Brian Deegan's face beams with a mischievous smirk as he watches his 6-year-old daughter, Hailie, pedal her pink BMX bike outside the Metal Mulisha trailer at April's Moto X World Championships in San Diego.
Every so often he lets out a hyena-like laugh that gives those around him a start. As recently as five years ago, that laugh was a prelude to unpredictability, maybe a fight or even a riot, such as the one he started at a SoCal FMX demo in 1999. But today the laugh represents transformation, and seconds later, Hailie climbs onto his lap and traces with a finger the 12-inch scar on his abdomen, a gash that required 31 staples after Deegan demolished his kidney in a horrific 2005 bike crash. In this moment, the two paths of Deegan's life—recklessness and responsibility—converge.
As co-founder of the Metal Mulisha, Deegan is the ringleader of what was once a troupe of foulmouthed, hard-living, tattoo-covered, backflipping motocross riders. Over the past decade, the group has racked up 21 X Games medals, several distance jumping records, countless bar fights and some serious ill will around the world. But Deegan, 33, has changed, and so has the Mulisha. He's learned that deft marketing is more effective than punching someone in the face. The Moto X bad boy who once subsisted on strippers and booze is now a model of business savvy and family stability, the head honcho of a powerful, $10 million brand that employs 23 contract riders, five MMA fighters and 13 designers and artists who create the Mulisha's hard-edged moto fashion.
How did that happen?
ACT I: THE REBELLION
In which our hero gets pissed off and starts a revolution.
Deegan moved from Omaha to SoCal at 17 to become a pro motocross racer. When he won his first race, in 1997, he celebrated by ghost-riding his bike (hopping off and letting the motorcycle sail ahead of him) across the finish line. Officials weren't happy and immediately created the so-called Brian Deegan rule, which banned the move. Deegan soon bonded with three other hell-on-wheels riders who bristled at authority: Larry Linkogle, a back-of-the-pack racer; Ronnie Faisst, a kung fu-obsessed tattoo collector with a knack for mayhem; and Jeremy "Twitch" Stenberg, a Tourette's-afflicted punk rider with crooked teeth. They called themselves the Metal Mulisha because, says Deegan, "it sounded dangerous."
Mulisha riders reveled (loudly) in their talent for destruction. On tour, they threw food at pedestrians from moving cars. At events, they destroyed dressing rooms and hassled security guards. "We were living a life of wasted nights and naked chicks," says Deegan, by now nicknamed The General. Rumors of steroid use were rampant, and the group's shaved heads, bandannas and tattoo sleeves completed the image. "You never knew what was going to happen when they were around," says action-sports filmmaker Rich Van Every. "It was better to avoid eye contact."
The Mulisha's infamy went global in 1999, when ESPN added freestyle motocross to the X Games. The network hoped to ride the aw-shucks wholesomeness of 15-year-old wunderkind Travis Pastrana to ratings gold. Deegan and his merry band of miscreants were happy to play spoiler. "People knew my reputation, but now that it was on TV, I felt I could take it further and play a character," Deegan says. "It was good vs. evil, and we weren't the good guys."
X Games organizers were wary at first, knowing the riders were as likely to flip off judges as win a medal. But they hoped the pairing would work. "Brian and Travis knew there was a benefit to cultivating an image," says Chris Stiepock, X Games GM. "It was a terrific story line, like Larry Bird vs. Magic Johnson."
Deegan & Co. quickly learned that rebellion sold. They made T-shirts in a garage, and kids at the X Games begged to buy them. In 1999, Deegan paid a tattoo artist $50 to create the Mulisha logo—a skull wearing an army helmet—and within a year had moved $1 million of merchandise. In 2002, when Rolling Stone ran a story with the headline "Brian Deegan Wants to Sell You a T-Shirt, Then Punch You in the Face," the Mulisha had arrived.
ACT II: THE AWAKENING
In which our hero loses a kidney but finds his way.
Just as the Mulisha was taking off, Deegan's longtime girlfriend, Marissa Leonti, dropped a bomb: She was pregnant. Deegan was stunned. "I wasn't ready to be a father," he says. "I was the badass guy. I wasn't a daddy." Hailie was born in July 2001, and Marissa started pushing Deegan to change, to become a responsible father. It took him more than two years to get ready: He married Marissa in November 2003, just three months after becoming the first rider to land a midair 360 on his bike. Less than a year later, Deegan crashed at Winter X, breaking his left leg and both wrists. It was Marissa who took care of him for weeks, and when docs pulled the screws out of his wrists with pliers, she was there to film it. By now Deegan was starting to rethink his career. He still felt pressure to push the envelope, but instead of dreaming up new tricks, he began thinking more about making it home alive.
The crashes up to this point had been gruesome, but the worst was yet to come. At a 2005 Viva La Bam taping, Deegan tried to backflip over the band GWAR. But 40 mph winds caused him to underrotate and crash. His handlebars gored his midsection, obliterating a kidney and severing an artery. Deegan began to bleed to death. "I kept telling myself not to go to sleep," he says. "If I did, it was over."
An EMT in the ambulance asked Deegan if he had any last words—the injury was that serious. "Tell my wife I love her," he said. But working for eight hours through a hubcap-size hole in Deegan's stomach, doctors stopped the bleeding, removed his kidney and repaired the damage. The next day, Marissa told him she was pregnant again (son Haiden was born in January 2006). Finally, the message clicked. "I started to think I needed something to fall back on," he says.
Problem was, the Mulisha business was in shambles, the books cooked by friends Deegan had left in charge. In 2006, the company did $3 million in sales but was $300,000 in debt. Vendors hadn't been paid. Customers rarely received orders on time. "On the surface it looked legit. In reality, it was falling apart," says Deegan. Change was needed immediately. "It was time to grow up," says Stenberg. The Mulisha signed a licensing agreement with an outside firm to run the clothing line, with Deegan retaining approval over designs and control of the team. The brand was soon back on track.
Having saved the company, Deegan turned to the business of saving his soul. He started attending church with Marissa and discovered he didn't hate it. At the end of a service in 2006, the pastor asked anyone who wanted to accept Jesus Christ to come forward. "A force just carried me up there," says Deegan. "It was ironic, because I was always the punk who attracted sin. I struggled every day with the temptation of girls and drinking, so I just knew it was time." And once again, the troops followed.
"He kept telling us how much the Bible changed his life," says rider Jeremy Lusk. "I felt like I had to listen." Deegan then started Thursday-afternoon Mulisha Bible-study meetings, which Lusk, Twitch and Faisst attend regularly. And just like that, company and riders had all been born again.
ACT III: THE ARRIVAL
In which our hero prepares for his close-up.
On the last night of the Moto X World Championships, members of the Mulisha are gathered at a bar for the premiere of Twitch's documentary, Twitch: Hood Rich. Rockstar Energy Drink girls parade around in skimpy skirts. Ryan Sheckler and his dad push their way through the crowd as hip-hop thumps from the speakers.
Because of the loss of his kidney, Deegan rarely drinks now. As he sits at the bar, he's approached by well-wishers who toss out ideas and business cards. His head bobs. "No matter what happens to the Mulisha," he says, "we'll still be just a group of friends when it's all over. Thirty years from now, me, Faisst and Twitch will be hanging out, playing with our grandkids and riding Harleys." As the night comes to a close, the group assembles for a photo. Stenberg's father is in the middle, beaming; Mrs. Stenberg clutches a doggie bag. Faisst holds up the blinged-out medallion on his gold chain. Deegan holds out his hands, palms skyward, shoulders half shrugging, with that cocky smirk—the signature pose of the dissident jokester he played to perfection for a decade. Then—wait for it—just before the camera flashes, Deegan flips his middle finger.
At dinner a few weeks later, Marissa discusses last-minute arrangements for the family's move to a 12,000-square-foot house, complete with vineyard and FMX park, on 21 acres in Temecula, 25 miles inland from San Clemente. Between bites, Deegan texts his new rep from a Hollywood talent agency, hired to steer his fledgling acting career. "It isn't hard to see him as a big action hero," says agent James Degus. "The response from casting directors when he walks into a room is fantastic."
Deegan recently auditioned for a role on Criminal Minds and for two Nickelodeon shows. His
documentary Disposable Hero aired on Spike TV in December and won best biography at X-Dance in 2007. He'll compete in step-up at his 10th Summer X next month. And he wants to start a record label to help unsigned bands. "It's just the evolution of the brand," he says. "I envision this being a $100 million company that will be my legacy."
After dinner, Deegan thumbs through a Bible with faded golden edges and uses words like "hard-core," "gnarly" and "rad" when he talks about the Apostles. Behind him, Hailie watches 101 Dalmations on DVD. Deegan begins to talk about his delinquent days, then shakes his head. "It took me years to realize I was a f—ing idiot," he says. "It took another two years to get away from it."
In a story in The Magazine in 2000, Deegan came across to many as homophobic and racist, and justified using images of the Nazi blitzkrieg in a marketing video by saying, "That Hitler stuff isn't against anyone—I don't know anything about the Jewish religion. It's just that he was superpissed. I like being on the edge." Today his voice lowers, then cracks, as he tries to put his old venom into context: "That was me being a dumb kid. I tried to uphold an image and shock people. We had to be gnarly all the time. When I realized how stupid that was, people called me a sellout. But I didn't owe them anything." But there was someone he did owe: Hailie. "I didn't want her to look at me and say her dad was f—ed up. I wanted to be someone she could look up to." Deegan pauses, still flicking the Bible's pages. Hailie bounces on the couch.
A few days later, a dozen Mulisha members meet at the jump park in Deegan's backyard. As rebel yells mix with dust, former high school football player and next-gen Mulisha rider Jimmy Fitzpatrick blasts a 50-foot backflip, without a helmet. The boys howl and rev their engines. "That was some crazy s—!" yells Deegan. Soon, most of the crew are pulling flips and spinning doughnuts—sans helmets, of course. A pleased Deegan watches, then says: "This is what happens when you roll with the Mulisha."