I've got a story to go with this one. It doesn't have squat to do with Gard's shop, LA Chop Rods, or this too-hot model, Karlie Montana. We'll cover the shop aspect in the Tech Area, where topless girls are not allowed. On the other hand, we'll deliver most of Gard's product line, while explaining what Gard does. He's a helluva builder, welder, designer, engineer, and machinist, but we'll get to that. I need to tell you a story about some sonuvabitch I knew in the '70s.
He worked at U.S. Choppers for a guy named George, who ultimately owned Bellflower Harley-Davidson. His partner was the mad scientist of the pair, and I can't remember his name. He built some wild customs and knew the code for promoting his shop. He built one whacked out bike a year, tried to get it featured in a magazine, and showed it at bike shows all over the Southland. It was his calling card for the year.
The bastard I knew was young, just starting out as a builder, welder, engine building sonuvabitch who didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. He rode a rat bike stroker Shovelhead and looked like hell. He wore the same pair of Levis for years, without washing them, until a doctor cut them off him in an emergency room, after a bike accident up north.
His hair was long and a partially blond wavy mess, along with his full scraggly beard, but he had something going with the girls. I don't know if this happens in four-wheeled mechanical outfits, but occasionally a girl would wander into this bike shop and want to party. This bastard always got the girl.
It's tough enough trying to fix bikes, order parts, answer the phone, do drug deals, deal with customers and make a living. But when some hottie strolls into the shop and begins to disrobe, all work comes to a stop. Suddenly, it's Christmas and the shop is closed.
So, this brother of mine touched this girl in a special way, somewhere in the back of the shop and she started to come around. This rotten sonuvabitch has an ol' lady, but this girl shows up around closing time and starts to rub his greasy leg.
“Come out to my place, tonight,” she said one evening as the sun began to drift.
“Can't,” he said, wiping down his tools.
She proceeded to unzip his oily fly and slip her delicate hand into his jeans and suddenly he started to melt. Imagine that. The next thing I know, he promised to ride out to Montebello in the middle of the night to hook up with this broad. He doesn't know her from Adam, and Montebello is Gangland personified.
She slipped him a joint, which we shared and that sealed the deal. He was stoned and in lust. I could see it in his his hazy gaze. He called his ol' lady and made some lame excuse. These shots reminded me of those days in the service area of U.S. Choppers. What the hell would you do if this chick came strolling into your shop and began to undress? I'd drink a quart of WD-40 just to fondle her…
This bastard rode out to Montebello and rolled off the freeway stoned out of his mind. He immediately noticed that every sign and billboard on the street was worded in Spanish. He asked a passerby for directions and the guy couldn't speak English. This didn't happen in 1971. The sonuvabitch panicked. He thought for sure he had smoked himself into the Twilight Zone, and Rod Sterling would be standing on the next corner.
He rolled down a couple of streets and was promptly pulled over by a couple of angry, young LA sheriffs who jacked him up, but ultimately cut him loose. He was beginning to think riding home wasn't a bad notion, but he rumbled deeper into the night, and discovered her small bungalow on a dark corner in an even danker neighborhood.
There were half dozen scooters parked in the front yard as he rolled up and dismounted. He wondered what the hell he was doing on this side of the tracks, surrounded by eastside patchholders and maybe looking for one of their ol' ladies. He was barely 22, stood about 6'3″, and hadn't worked out since he returned from Vietnam. This dipshit was about to face his first trick-bag. The hottest shop broad in LA lured him into her lair of outlaws. And he had the balls to stroll through the raged front yard gauntlet of sparkling choppers and tough-looking Hispanic badasses to the front door.
It was the edge of the Al Green era, when his strange melodic voice brought love and romance to the generally all-white airways. One of Al's first songs played on this senorita's stereo as he lifted his oil-stained paw to knock on the screen door.
You're just too good to be true
I can't take my eyes off you
You feel like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At last love has arrived
And I thank God I'm alive
You're just too good to be true
I can't take my eyes off you
He felt ruffian eyes boring into his back as he waited for the sizzling-hot shop broad to surface. Her apartment was clean and neat. A few biker magazines were strewn on the coffee table and a black velvet matador painting hung on the wall.
My pal was still wearing his Rayban shades as he stared into the apartment, still buzzed from the bud, shaken by the cops, and tentative about the bikers in the yard. His Levis were shiny with grease and slick with 60-weight H-D oil. His jacket was old Ivy League with a full length, blacked-out welding jacket pulled over it to block the wind. Suddenly, like a brilliantly warm sunrise, she stepped into the opening and her dark eyes lit up like a hungry cat finding an open can of tuna. Her smile was broad and genuine.
“Ola, may man,” she said, then she looked passed him into the yard. “Hey, you guys, get the hell out of here. Can't you see I'm busy?”
As if the International Prez ordered an emergency war meeting, all six brothers, stood abruptly, straddled and kicked their chops to life and peeled out.
“Come in, come in,” she sparkled and opened the door. She was part American Indian, part Spanish, and all woman. She glistened with warmth and sensuality. Unfortunately, this bastard wouldn't tell me much more about that night, but it had to be good.
He survived and did something right, 'cause she came back to the shop to disrupt projects and progress several more times. Each time I look at these shots of Karlie, at Gard's LA Choprods, I'm taken back to the times in shops when a young hottie decided to rock our world. May they never stop.
–Renegade
