A call came into the Bikernet Intergalactic Headquarters in October 2007, a month after Bonneville, and we welcomed a needed break. We were told: “Take a Delta flight to Hawaii and cover the grand opening of Deacon's new shop, Pro Street Custom Cycles, and don't be late.”
We scrambled aboard the five-hour L.A.-to-Honolulu grind, where we discovered we were not allowed reading lights or pillows, and the movie sucked. Remind me to write the Delta team. We landed in Honolulu in the middle of the night, and a large, round local bumped into me, slipped me a note, and ran off barefooted. The note read: Go to the North Shore where some of the biggest waves in the world are swelling to pound the shore. Check in with the treasurer of the mighty Kanaka Hekili Motorcycle Club. He'll take care of you.
A rusting 1977 Toyota waited at the curb. We strapped our luggage on the roof and rolled from the city, over the hills, past the Sheffield Army Base and the Dole Pineapple Plantation through fields of cane and onto the curvy, coastal North Shore to the treasurer's garage. We made our home for the next week in his garage, next to his blacked-out FLH guarded by his wild, untrained, anti-house brindle cat. While it hissed and lashed out at our sea bags, we tried to find a match to light the candle above the next soiled note that said: Don't fuck with the cat.
The next morning, we crawled out of the sack to eat an oat-raisin muffin, which looked like a chunk of old road asphalt, and drink green tea on the edge of this tropical paradise while an orange tabby attacked roaches at our feet. In the bottom of my cup of tea was another fragrantly soaked note: Check in with Deacon, and don't be late.
I called for instructions from the master of performance Harleys on Oahu, Deacon. “Thanks for inviting me and the lovely Layla to your grand opening,” I said, and there was a pause on the line.
“Get down here,” Deacon's son, Ben, hollered into the receiver. “We've got to clean the shop, set up for the opening, paint the head, sort all the nuts and bolts [that have been] building in drawers for the last ten years, and finish a complete restoration of a 1968 Shovelhead for an Iraqi veteran who is returning the day of the event. We're behind.”
I hung up. I couldn't handle the pressure; besides, we were floating on island time. I thought about Johnny Humble, working with Kent Weeks in Houston to deliver a ground-up build with a Sucker Punch Roller to his Iraqi-vet brother, the same weekend at Biketoberfest in Daytona. A brisk knock on the garage door caught my attention. A crumbled note in the shape of a surfboard sticker was slipped under the treasurer's door. It read: The next time you find a centipede, kill it! Go to Kustom Fab and sell them on a new order of stickers. The treasurer is also the sticker magnet for all the islands of Hawaii, making surfboard rice-paper stickers for 30 years (until the Chinese stole all the surfboard manufacturing); plus, he fabricates vinyl stickers for Bikernet, West Coast Choppers, and Kustom Fab Motorcycles, Roger and Darren's shop in the city.
Our mission was clear. We rolled back toward the city to find Kustom Fab beneath the Honolulu Airport flight pattern in the only steel, two-story industrial complex on the island. It was crammed into a corner unit. I discovered that island shops have distinct setbacks from stateside businesses. The rent is astronomical, shipping costs are high, resources are limited, the customer base is small, and bike sales are down. “It's the drought, energy crisis, Iraq, recession, global warming, porno in the Vatican, and pregnant women that are bringing the industry down,” Darren said, as we stepped over projects and piles of Best-of-Show trophies so he could show me around the shop. I had to agree with him, especially his comment about pregnant women. Nothing slows a bike project like; (Layla slugged me.) Ever since she started training in Philippino kickboxing, I've had a recurring problem. “I can kick you in the head from here,” she snapped.
We convinced Roger and Darren to order a new batch of stickers from the club's treasurer, Chris, at Expressive Designs, and to discuss my mudflap-girl project. The hunt was growing for a frame configuration that gave old farts like myself a tad more suspension but all the light, agile, styling benefits of a rigid. Roger looked at my sketches in dismay, then offered to buy me a drink at La Marina, the only original Tiki bar remaining next to a sinking maze of yacht docks.
We peeled to the other side of the island and Deacon's new 2000-square-foot headquarters in a brand-new industrial park in Kailua, on the south side, next to the city dump. We crossed through a mountain range via tunnels that access the other side of the island without following the coastal road around the curvaceous perimeter lined with coastal communities. This 20-mile freeway stretch took us directly past the Stairway to Heaven, a man-made stairway, to the top of the shear cliffs.
Deacon's new facility has an edge on the bike business with a narrow but three-story-tall facility. “I'm able to store bikes for soldiers while they're overseas,” Deacon said. “Sweep the shop. We gotta straighten this place up.”
“Yes sir,” I said, and handed Layla the broom. We sorted nuts and bolts; I helped make a bracket to hold the stock Linkert Air Cleaner cover over the new S&S carburetor on the '68. Deacon was scrambling with his son Ben. Chase, his older son, who works at South Seas Harley-Davidson, roamed in and out of the shop doing odds and ends and helping Ben with projects.
“The old man's gonna flip,” Chase said, heading toward the big roll-up door. He wants to hang that massive flag from the ceiling. I'm outta here.” Chase slipped out the back while we unfurled the immense, historic flag and made preparations to hang it from the rafters at the back of the shop.
Like any shop owner taking on the costs and responsibilities of moving into a new facility, the projects, deadlines, and finances are generally out of control. Deacon recently moved the shop and all his equipment. He needed to rearrange all his tools and machine-shop tackle; sort and inventory parts; run electrical and storage scaffolding; hook up phones and computers; make arrangements for address changes; reprint shop brochures and business cards; change advertising; make grand-opening plans; hire bands; order food, kegs, tents, and plastic forks; make absolutely sure an old Toyota was ready to haul Bandit from the airport; and make a profit from the shop to pay the bills. He had service work that needed handling; the Marine's restoration housed a severe deadline; guys wanted their engines rebuilt, their customs built, their fab work done; and I wanted a shot of Jack Daniels. He was under so much pressure you could fry an egg on his forehead.
I cleaned his office, hid all the bills and paperwork, and peeled the blue masking tape off the doorknobs where someone recently painted the doors but never finished the final details. I TIG welded, and Ben wired the handlebars. I listened while the team roamed around the shop doing odd jobs. Deacon's a long- distance friend, but I rarely get to hang with him. I listened and learned.
Chris T., the treasurer, is the brother of Bob Tronolone, whom I rode with in the '70s, and he's now a member of the Chop N Grind racing nuts from 13 Palms, California. A major bike manufacturer in California sponsored them in 2006 and promised them $500 in 2007 and a Mikuni carburetor. When the time came to help the Sand Snortin' Brothers, he sent a note stating he had spent all his money. Deacon stepped up and sent Chop N Grind the carburetor, and 5-Ball Racing helped with some cash. That move on Deacon's part meant a great deal to me.
Then I met Dan, a young man working in the shop and incessantly picked on by Ben, Deacon's young son. Seems Deacon invited a celebrity bike builder to one of his shows, and Dan's dad took it upon himself to handle host duties. He wasn't a drinker, but the celeb convinced him to imbibe stout shots of Jack. Later that night, Dan's dad died in a bike accident on a coastal road and left his son without a home. Deacon's family took the boy in and now he's part of the Deacon clan. Again, I was highly impressed. That's the essence of brotherhood.
So, we rolled out of Pro Street on Saturday evening, and Layla made her famous curry dish for the treasurer and his wife, the Island Queen. The next day we returned at noon and helped Kevin, the biker dentist, fire up a barbecue the size of a '50s station wagon. Deacon's wife, Katie, a school teacher who never stops smiling, set up the food tables and prepared to feed hundreds of island riders.
The bands constructed their stage on a slab of concrete, and Ben made ice runs into town. Fire hoses were used to wash the new concrete streets and parking areas. I helped Dan roll up and store the canvas hoses. Chase worked on his Mohawk hairdo, and Ben did dirt-bike stunts and burnouts in the parking lot.
As brothers from various island clubs rolled in to celebrate the grand opening, Kevin the Dentist, and a lovely lady with singed arms fought with the smoldering barbecue. It was smoking through thin hamburger patties, hot dogs, and Polish sausages faster than they could jog around the smoking steel grates. I grabbed riding gloves and sent the blond to the serving table. “I'll handle this,” I said, as the hair on my forearms caught fire. The good doctor and I peeled around the blistering steel crate above the scorching coals, flipping, turning, and snatching chow for the band of marauders rolling in from all ends of the island.
The club formations included Island Boys, the Vagos, Aliis, Kahu, Monarchs, Refugees, League of Vets, Tiger and his World Wide brothers, Rough Riders, and of course, our host club, the Kanaka Hekili MC. “Get the president a beer,” the treasurer ordered, and I ran to the keg. I was beginning to wonder if I was a prospect or the shop house mouse.
Deacon has worked on motorcycles and drag raced for over 25 years. He's a nonstop individual who works constantly. His island shop performs service work, engine builds, performance upgrades, fab work, and bike builds. Several of his bikes have been featured in national mags, and his Jack Daniels Chopper spent a year on tour for the distillery. “We pride ourselves in building any engine from Knuckleheads to Twin Cams,” Deacon said, and told me to turn the burgers on the grill between taking notes. “Snap it up, or you may be visited by the Menehunes tonight.”
Katie and the blond ran from table to table stirring potato salad and boiling chili. They slapped layers of cheddar on burgers as I delivered patties. Dr. Painless was burning up while wrestling hot dogs over sizzling coals. I didn't know what to do, so I turned my arm as fast as I turned the patties. I noted a sizzling smell, and Katie threw a wet towel over my forearm.
Brothers approached me and checked me out as if I carried the Black Plague from the mainland. “Ever heard of the night marchers?” a giant biker whispered, and pushed me closer toward the scorching coals. My belt buckle started to melt.
I shook my head and attempted to push back. Another guy rolled up, “We know where you're staying,” he said, and his eyebrows raised in the direction of his brother. It was one of those knowing glances. “There are ancient burial grounds on the hill.”
I envisioned shallow graves between L.A. and Vegas, and a chill ran up my spine. I pulled away just after I was branded by my own buckle. Another rider approached and shoved a note in my pocket that read: The thumping on the garage walls was coming from the Menehunes; don't open the door.
I didn't know what the hell the Menehunes were, but I wasn't going to find out. Were they another club on the island, or a notorious band of natives? I looked over at Layla, who was surrounded by riders pawing her, and gave her our exclusive nod. The rusting Toyota was just around the concrete corner. There had to be a flight leaving for L.A. every hour…
Pro Street
201 Kapaa Quarry rd
Kailua, Hi, 96734
(mailing address)
905 Kalanianaole Hwy
Kailua, Hi, 96734
808 236 0405 (shop)
808 263 0110 (fax)
Our heartfelt thanks to Deacon, Katie, Chris and Joerline for always taking care of us, and making us feel at home.
Here are a few shots from the Pro Street opening.
