THE 1992 DEBATES : Biker Club Cynics Aren’t Revved Up : Audience: ‘Animal’ and ‘Redbone,’ motorcycle hobbyists who take their civics seriously, find the candidates’ display to be unconvincing and trite.

TEMPE, Ariz. —  Perhaps the process is overexposed--the candidates, the issues, the questions, the histrionics, the repartee, the polling, the expectations and, yes, the audiences.

Professionals and those with their jobs on the line may regard the presidential debate Sunday as 90 minutes of edgy, nail-biting history. To a small group of outsiders here at the receiving end of the television beacon, men who call themselves Animal and Redbone and women who settle for mere names, like Nancy and Carla--all lifelong shareholders in our democracy--to them, the first live, three-way encounter for the presidency was underwhelming, unconvincing, unsatisfying, tired and sometimes trite.

Ready, sing. “God Bless America!”

Simultaneously, Bill Clinton begins his recital of family values, his face the very portrait of sincerity, and the leaders of ABATE, an Arizona motorcycle club, burst into song and hoots and catcalls.

These are like night-shift limo drivers in Hollywood or the crew that runs the $100 press at the U.S. Mint. Not an easy crowd to impress.

George Bush describes America’s economy as the “most respected” in the world and the distinct discharge of a collective whoopee cushion is recorded.

But the audience listens on, nonetheless.

The same as other Americans, Ed (Animal) Bassett and his wife, Carla; Mike (Redbone) Schneider and his wife, Patty; Karen Wade and her husband, Jeff, or “Weed,” and the others, nine in all, plus children and dogs, gathered around the TV Sunday at Redbone’s house with chips and diet soda and light beer.

Sure, they look the part of a grown-up motorcycle club with their black T-shirts, mangy hair, tattoos and oversized belt buckles. (We’re speaking of the men; the women are comfortable in normal clothes.) But they make clear they know the size of the federal debt, the President’s record on vetoes and the other essential facts of the contemporary public affairs debate.

They also make clear that they care.

They are what you might call sport motorcyclists. They do it for fun. Otherwise, they work as surgical technicians, or as quality control experts in aircraft servicing at the nearby Air Force base or they own an equipment repair business.

Mike Turngren sums up: “Waste of time. We deserve better.” His remarks at the end of the 90 minutes begins a concert of all-too-familiar complaints.

“They didn’t ask my questions.”

“They put rocks in their mud balls, huh?”

“Cliches, cliches.”

“Same old soft soap.”

“All they said was what they think we want to hear.”

Hold on, what exactly did you want to hear?

“I wanted to hear the truth, reality.”

Soon, everyone is talking at once, and all the same.

Frankly, the discussion sounds habitual; as rehearsed and tiresome as the coached answers from out there on the well-lighted stage in St. Louis.

But this is suburban Phoenix. I invited myself to watch the debate with ABATE (American Brotherhood Aimed Toward Education) at Patty and Redbone Schneider’s, figuring that these nine opinions were as likely to be as independent, straightforward and interesting as nine anywhere here in Barry Goldwater country.

Maybe they are.

The obvious question for the evening is: Who won?

Well, in this group, not a heart was touched, not a defector in any camp. Clinton, Bush and Perot all held their support, although Perot’s two backers were the most encouraged. A Clinton enthusiast wished the governor had been more aggressive. A Bush backer said the President looked worn out. Two men threatened to vote for the Libertarian candidate, who is clearly not overexposed.

In a poll published Sunday morning, the Arizona Republic newspaper said 81% of the people in this state believe America is in trouble; 77% said that Arizonans who work hard and play by the rules are not getting a fair shake.

The debate did little to change those sentiments, at least judging by reaction at Redbone Schneider’s.

The wide and forever-deep chasm of cynicism that separates so many Americans from their dreams remained unbridged.

Redbone tries to make sense of it with a simple story. We gaze into the glassy eye of the screen and listen as the candidates for President speak abstractly about crime and drugs.

But, get this, Redbone says, shaking his bandanna-wrapped head and shaggy mustache in disbelief: Just last week he discovered that the local Jack-in-the-Box drive-through had instituted a late-night, 35-cent “security surcharge” on all orders. This was to pay for a college student to stand around with a large flashlight, presumably as a show of deterrence against the spreading of crime into these suburbs.

This is the scary world encroaching on Redbone’s nice new home, where he is rearing his two daughters.

What is another political promise when weighed against that gloomy reality, he asks.

Redbone looks up at the flickering screen. “And they don’t get it,” he says.