HERITAGE

The Wheels Of Soul Nation, MC was established in Philadelphia, PA in 1967. We are a multi racial and national organization with chapters in most of the United States. The Wheels Of Soul Nation, MC does not belong to any governing motorcycle organization and is thus considered to be an “Outlaw Motorcycle Club”.  We are not a gang or criminal organization. We are a brotherhood based on a common interest in motorcycles and camaraderie.  Our 4-piece patch is made up of  3 “rockers” and the “wing and wheel” center patch. In our 40+ year history the patch has remained the same for the most part. Our adherence to the original patch mirrors our adherence to the original core values that the Wheels Of Soul Nation, MC was established upon.  -GFWD

“You should never look down on another man unless you are helping him to his feet”

Tiki WOS California, MC

Comments
  1. guttertorque says:

    Hey WOS, just saying g’day to all the WOS brotherhood and particularly Flakes. From your No1 supporter in Australia. If I was there I would be knocking on your door, stand proud ride free.

  2. What u said is real thr r not a lot of real ppl no more. We need q brother hood out here that except all races. Brother how do we join

  3. plz give me a call W.O.S i wont in 818 602-7171 ASAP

  4. Freddy King says:

    First, let me say, In days gone bye, I had been a welcomed “Associate” or “Independent” to just about every OMG that has bona fide roots or has ever passed through the “Dirty South” because I have offered a special skill-set that we will call “Uncommon” among the sheep and even among lots of true 1%ers. However, as an “Indy-Rider” it’s reduced any blowback but upon stumbling across this recruitment site of sorts, all I can think of is the number of loose tongue snitches that are attempting to sneak their bitch-asses into this club while drooling at the thought of taking the “Boss” and his closest club officers down with some trumped up bullshit charges, just so the get a pat on the back by the ATF or FBI and hoping all while obtaining their Jr. G-Man Badge or get their own “Time” cut so as to get out of PC while in the joint so they can wash the cum out of their ass.. Times are not like they were, now of course not everyone, but many, simply want to join a 1% MC with no other aspirations of nothing more than padding their own bank-roll– My ONE sincere question, “Whatever happened to BROTHERHOOD and LOYALTY?? It seems to be all but something of the past .. W.O.S. Much respect to you…, I am not downing anyone, no MC or no Individual, I am simply offering some lasting common sense to the LIFE of the BROTHERHOOD…

    To My Beloved Tamers of the Steel Horse, Watch your 6 O’clock because “John Q Law” is out there
    in force and he is prepared to go “All the way”,—–>You too should be prepared to go to that Point of No Return”, it’s the only way this life we have chosen will ever last and be here for our Pee-Wee’s
    when we are gone to claim what’s ours in Valhalla..

    Ride On,
    GhillieGuerrilla

  5. I am looking for anyone from the Philadelphia MC that knew my dad. His name is Charles Radford aka Horse.

    My email is tracey.caraballo@gmail.com

  6. Billy White says:

    Looking into joining a club, I see so many pop up clubs that do a lot of talk and have no respect for the founding clubs that have paved the way for them. I don’t like then pop up’s. I do like the old school ways of clubs and will always support them. Loyalty, Respect, Honor. Most of us know that those are core values every man should have. I don’t look at any true club as a club I look at it as a chosen family. Much respect to all out there who feel the same and to all the clubs that support that way of thinking. WOS nice to see a racially diverse club out there.

  7. This is an excerpt from “Cunning Stunts, Stunning Babes.” It is available as an ebook at Amazon.

    ****************************

    Several weeks into my second year in law school I wheeled my motorcycle out of the law school courtyard and over the sidewalk into Sansom Street when right in front of him the cover popped off a manhole and one very large, very bearded, very black head appeared.

    “Hey, man,” the head said looking right at I. “Nice bike. Got a second?”

    As I shook my head yes, a commensurately very large body followed the very large beard and head out of the manhole. Although like me this guy was wearing a leather jacket underneath a Levi jacket made into a vest of sorts by tearing off the sleeves, all of the tools and meters hanging from the wide belt riding low on his pelvis identified him as a real live Bell Telephone Man – a 6 foot 5 inch Bell Telephone Man unlike any I had ever before had the privilege of seeing.

    After they’d exchanged names and shaken hands, Cliff led I up the street to show him his highly modified (i.e. stripped down) Triumph Bonneville, and as I was walking behind him I could detect another differentiator between their respective outfits: the colors affixed to the back of Cliff’s sleeveless Levi jacket declared that he was a member in good standing of the Wheels of Soul (Philly) Motorcycle Club.

    “Yeah”, he said after we’d looked his bike over for a minute or so and commented on the many special features (no mufflers, no front fenders, radically shortened rear fenders) our two rides had in common, “I saw you riding by a couple a times and heard you about ten times, but I never could get out of the hole fast enough, and I was just wondering if maybe you want to come by our clubhouse some time.”

    Does the wild bear shit in the woods? Is the Pope Catholic? Does an iridescent douche bag glow in the dark?

    Tuesday evening of the following week I rode up to the WoS headquarters, a maybe 20 feet by 40 feet two-story wooden structure of shed-like appearance located at the back alley between two streets off 52nd street in darkest West Philadelphia.

    At almost the very moment I somewhat tentatively knocked on the door, one of the members slammed it open, furtively glanced left and right up and down the alley, and then with an emphatic toss of his head indicated that both my bike and I should get inside real fast.

    For an instant or two as I was pushing my bike though the door a mild spurt of adrenaline whispered that maybe this really wasn’t such a good idea, but then in the corner behind a large assemblage of members’ bikes – all Triumphs, BSAs, Royal Enfields, and other Brit machinery – I could see Cliff leaning back in his chair with a cold bottle of beer in his hand and a big grin on his face.

    “Hey, Token Whitey,” he laughed, “glad you could make it. Sorry about the greeting – we never know when we’ll open the door and there’ll be a bunch of ‘Locks waiting to whup us with their baseball bats.”

    The Warlocks, Cliff went on to explain, were the other major group of bikers in Philly – the white group of bikers, more precisely – and Warlocks and Wheels had been having at it for years.
    For about fifteen minutes Cliff and I chatted about motorcycles in general and their past, present, and future bikes in particular. But then perhaps because the scene at the club wasn’t nearly so exotic as I thought it would be – just eight or ten guys sitting around talking and working on their bikes but no obvious drug use (at that point I was still a very self-righteous dope-virgin), no hard alcohol use, and no angry glares at Token Whitey – or maybe because I was having one of my periodic guilt pangs about not hitting the books very much, I decided to head back to the apartment and maybe read a few cases before going to bed.

    About two weeks later as I was riding up Walnut Street towards home at the end of classes, I heard another bike coming up fast behind him. It was Cliff, and as they slowed for a red light at 41st Street he leaned over and shouted over the traffic noise (most of which was coming from their own, un-muffled exhausts) to tell I that at around 8:00 that evening the Wheels were going on what he referred to as a ‘run’ and why didn’t I come along.

    I arrived at the clubhouse just before 7:55 to an atmosphere that was far different from the one I’d experienced only a couple of weeks before – in fact, it was about what I’d expected to find on my first visit.

    Twenty-five or so members were already in the alley with their bikes, milling around, or firing up then shutting down their engines, or taking swigs from pint bottles of who knows what.

    Suddenly Cliff emerged from the clubhouse, threw a leg over his Bonnie, and with just one jump on the kick starter (an extraordinary feat with the Triumphs of that era) had it fired up and ready to go. With much slipping of his clutch, he careful wove his way up the alley through the rest of the riders and their bikes until, having reached 52nd street, he thrust his left arm forward and with a fierce burst of acceleration turned left into the heavy car traffic of West Philly’s main drag.

    The roar of that many un-muffled British parallel twin engines was magnificent, especially when riders who had fallen behind would first accelerate at full throttle and then, usually with engines red-lined, suddenly snap their throttles shut to keep from ramming the riders ahead of them. I was amazed that within a block enough cars had pulled into the right lane of the four-lane avenue that the Wheels were able to form what must have been at least twelve uninterrupted rows of two bikes per row and that automotive traffic yielded to them at every intersection, even when I and the others towards the rear had to run red lights to maintain formation. my suspicion is that, at least up to that point, Wheels of Soul runs down 52nd Street had been common enough that the locals (and it was almost only locals who ventured out in that vicinity at night) got out of the way as a matter of routine

    The incredible din of the all those engines was obviously functioning as a siren announcing that the Wheels were coming and everybody had better get out of the way.

    The club members plus me came to the end of the brightly lit blocks of 52nd Street and entered a series of side streets whose relative darkness revealed that the majority of my co-riders had either non- or barely-functioning head- and brake-lights. After who knows how many zigs and zags (my feeling was and still is that they were traveling in roughly a south-east direction) the riders entered what felt like a park and that at the very least was a broad thoroughfare with lots of ‘S’ curves and enough overhanging tree limbs that even at noon on a sunny day in the middle of the summer the road surface must have been entirely in the shade.

    Suddenly those trees and the curves and moisture from a thunderstorm earlier that day conspired to create chaos – in the middle of a sharp turn with his bike banked steeply to the left, one of the lead riders slid on wet leaves, lost control, and unleashed a chain reaction that brought every one of the bikes behind him crashing to the pavement as, in turn, they each collided with the sliding, spinning bikes in front of them.

    For years I had been hearing stories of guys who, faced with the need to avoid objects that had suddenly appeared in front of them, had ‘laid their bikes down’ as a means of quickly slowing their speed and, if the object ahead happened to the trailer of a truck, reducing the chances of full frontal impact by sliding underneath it. If only because I couldn’t conceive of what physical contortions would be needed to convince what were in effect two very large, heavy, and rapidly rotating gyroscopes to make such a radical and quick change to their moment of inertia, I’d always figured such tales were bullshit.

    I was obviously wrong, because the first thing I knew my Honda and I were on our sides with me still in a riding position, hands on handlebars and feet on foot pegs, with the wheels of my bike entangled with the frame of the bike that been directly in front of me.

    Although the force of the impact had cracked my front forks and bent the hell out of my rear swing arm, I was unharmed enough that I could drag my misshapen machine upright while all around him riders were still lying on the ground alongside their even more mangled mounts. I was grateful that for once I’d been happy to remain a back-row laggard, since that meant there were no machines to ram him from behind the way I had rammed into the rider in front of him.

    Mere moments after the crash – even before I was back on my feet – I heard the sound of numerous sirens getting louder and louder and closer and closer.. My first reaction was that, thank God, the emergency medical squads were already arriving, but the appearance of at least five police cars seconds later showed what an incorrigible optimist I could sometimes be.

    The near-instantaneous arrival of so many cops could hardly have been coincidental – they had obviously been chasing the Wheels – so I had yet another reason to be grateful that both my bike and I were in good enough shape that, in the midst of all the confusion, I could beat a hasty retreat in what I prayed was the direction of 45th and Pine.

    The bend in my swing arm was severe enough that, in order to travel in a straight line, I had to turn my handlebars at roughly 45 degrees relative to the main frame of my bike and proceed crab-like the entire way home. In fact, my bike was in such an obviously wretched state that it didn’t even occur to him to bother with the normal precaution of chaining it to the light post in front of the door to my flat.
    All I could think of as I slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment was relating my heroic adventure to Billy and Carl.

    Much to my surprise and subsequent chagrin, the moment I entered the living room both roommates took one look at me and broke into shrieks of glee. “Hi there, cowboy,” hissed Billy, “you just get back from a round-up?”

    “What the fuck are you talking about,” I yelled back, but at exactly that moment I felt a cool breeze on my legs. Looking down, I discovered what was both the source of that breeze and the cause of Billy’s and Feldbaum’s mirth: the impact of the crash, combined with the pressure my ample thighs and calves placed on Levis under the best of circumstances, had caused this pair to literally burst at both inner and outer seams, with the result that I was now wearing what really did look like a set of blue denim chaps.

  8. g team says:

    F@#%, EVERYBODY WANNA CLAIM BROOTHER HOOD, THE OUTLAW LIFE, COMRADARIE.. BLAH BLAH BLAH…. wheels or no wheels, how many can stare down a wannabe and tell them to fuck off, how many of you can look your family and tell then you gonna be gone for awhile, how many of you can really tell a cop you aint saying shit, how many of you can face another 1% and club being out numbered and out weaponed and STILL THROW DOWN, HOW MANY OF YOU ALL CAN GET A THROWN IN JAIL FOR 64 DAYS FOR FIGHTING FOR YOUR BROTHERHOOD…. when you come to this page, DROP ALL THE BULLSHIT about what you WANT TO DO, and just patch the f%$^ UP !……WHEELS MOTHA FUCKA WHEELS…. IF IT AINT WHEELIN IT AINT NOTHIN.. FUCK THE REST WE THE BEST IN THE WEST…..

  9. Trying to get in touch with Cotton. Kat Cobras MC, NY, NY kat_1@bellsouth.net

  10. Trying to get in touch with Cotton. Kat 1 Cobras MC, NY, NY kat_1@bellsouth.net

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