Hard-packed dirt trampled by boots and stained with oil leaks stretches out in a veritable welcome mat... a welcome mat to the bowels of biker hell, that is. Motorcycles of every shade and walk of life line the lot, some, such as the Harleys, parked in huddled groups like high school cliques that we're never quite grown out of. Even when lit up by the bare halogen bulbs from atop the razor wired fence, this place is overgrown with shadows and gloomy niches.
Across the lot from the main gate is a battered old building that may have served as a warehouse years ago. Decrepit and filthy, this rectangular building stands two stories tall with only small grated slits for windows near the top. Even these appear to have been blocked up with concrete rather than replaced when broken. Riveted into the wall above the loading dock doors is a gaudy neon sign that blinks out every so often: "The Roadhouse." A steel plate beside it reminds all: "No Pigs Allowed!"