You want to know what my first clue was that “Biker Boyz,” the new film about California motorcycle clubs and male bonding, wasn’t going to be my cup of tea? I mean, other than the fact that I’m the sort of person who would actually use the expression — let alone drink — a “cup of tea.”

Could it have been the opening, basso profundo sound effect of a motorcycle revving over a blank screen (a harbinger of the mucho macho action footage to come, but probably just some guy going “vroom vroom” in a sound booth)? Or maybe the fact that self-proclaimed trailer-trash rock-rapper Kid Rock has a prominent part?

No. It was the word “Boyz” in the title (and I use the word “word” loosely, since my spell-checker hasn’t yet learned to recognize this newfangled hip-hop orthography so popular with the kidz of 2-day).

The atmosphere of the chest-thumping, rooster-strutting, head-butting film is so choked with a noxious mixture of testosterone, nitrous oxide, burnt rubber and cheap after-shave that the movie could just as easily been called “No Girlz or Wimpz Aloud.”

It’s the anti-“Hours,” the perfect revenge for every guy whose girlfriend made him sit through that two-hour movie about Virginia Woolf. No wonder that filmmaker Gina (“Love and Basketball”) Prince-Bythewood, when first approached about directing the film, turned the project over to her husband, Reggie Rock Bythewood, probably with the same pair of tongs she uses to pick up his used underwear. Although Prince-Bythewood stayed on as producer, along with Stephanie Allain, there is little evidence of a woman’s touch here. “Biker Boyz” has the stink of man-musk all over it.

The story, co-written by Bythewood with Craig Fernandez, goes as follows: A hotshot teen-age motorcycling aficionado named Kid (Derek Luke) blames Smoke (Laurence Fishburne), a legend in the Southern California biking scene and the president of the Black Knights motorcycle club, for the accidental death of his father (a wisely uncredited Eriq La Salle). Soon, Youth is challenging Age for the title of “King of Cali,” the honor bestowed on the fastest “gun” in the West.

There are few surprises in this updated oater, where bikes replace six-shooters and drag racing stands in for the shopworn shootout, and a mild twist will surprise no one over the age of 12.

To make matters worse, the film is overwhelmingly dark, and I’m not talking about tone. We’re talking seriously under-lit film stock here, which is both a function of the fact that many of the illegal races take place at night, and a convenient way for the filmmakers to obscure the fact that stuntmen do most of the truly eye-popping riding. I don’t know why they bothered, though, since for much of the film you can’t tell who’s who because of the wraparound helmets they wear.

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At the end of the free screening I saw, the audience seemed evenly split between those who openly guffawed at the meant-to-be-tender moment of reconciliation between Kid and Smoke and those who applauded warmly — which either means that there is an audience for this sort of thing out there, or that they were just extremely grateful for not having to pay for the tickets.