I interviewed Brad, the Exile employee who built this bike, and my mind was torn in a flurry of misdirected thoughts. I rode to Harold’s Bar and stumbled through the door into the dank biker saloon. “Sheila, I’m becalmed is a sea of treachery,” I slurred. “I need a pot of rum to fill my sails.”
She spun in my direction, her blue eyes shooting Coast Guard flares in my direction. I had a shot with this girl once and was too drunk to take advantage of it. She never forgot. I was alone in my San Pedro pad when an ex sent me a nasty e-mail filled with complaints and accusations boiling my insecurities and blues to the surface. I needed a drink. Okay I’m stumbling off track. But let me finish with a sultry description of that cold damp night when we first met. Pedro is a middleclass seaside town. No flashy, upscale nightclubs, just bars. They’re cool, but you’re not generally going to find the walls lined with hot bitches. I rambled from Harold’s to Rebels, from one blues drowning Jack-on-the-rocks to another one, until after 2:00 when Sheila stepped up to the door and hollered,
The crowd meandered to the door, but when I reached it, she said, “You can stay.”
I watched her throughout the evening like a choirboy dreams about an angel. She was tall, but voluptuous. Her hair was long but had waves I could surf through. She wore a dime store, funky printed house dress, and it didn’t look like she was wearing anything under it, as if she was cleaning her pad and someone called, “Get yer ass to the bar, Bandit shot the bartender.” Her milky cheeks were rosy and her eyes emerald green and they sparkled. And finally the dress was simply low cut and had a seam of frilly material around the edge. Here cleavage was magnificent, bubbling, bouncy and naturally swayed to her movements. My bloodshot eyes danced from her smile to her boobs, in a mystic rhythm, all night. Get the picture, but I had a code.
A drunkard’s rule. I knew when I tipped the scales and it was etched in stone. Don’t ever try to be a lover if you can’t walk. I graciously eyed her fervently once more and said adios. She obviously still held a grudge against me, as if I turned her down. Damn.
Sheila shoved a tumbler, brimming with Jack Daniels and just a few cubes of ice, in my direction. My old school quandary heightened. I couldn’t decide whether tonight would be my Sheila night or I’d slip into the back, behind the pool tables and grapple with my feature notes. Her demeanor answered my question. It was stone cold.
I picked up my cocktail and made my way to the back of the bar. Slugging at the whiskey I pulled my legal pad from my little Joe’s vest pocked and I folded it open and began to ponder scribbled words. My problem was the mix of rough and ready Exile choppers and Brad. At 26 he graduated from an Ivy League, four-year, James Madison College just two hours south of DC and went to work for IBM, just like his dad. Here’s a suit-and-tie guy working for the iron warrior of the biker world. It didn’t make sense, I kept reading.
I tried to pry a wild story of this young man ripping around Hollywood, with the Exile gang, pillaging neighborhoods, without any luck. He did escape the straight suit world of New York, grabbed a suitcase and headed to Arizona to study motorcycle mechanics at the MMI. His mom was a teacher. The thought of schooling was engrained in his psyche. He struggled with the decision to enroll or not and decided not to invest another $20,000 in mechanics training, but find a job in the industry that enticed him. He answered a classified and came to Los Angeles and Russell Mitchell’s shop.
“Sheila,” I hollered from the back of the bar, “ another Jack on the rocks?”
She glared and spun towards the liquor shelf. I could only imagine this kid stumbling into Exile, to be strung up by chains, while cheap North Hollywood whores scrubbed his entire body and soul with Scotchbrite. He needed to be broken down. All the chrome, bling, upscale bullshit removed from his body, so he could understand the essence of the Exile credo. This shop is devoted to the plain and simple and the harsh reality of the elements. It’s all about battleship strength and a warrior’s metal. It reeks of the renegade’s soul, the loner’s spirit and Robin Hood’s plight.
Whatever Russell did to the young man it worked. He’s been apart of the rustic crew for three years and this is the second bike he’s built under Russell’s tutelage.
Brad is now the sales manager, works with purchasing, and customers, building relationships and fixing them up with the Exile components they need. “We sell bikes complete, or rollers or specific parts,” Brad told me.
He handled all aspects of the build this bike including welding, but not the sheet metal fabrication. “Dylan is the master,” Brad said. With Russell’s input they powder coated all the sheet metal and the frame black chrome with a satin clear finish. It took him 50 hours to complete the bike working week days after work until midnight and half-days on Saturday. That Saturday afternoon it fired to life and so did Brad.
There’s nothing like the rush of building a chopper from the ground up and lighting that fucker off. I took a large gulp of Jack and set it down hard on my table. The Brad transition was coming to life in my rough draft. The bike was as tough as Los Angeles streets. It was as simple as a jockey shift street hammer with dual brakes but no lever on the bars. Both rotors were crimped by the same oversized master cylinder (11.5-inch on the front and 10-inch on the rear with just a two-piston Exile caliper). Under the hot California Sun he stripped any chrome or bare metal components of polish or shine with WD40, as cutting fluid, and medium grade Scotchbrite.
Brad jacked up the Sportster tank Frisco style and cut the drag bars, clip-on style. So I got the picture. He was well educated, contained a reasonably strong work ethic and understood the cement creed according to Russell, sorta. I pressed him for riding style, back alley treachery on the whore-strewn streets of Hollywood, but nothing. I was frustrated. I was becalmed in that fuckin’ sea of treachery once more. I tore up my notes, tossed ‘em in the corner, guzzled the whiskey, told Sheila to stuff her high and mighty attitude and hit the streets. My rusty Shovelhead felt bitchin’ blasting across town, duckin’ rampant cops looking for noise pollution breakers instead of drug dealers. I skidded up to the shop, parked the bike and headed to the liquor cabinet, but stopped.
My Apple computer blinked at me in the dark of the Bikernet garage. An e-mail was whistling at me from the din. I tripped over extension cords and printer cables until I reached the keyboard and clicked on “Check messages.” Brad’s message danced across the screen. Daytona last year – We rented a house, and we were a big hit with the lollipops girls…………One of us came back divorced, several others came back and broke up with our girlfriends. Two of us nearly killed each other on the last day. And none of us remembered what happened that last week …………..”
Cheers,
–Brad Cutler
Sales Manager – Exile Cycles
http://www.exilecycles.com/
Fuck, just as I was thinking that the male, macho, hard-as-rusty-nails spirit was gone, Brad confirmed that warriors still live. He reaffirmed the Exile dream. I could finally rest in comfort, knowing full well that concrete pirates still roam the nights.
–Bandit
General
Owner: Brad Cutler
City/State: Burbank, CA
Builder: Brad Cutler
Company : Exile Cycles
Address: 13209 Saticoy St.
City and state: N. Hollywood, CA 91605
http://www.exilecycles.com/
Fabrication: Exile
Manufacturing: Exile
Welding: Dylan @ Exile Machining: Exile
Year: 2005
Make: Total Performance
Model: EVO
Displacement: 121-inch
Builder or Rebuilder:
Case finish: Scotchbrite
Barrel finish: Scotchbrite
Head finish: Scotchbrite
Carburetion: S&S Super G
Transmission
Year: 2005
Make: JIMS
Gear configuration: 6-speed
Final drive: Exile Chain Drive
Primary: Primo
Clutch: Rivera/Primo
Frame
Year: 2005
Make: Exile by Daytec
Style or Model: Rigid
Stretch: None
Rake: 32 degree
Front End
Make: SJP Engineering
Model: Tech Glide 250
Year: 2005
Length: 28”
Sheet metal
Tanks: King Sportster, Modified
Fenders: Exile Short Trojan
Oil tank: Exile
Paint
Sheet metal: Powdercoat
Molding: No way
Base coat: Black Chrome w/Satin Clear
Graphics: Nope
Frame: Powdercoat
Base coat: Black Chrome w/Satin Clear
Wheels
Front
Make: Exile Monster Wheel
Size: 21×3.5
Brake calipers: Exile 4-piston
Brake rotor(s): Exile 11.5”
Tire: 120 Metzeler
Rear
Make: Exile Monster Wheel
Size: 15×7
Brake calipers: Exile Sprocket Brake
Brake rotor: Exile 10-inch rotor sprocket
Pulley: 50-tooth sprocket/rotor
Tire: 230 Avon
Controls
Foot controls: Exile Forward controls, modified for foot clutch
Finish: Scotchbrite
Master cylinder: JayBrake
Brake lines: Exile
Handlebar controls: Internal throttle
Finish: Scotchbrite
Clutch Cable: Exile Foot Clutch cable
Electrical
Ignition: Crane Hi-4
Ignition switch: Exile
Coils: Crane Single Fire
Regulator: Compufire
Charging: Compufire
Wiring Brad
Harness: Brad/Exile
Headlight: SJP 3.5” Halogen
Taillight: Exile LED unit
Accessory lights:
Battery: Yuasa
What's Left
Seat: Seat pan by Exile, Leatherwork by Brad
Pipes: Exile
Mufflers: None
Exhaust finish: High-Temp Silver
Gas caps: Pop-up
Handlebars: Exile Dragbars with integral risers
Grips: Rubber
Pegs: Exile
Oil filter: Harley
Oil lines: Exile
Fuel Lines: Exile
Throttle: Exile Internal Throttle
Throttle cables: Exile
Fasteners: Stainless
Credits: Thanks to Russell, Jake, Dylan!
Contact info: (818) 255-3330 Ext. 1
http://www.exilecycles.com/
