This article originally appeared in the Baltimore City Paper, May 21, 2003. Photographs by Jefferson Jackson Steele.
It's a cool spring evening, and Druid Hill Parkis jumping. Cars and motorcycles are parked all along a narrow road near Latrobe Pavilion. Everyone's hanging out by their rides, listening to car stereos and chatting up their neighbors. The road itself is jammed: freshly washed cars, SUVs, and motorcycles, all going back and forth, up the road to the basketball courts and down to the statue of George Washington. It's the kind of slo-mo cruise you'd find at any decent beach, except here the nearest body of water is the reservoir at the bottom of the hill.
The distinct high whine of a two-cycle engine calls from the other side of the reservoir, along Druid Park Lake Drive. It's a dirt bike. First one, then another, then a dozen or more young guys on motorcycles hit the park, weaving along the cruise route and zooming across the grass. The weekly Sunday gathering is hardly quiet, with the sound of the hornetlike motors cutting through the crowd, yet the roadside gauntlet erupts with laughter and shouting. The 12 O'Clock Boyz have arrived.
