This is an odd one. A story about a half-dozen grubby bikers on old rusting bikes blazing up the picturesque California coast toward the Ritz Carlton at Half Moon Bay, one of the most lavish upscale hotels and golf courses on the coast, just a few miles south of San Francisco. In an industry packed with runs, bike shows, rallies and events, the Legend of the Motorcycle Concourse D'Elegance was a totally unique affair and appealed to us all, for different reasons.
Billy Lane was invited to be a guest builder and jammed across the country pulling a massive trailer with his 1%er employee from the Warlocks MC, Philz. He hauled his Henderson four custom with a BMW transmission, Indian front end and a Honda shaft-drive system. His riding iron included a 1938 EL Knucklehead and a '48 flathead 74UL.
“That Flathead is the best running Harley I've every owned,” Billy said. His mission was multi-wrapped. He wanted to trade me some '20s Peashooter parts for my 1912 Pope single engine. He also wanted to take some time and visit builders and bike connections along the coast. He's facing the prospects of jail time, and it hangs like a life-interrupting scepter over his head. He's scrambling to put his life in order if he must step out of sight for a few years.
On the other hand, Billy is driven like a pitbull with rabies to build every dream machine that crosses his engineering-educated mind. His overall building concept, in a world fraught with excellent chopper competition, is to build running bikes around historic engines, chassis and drivelines, such as the Pope. He also plans to strike a match to the World's Fastest Henderson four.
While Billy and Philz rambled across the country, they picked up Christian Clayton, the Boss of Sucker Punch Sally, and his '64 Panhead. Christian had a mission to ride with us wherever the road led and to walk away from the Bonham's and Butterfield auction with a reproduction Crocker Speedway racer. He didn't load up a new Sucker Punch Sally ride with a fresh Evo engine and an electric start. He kept with the theme of the ride–all old kickers.
That left my terrible self and the local boy, Jeremiah, and his '73 Shovel in a made-rigid frame by Ed Walker. Jeremiah and I built that bobber last year during the build of the Assalt Weapan for Bonneville. That bike is tight and runs like a raped ape. It's also a kicker. Jeremiah also had a mission. He's a contractor of sorts and usually has a half-dozen screaming clients breathing down his neck, plus two Xs, three kids and a new girlfriend. He needed to get out of town. So we did.
Oh, about my ugly self. I suppose I had a mission to see if my old 60-year-old bones would handle the 400-mile ride to Half Moon Bay on a rigid. We also strapped my 1928 Shovelhead into the back of the Philz trailer for a ride to the auction, to see if I could raise some cash for another similar project.
The barroom napkin-etched plan called for rolling into the wind on Wednesday and peeling north, which we did at about 10:00 in the morning. Riding through Los Angeles is always traffic-timed. We could leave at 4:00 a.m. or roll the dice at 10:00 and slip between rush hour and noon lunch breaks. Since we were rambling along right at 60 mph, we peeled onto the freeway out of the harbor away from the Bikernet headquarters, jammed slowly onto the 405 north toward Santa Monica and off the freeway on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). We encountered bumper-to-bumper traffic just past the Los Angeles International Airport, but for only a couple of miles until we could escape toward the coast.
Billy was riding his Knucklehead and the float bowl began to act up. Christian's Pan sported an early S&S carb without an accelerator pump, and it was occasionally hard to start, plus the fasteners holding the hinged rear fender were on strike and left the scene constantly. Ah, but the sun was shining, the ocean blue and the coast pristine. Whatta ride!
We stopped at the famous Malibu Pier, and at County Line leading out of Los Angeles, a biker hangout and noted surfing location. The coast road rolled into agricultural Oxnard and up to the Top Dead Center bike shop, where Andy greeted us and we tried to coerce him into straddling his flathead and scooting north toward The Shop in Ventura, the home of a 40-year-old Indian restoration facility owned by Dave Hanson. There's a decade old cross-town rivalry afoot and Andy bowed out.
The Top Dead Center crew builds some wild shit, including twisted bar stock frames, sorta like Damascus-bladed knives. Andy's son hand-builds components like wrought iron gates, giving his bikes a look we've never encountered before. They also built a Knuckle in a single-loop VL frame that had race written all over it.
In rolled Tattoo John, Colorado Hacksaw, Rusty, Brig Brian, all the same guy. John caught up with us from Colorado where he owns several tattoo shops. He got busted during his Desert Storm service time, stealing a hacksaw blade from a hardware store. That simple incident led to numerous brig spells, wire-brushing ships chain links by hand and ultimately his escape to Canada.
John recently returned from El Diablo Run II where he performed a burnout against Teach's hotel room door. The flimsy barrier didn't hold and he burned out into his brother's room and destroyed most of the furniture and broke off his left copper foot peg. Are you getting the picture? We should’ve called him Mr. Mishap.
“We're burnin' daylight,” I said while we gazed along the busy streets looking for a place to eat. “We need to roll past Santa Barbara before traffic hits.”
We kept jamming until we had 4 hours and 127 miles under our belts and we slid outta Santa Barbara. As we rumbled along the highway, I thought of additional stops we could’ve made. I reached out to George Christie, the President of the Hells Angels in Ventura, but his attorney was questioning him. We could have swung off the freeway in Ventura toward Santa Paula and the infamous Mike Egan, “Mr. Big Candy,” a friend of Von Dutch, Steve McQueen and motorcycle restoration giants everywhere.
We grabbed a bite to eat on the outskirts of Santa Barbara and cut inland, where we blasted past the home of Fred Lange, a restoration and reproduction nut who is building a complete re-pop 8-valve Crocker race motor. Another destination stop for another run.
“We need to build one into a Bonneville bike and see what she'll do,” Fred said to me later. Billy and I might take him up on it.
As we motored inland toward wine country through Buellton, the home of pea soup, then Los Olivos toward Santa Maria, it brought back memories of screaming up the coast on my '48 Pan in the '70s or on a Carl's Speed Shop doctored FXR that barely touched the pavement at 5:00 in the morning as I made a midnight run for San Jose and the Custom Chrome factory. Then Tattoo John's bike quit and he soon discovered that there was no spark to be found. Philz helped him load the rusting Evo and away he went on Billy's Flatty.
We pulled into Santa Maria for an easy day and John headed into town in search of a new battery. His rear wheel ground a hole in the back of his battery case and it was dry as a popcorn fart.
The next morning, we cut a dusty trail at about 10:00 again after Jeremiah and the youngun's studied the Santa Maria titty bar scene. Bleary-eyed, the gang peeled onto highway 101 past Pismo Beach and inland again to San Luis Obispo, where we swung toward the coast highway and limited gas stations.
Philz filled his dinky 2-gallon spare gas can and we rolled onto highway 1 into Morro Bay and passed up the chance to visit the chopper legend, Gary Bang, in Atascadero. We instead leaned into curves overlooking the Pacific toward Cambria, the Hearst Castle, and San Simeon. I believe I was running on fumes as we rolled into Ragged Point and found a single gas station and petrol for over five bucks a gallon.
Billy rode the Flathead for a while, repaired the Knuck and made it his home for most of the day, until a wire fried and sent him to the side of the road. A couple of times, he lost a gas cap, but we would always retrieve it and keep moving. We faced 100 miles of narrow winding coastline and speeding Ferraris.
As we rolled into Monterey and what I thought was home, Philz pointed out the error of my ways. The Automobile Concourse D'Elegance has been housed at Pebble Beach for a couple of decades and for some reason, that was my mental destination.
Plan B was to bed down in Monterey, where we ate lunch at Steinbeck's home of Fisherman's Wharf, where the giant sea lions splashed and tourists wandered along the wooden piers. It was a rider's perfect day as we gobbled chowder, fought over the bill and discussed alternatives. We had a little over 100 miles to cover and the afternoon waned.
A tentative saloon meeting with the notorious Scott Long of Central Coast Cycles in Santa Cruz 40 miles north hung over our heads, and Billy's lovely Amy was flying into San Francisco at 9:00. Our mission was etched in stone, so we rolled north through Castroville and Watsonville before stumbling into a biker bar surrounded by strawberry fields as the sun began to set. John and I grabbed a quick Corona. Jeremiah and Billy don't drink.
We rode to Scott's Central Coast Cycles in Santa Cruz and immediately it turned into a pit stop. Billy chased wires on the Knucklehead and fixed it. John's battery went dead again and we attempted to test the regulator. Christian dug around fastener drawers to fix his fender, then we kept moving. We had just another 60 miles along Highway 1 to traverse.
The coast was smooth and open, not winding and narrow, but fog loomed along the shore as the sun splashed into the Pacific and temps dropped considerably. No gas stations were open until we rolled into Half Moon Bay and I discovered we had no room reservation. It was dark, cold and we went our separate ways to find hotels, airports and food. We survived, discovered a place to stay and settled in.
Okay, so do you want to hear about the event? Here's what the authorities had to say:
THIRD ANNUAL LEGEND OF THE MOTORCYCLE BETTER THAN EVER —
San Francisco – 5 May 2008 – The third annual Legend of the Motorcycle Concourse d’Elegance, the world-class event exclusively for motorcycles, enjoyed its third year with enormous acclaim, a star-studded attendance and an incomparable roster of entries.
In attendance at the Saturday, May 3rd event were approximately 6,000 participants and attendees from five continents, admiring nearly 300 of some of the best motorcycles in the world and raising thousands of dollars for charity.
The featured marques were MV Agusta and Norton, with a historic and astounding gathering of the legendary Italian bike and one of the most significant assemblies of competition and pedigree Nortons in the world. From an 1894 Hildebrand & Wolfmueller Replica brought from Germany, to the only Merkel “U” board track racer known to exist, to the Airstream chopper built and unveiled by Jesse James, every facet of motorcycle sport and culture was represented.
Giacomo Agostini, the greatest Grand Prix racer of all time, came from Italy with his family to receive the Lifetime Achievement Award, which was conferred by World Champion Phil Read who came over from England for the occasion.
Actors and motorcyclists Jason Lee and Giovanni Ribisi conferred the Elvis Award sponsored by Lucky Brand Jeans, Chad McQueen presented the Steve McQueen Award in honor of his father, and actor and biker Michael Madsen presented the Best of Show Award, sponsored by Dainese, to a hundred year-old Indian Torpedo Tank Racer in its original unrestored condition.
A private pre-Concours ride with World Champions Agostini and Read and senior executives from MV Agusta and other motorcycle manufacturers kicked-off in Los Angeles with a private tour of Jay Leno’s garage before arriving in Half Moon Bay.
Icons of custom bike building Jesse James, Paul Cox and Billy Lane unveiled new creations to the applauding and cheering throngs of enthusiasts and press, as did Japanese sensation Shinya Kimura. MV Agusta unveiled for North America its F4 RR 312 1078 model, and Dainese unveiled its collection of legendary and historic racing suits as well as their collaborative prototype helmet with Agostini.
Following the afternoon award ceremony, Bonhams & Butterfields conducted a sale of 100 motorcycles, including everything from pre-war motor bicycles to modern land rockets and the one-of-a-kind 1928 Shovelhead from Bandit's collection. Then, later that evening, a special fundraising dinner hosted the likes of Agostini, Read, Wayne Rainey, Mert Lawwill and Malcolm Smith.
From racers to builders, executives to owners, enthusiasts to the curious, Legend of the Motorcycle brought together a unique combination of people for a weekend world event celebrating over a century of the two-wheeled machine.
I'm back. Friday we checked in and Billy noticed an alarming transmission/clutch noise. With Amy sitting on the Hotel curb and tool spread all over the parking lot, he pulled the rear wheel and the transmission to find the problem. Five hours later it was back in one piece and running, but without a noise solution. Amy and Billy went for a ride on the Flatty while we polished brass and paint and made the monster shine again.
The next morning a cool mist blew over the vast green field in front of the Tudor mansion-like Ritz Carlton structure and manicured lawns. It was chilly and gray as the show began. Unfortunately, I arrived as the charity auction blared announcements onto the field of classic bikes and we couldn't hear each other as we strolled from bike to bike.
Later in the afternoon, I dodged the $200 a seat dinner and sat out the auction while noting the sale prices in the catalog. Most of the art sold for half the appraised value and bikes varied from ridiculously cheap to a $100,000 Ducati. A strange mix from Mike Corbin's collection of art and motorcycles and rumors why he was selling and an stellar collection of classic Harleys from Santa Cruz Harley-Davidson.
So ended the weekend with Jeremiah sneaking in the servants' entrance, avoiding the $65 gate fee and chasing girls across the lawn. Wildman Tattoo Hacksaw was kicked out of the dinner and 1%er Philz donned a sportcoat to back Billy's play.
The next morning, Billy made another mad dash to the SF Airport, we packed up, and when he returned, we burned out for LA on pure freeways, a straight shot down the center of California to the city and back to the madness.
Helluva ride.
