I fell in with a group of fellow motorcyclists, and every Sunday morning we would meet in the city, go over the Golden Bridge onto the narrow, eucalyptus-smelling road which wound up Mount Tamalpais, then along the high mountain ridge with the Pacific to our left, descending in wide swoops to have brunch together on Stinson Beach (or occasionally Bodega Bay, soon to be made famous by Hitchcock's film The Birds). Those early morning rides were about feeling intensely alive, feeling the air on one's face, the wind on one's body, in a way only given to motorcycle riders. Those mornings have an almost intolerable sweetness in memory, and nostalgic images of them are instantly provoked by the smell of eucalyptus.
On weekdays, I usually biked alone around San Francisco. But on one occasion, I approached a group- very different from our sedate and respectable Stinson Beach group- a noisy, uninhibited group, sitting on their bikes drinking cans of beer and smoking. When I got closer, I saw the Hells Angels logos on their jackets, but it was too late to turn around, so I drew up next to them and said, "Hello." My audacity and English accent intrigued them, as did, when they learned of my being a doctor. I was approved on the spot, without having to go through any rites of passage. I was pleasant, unjudgmental, and a doctor- and as such was called on, occasionally, to advise when riders were injured. I did not join them in any of their rides or other activities, and our mild, unexpected relationship- unexpected for me, as for them- quietly petered out when I left San Francisco a year later.
On The Move Oliver Sacks pp73-4