an ambulance, not dead but brain damaged, although he was probably halfway there without the help of the accident. Earnest politicians tried to play down the problems, social workers blamed the harshness of Japanese society and well adjusted youths shook their heads in a mixture of awe and horror. It seemed pretty obvious to me that the report had done a good PR job for the speed tribes and yet more disaffected youths would be joining their merry if mad band. As for me, once was more than enough.
 
Mike Prescotte