Saxon motorcycles launched five years ago, just as the custom motorcycle market softened, but what the fuck did it matter? They knew the code. Most of the team made their livings in the construction industry. They understood they were building motorcycles for sex, not for profit. If they were in the business of building something to make money, they would have manufactured toasters.

So now it’s five years later and they’re still rolling strong with dealers in Perth, Australia and several dealers in the European nation. “We’re Euro Three vehicle approved,” Dustin Petty, the 24 year old boss told me. “They are completely stock bikes in Europe, approved for financing and insurance.”

So, why have they been hiding out for the last couple of years? Because they can, goddamnit! They’re aware of the economic woes in the states, so they spent their time redeveloping their dealer network and fighting with banks for better buyer credit and loans. “It’s tough when someone has the down payment, but can’t find a reasonable loan,” Dustin said.

But did they give up, hell no. They’ve improved their line-up, and developed two new rigid models honestly priced at below 20,000 bucks. This new Henchman with a glide front end, an S&S stroker motor and a complete Rivera Primo drive line will roll into the streets for $18,800, and their Whip retails for $19,900 out the door. You can’t buy the parts to build a bike with Brembo brakes, S&S ignition, top of the line wiring and electronics with Duetch connectors for this price. Plus these bastards have a full one-year warranty.

How do they do it? Who cares as long as we can get our hands on a Henchman and ride outta Casa Grande, Arizona (where their plant is located) into the desert, with a pint of Tequila stuffed in our jeans heading west to Gila Bend, then due south toward Rocky Point, 100 miles south of the border. Somewhere along the line you roll into the parking lot outside Bandit’s Cantina and pick up Stephanie.

You can find her on the Arizona Cover Girls web site, or playing it fast and loose at Phoenix lingerie nights at local clubs, or dial up RIDE21.com. She’s a model, if you know what I mean. She’ll straddle that made in America rear fender with her own hand tooled leather P-pad, with promises of ready to party naked girlfriends splashing in the warm Baja California waters at Rocky Point.

You can imagine what Dustin Petty said when his dad, the main boss of Saxon offered him a job running the Saxon plant 15 months ago. “Hell yes,” he said. Who cares about the economy, the fuckin’ thievin’ banking system or AIG? The sun is hot, the girls are hotter, and the Saxon models run like bats outta hell, come with extended warranties, accessories are available, and if you want something radical, they build the Javelin, 9.5 feet long, with a 300 rear and a drop seat you can ride to the Mardi Gras, drop acid and never come back.

I’ll take Stephanie, a wad of cash and one of the nine models Saxon builds over a 9-to-5 any day. Fuck ’em all; the pirates of Wall Street, the government earmark maniacs, and over-paid bureaucrats who want to regulate everything. This is still a free country in the desert, with a woman, a full tank of gas and an open road.

Hey, those are Bikernet Bandanas…

2009 Saxon Henchman Bio

New for 2009, the Henchman from Saxon Motorcycle, Co. is a stunning combination of Retro styling and high quality components. Available to the consumer at just $18,800 with a 41mm telescopic front end, or $19,500 with a springer front end, the Henchman cuts no corners. All Henchman come with an S&S 96ci black finished engine, S&S ignition system, Rivera Primo 6-Speed Transmission and clutch, Brembo brakes, as well as 18in x 200mm rear and 21in x 2.15 front wheels wrapped in Metzler rubber – STANDARD!

What you expect in a quality made American custom is what you see, and what you see is what you get, all for just $18,800. The Henchman also comes standard with Saxon Motorcycle, Co.’s 1-Year factory warranty.

The Henchman is also available to European customers in a fully compliant EURO 3 whole vehicle approved format.

For California customers, the Henchman is also available with a 2009 CARB approved 100ci package from S&S.

Brand new for 2009, The Henchman combines retro styling and top quality components at an unbeatable value.

EURO 3 Compliant
Base MSRP: $18,800

Warranty – 1 Year
Dry Weight – 510 lbs

Engine – S&S OHV 45 deg V-Twin
Displacement – 96 ci 1573cc
Bore & Stroke – 3-5/8 x 4-5/8
Compression Ratio – 10.1 to 1
Fuel System – S&S Super E Carburetor
Fuel Capacity – 3.25 gal
Oil Capacity – 3 qts

Transmission – Rivera Primo 6-Speed LSD
Primary Drive – Chain
Final Drive – Chain
Frame Stretch – 0” downtube, 1 3/4” backbone
Rake – 35 deg neck
Seat Height – 26”
Rear Suspension – Rigid
Front Suspension – Springer or 41mm Telescopic

Wheelbase – 67”
Total Length – 88”
Front Brake – Brembo 4-Piston
Rear Brake – Brembo 2-Piston

Front tire – 21” x 2.15”
Rear Tire – 200mm x 18”
Ignition – S&S Electronic
Charging Output – 32 amps
Battery – 270 cca
Speedometer – Digital with Integrated Tach

The Chinaman watched as the entire staff leered at Cinderella, the young gorgeous Hispanic girl, who suddenly found herself without a home but surrounded by the Cantina family. She had five husbands, and a couple of slippery wet lesbians breathing down her soft neck, and the family of Cantina staff at her wispy back. But Chinaman whisked her into the galley where the young Hispanic homeless couple set her up, as if she was another member of their family escaping from Mexico for the golden opportunities in California.

For a couple of days, they kept her out of site, learning the galley ropes. The staff didn’t know of Bandit’s history with this girl. But most of them experienced the Cantina indoctrination. Bandit came from a long line of Navy swabs. His dad was a Chief in WWII and served time as a Seabee in Guadalcanal. He followed the ship’s code. Rookie seamen were sent to the Galley for a couple of month?s duty. It was the ship’s boot camp, training, and prospect system. If you couldn’t handle the mess cook duties, you weren’t worth the powder to blow you to hell. It taught young recruits ship discipline, scheduling and arduous, hot work under distress. Nothing like dishing up bowls of sloshing, boiling hot oatmeal in a typhoon.

Bandit liked to put new hires to the Galley test under the watchful eye of the ever-loyal Chinaman. Someday, we?ll delve into the connection between the Chinaman and Bandit. They met in Hong Kong on a floating restaurant, but we’ll slip back to the Vietnam era another time. So there was the glistening Cinderella, covered in sweat, her thin white sweat-soaked t-shirt a translucent film stuck to her big bouncing boobs as she scrubbed stainless steel pans in the deep sink. She wore frayed denim short-shorts, which didn’t entirely cover her moist ass cheeks as she bent over the steamy metal sink. Steam bustled around her as if she was trying to hold the devil down under boiling water.

The Chinaman scrambled around his stoves, fry cookers and grills, making nachos and chorizo and egg burritos. His kitchen slaves buzzed around the smoky kitchen, delivering steaming plates of food, reloading supply trays and the refrigerators.

Outside, the bar was a buzz of testosterone. Like a pack of hungry dogs surrounding a downed pigeon. Nyla’s succulent cleavage lost its aura in the lured fray. It was getting to her. She hadn’t had another woman in a month and she picked up a bad case of the holiday blues. Cinderella didn?t help. She was sick and tired of the constant projecting banter, the bets, the crystal ball, tea leave forecasts, and the machismo guessing game. Nyla’s impatience peaked as she burst into the kitchen to retrieve an order of sizzling super nachos, with guacamole and Chinaman’s special salsa on the side.

Nyla

As she slammed into the steamy galley, she spotted her smoldering plate of nachos touched off with a garnish of parsley, and colored with tres colours chips, rojo, verde and corn. Then her eyes lit upon young Cinderella’s ass bouncing against the deep sink. As she stepped forward for a closer look, Cinderella turned to face her, and her massive boobs swayed slightly beneath her slick t-shirt.

“You like,” Cinderella said as Nyla ample nipples hardened under her gathered cotton top.

“I see you don’t mind,” Nyla said witnessing Cinderella’s nipples hardening.

“I am so caliente,” Cinderella said and peeled off her t-shirt in the center of the galley.

Nyla stepped forward and in a single movement pulled her top down to reveal her gorgeous pure white mounds of joy. The two girls embraced crushing their boobs together in a sudden explosion of sexual energy. Their lips met, their tongues danced and their hands explored.

Sweating profusely, their sense of seduction peaked and they backed out of the kitchen, bouncing through the massive stainless swinging door with the old ship’s brass porthole mounted at eyeball height. The door banged open like a fire drill and two highly engaged voluptuous girls, naked to the waist stumbled into the dining room. They brought the heat, and Marko responded sliding two tables together and clearing them. Never disconnecting, they slithered onto the table their tongues locked in a search for the perfect chemistry.

The small barroom crowd was stunned. They didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. They just starred as two beautiful women grappled to find pure sensual nirvana. Ignoring the crowd, Nyla broke free just long enough to unsnap and unzip Cinderella’s shorts and push them down here perfect legs until they toppled to the floor. For the first time, Nyla focused on Cinderella’s perfect form. She leaned over and kissed her lightly, as if she was kissing a gold statue of the Virgin Mary.

Then she ran her hand down Cinderella’s soft carmel neck to her shoulders then slowly up one of her mountainous breasts, to her nipple. She touched it as if she was touching the gates of heaven. Her hand glided over every inch, as delicately as humanly possible. Nyla’s fingers were on fire as they danced over her tummy and crept close to her shaved mound. But something else crept into her conscience. It was the half-dozen sets of eyes boring into the two women. Nyla looked up at Marko and their eyes met.

Without a word, Marko read every thought. Nyla was the goddess of the Cantina, the queen, the coach, and seductress. When she needed something, all responded dutifully.

“Bar’s closed for the night,” Marko barked, and brought the patrons quickly back to reality. They picked up their shit and hit the door. Motorcycles started and rolled out of the parking lot. Marko shut off the Cantina signage lights; he shut off the dining room lights and most of the lights in the bar.

He moved around the Cantina stealth-like and lit a couple of candles and set them on the bar. As quickly, as he completed his tasks, he disappeared through the galley, locking the door to the bar behind him. He informed the kitchen crew, popped open a Corona and snatched the plate of nachos for his evening vigil on the dock, fishing in the harbor.

Fire still burned in the dining room, as Nyla slid off the table, while their eyes remained cemented in mutual adoration while she removed her clothes. Finally, they were alone, warm, bathed in candlelight and lust. Nyla kissed and touched every inch of the Hispanic goddess.

Outside, Jeremiah straddled his bike, while Dismal Dan, Clay, finished his Corona.

“You can’t beat the entertainment here,” Jeremiah said. He was the only bar patron who knew womanly treachery. He had too many broads and kids in his life. He didn’t need another one.

“Yeah,” Clay said and kicked the dirt at his feet, “but I was hoping for a shot.”

Jeremiah kicked his Bandit-built Shovelhead bobber to life, slapped on his helmet and cool shades.

“This game ain’t over yet, pal,” Jeremiah said. “It’s just started.” He disengaged his suicide clutch, slammed his tank shifter and sped out off the parking lot.

Clay looked after him, then at the brilliant sunset above the Palos Verdes point. It was a magnificent multi-hued sky. All was not lost.

The Chinaman watched as the entire staff leered at Cinderella, the young gorgeous Hispanic girl, who suddenly found herself without a home but surrounded by the Cantina family. She had five husbands, and a couple of slippery wet lesbians breathing down her soft neck, and the family of Cantina staff at her wispy back. But Chinaman whisked her into the galley where the young Hispanic homeless couple set her up, as if she was another member of their family escaping from Mexico for the golden opportunities in California.

For a couple of days, they kept her out of site, learning the galley ropes. The staff didn’t know of Bandit’s history with this girl. But most of them experienced the Cantina indoctrination. Bandit came from a long line of Navy swabs. His dad was a Chief in WWII and served time as a Seabee in Guadalcanal. He followed the ship’s code. Rookie seamen were sent to the Galley for a couple of month?s duty. It was the ship’s boot camp, training, and prospect system. If you couldn’t handle the mess cook duties, you weren’t worth the powder to blow you to hell. It taught young recruits ship discipline, scheduling and arduous, hot work under distress. Nothing like dishing up bowls of sloshing, boiling hot oatmeal in a typhoon.

Bandit liked to put new hires to the Galley test under the watchful eye of the ever-loyal Chinaman. Someday, we?ll delve into the connection between the Chinaman and Bandit. They met in Hong Kong on a floating restaurant, but we’ll slip back to the Vietnam era another time. So there was the glistening Cinderella, covered in sweat, her thin white sweat-soaked t-shirt a translucent film stuck to her big bouncing boobs as she scrubbed stainless steel pans in the deep sink. She wore frayed denim short-shorts, which didn’t entirely cover her moist ass cheeks as she bent over the steamy metal sink. Steam bustled around her as if she was trying to hold the devil down under boiling water.

The Chinaman scrambled around his stoves, fry cookers and grills, making nachos and chorizo and egg burritos. His kitchen slaves buzzed around the smoky kitchen, delivering steaming plates of food, reloading supply trays and the refrigerators.

Outside, the bar was a buzz of testosterone. Like a pack of hungry dogs surrounding a downed pigeon. Nyla’s succulent cleavage lost its aura in the lured fray. It was getting to her. She hadn’t had another woman in a month and she picked up a bad case of the holiday blues. Cinderella didn?t help. She was sick and tired of the constant projecting banter, the bets, the crystal ball, tea leave forecasts, and the machismo guessing game. Nyla’s impatience peaked as she burst into the kitchen to retrieve an order of sizzling super nachos, with guacamole and Chinaman’s special salsa on the side.

Nyla

As she slammed into the steamy galley, she spotted her smoldering plate of nachos touched off with a garnish of parsley, and colored with tres colours chips, rojo, verde and corn. Then her eyes lit upon young Cinderella’s ass bouncing against the deep sink. As she stepped forward for a closer look, Cinderella turned to face her, and her massive boobs swayed slightly beneath her slick t-shirt.

“You like,” Cinderella said as Nyla ample nipples hardened under her gathered cotton top.

“I see you don’t mind,” Nyla said witnessing Cinderella’s nipples hardening.

“I am so caliente,” Cinderella said and peeled off her t-shirt in the center of the galley.

Nyla stepped forward and in a single movement pulled her top down to reveal her gorgeous pure white mounds of joy. The two girls embraced crushing their boobs together in a sudden explosion of sexual energy. Their lips met, their tongues danced and their hands explored.

Sweating profusely, their sense of seduction peaked and they backed out of the kitchen, bouncing through the massive stainless swinging door with the old ship’s brass porthole mounted at eyeball height. The door banged open like a fire drill and two highly engaged voluptuous girls, naked to the waist stumbled into the dining room. They brought the heat, and Marko responded sliding two tables together and clearing them. Never disconnecting, they slithered onto the table their tongues locked in a search for the perfect chemistry.

The small barroom crowd was stunned. They didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. They just starred as two beautiful women grappled to find pure sensual nirvana. Ignoring the crowd, Nyla broke free just long enough to unsnap and unzip Cinderella’s shorts and push them down here perfect legs until they toppled to the floor. For the first time, Nyla focused on Cinderella’s perfect form. She leaned over and kissed her lightly, as if she was kissing a gold statue of the Virgin Mary.

Then she ran her hand down Cinderella’s soft carmel neck to her shoulders then slowly up one of her mountainous breasts, to her nipple. She touched it as if she was touching the gates of heaven. Her hand glided over every inch, as delicately as humanly possible. Nyla’s fingers were on fire as they danced over her tummy and crept close to her shaved mound. But something else crept into her conscience. It was the half-dozen sets of eyes boring into the two women. Nyla looked up at Marko and their eyes met.

Without a word, Marko read every thought. Nyla was the goddess of the Cantina, the queen, the coach, and seductress. When she needed something, all responded dutifully.

“Bar’s closed for the night,” Marko barked, and brought the patrons quickly back to reality. They picked up their shit and hit the door. Motorcycles started and rolled out of the parking lot. Marko shut off the Cantina signage lights; he shut off the dining room lights and most of the lights in the bar.

He moved around the Cantina stealth-like and lit a couple of candles and set them on the bar. As quickly, as he completed his tasks, he disappeared through the galley, locking the door to the bar behind him. He informed the kitchen crew, popped open a Corona and snatched the plate of nachos for his evening vigil on the dock, fishing in the harbor.

Fire still burned in the dining room, as Nyla slid off the table, while their eyes remained cemented in mutual adoration while she removed her clothes. Finally, they were alone, warm, bathed in candlelight and lust. Nyla kissed and touched every inch of the Hispanic goddess.

Outside, Jeremiah straddled his bike, while Dismal Dan, Clay, finished his Corona.

“You can’t beat the entertainment here,” Jeremiah said. He was the only bar patron who knew womanly treachery. He had too many broads and kids in his life. He didn’t need another one.

“Yeah,” Clay said and kicked the dirt at his feet, “but I was hoping for a shot.”

Jeremiah kicked his Bandit-built Shovelhead bobber to life, slapped on his helmet and cool shades.

“This game ain’t over yet, pal,” Jeremiah said. “It’s just started.” He disengaged his suicide clutch, slammed his tank shifter and sped out off the parking lot.

Clay looked after him, then at the brilliant sunset above the Palos Verdes point. It was a magnificent multi-hued sky. All was not lost.

Here’s the deal. We’re working on Scotty’s feature in the free section of Bikernet, but during the interview I discovered Scotty’s seven kids and 30 year marriage. So, out of respect for the Scotty family we decided to slip the wild woman Peter Linney spread all over the Long Beach sand into the Cantina. This way Scotty’s kids can son the feature to their high school teachers and Scotty can slip into the Cantina once in a while and check Tory Lane when his little blond SoCal beach wife, Julie ain’t lookin’.

Hold on the Bikernet 5-Ball Racing phone is ringing:

“Hey! I’m Tori Lane!,” Tory said. “I’m a professional Piercer (working about 6-7 days a week), and an Assistant Manager of a retail store!”

Peter, the photog, confirmed a wild array of piercing in spots we don’t mention on Bikernet, even in the Cantina. He took shot of them and you may see them pop up in more extravagant places in the near future.

“I’ve been modeling for about 2 years,” Tory continued. “Although I started doing small print work when I was about 5 yrs old. Right now, I am working on building my portfolio more, trying to make it as diverse as possible!”

Come on Tory, send us that print work from the toddler day. I gotta see what she looked like then.

“I’m available for all types of photo shoots, although Tattoo, Pinup, and Alternative are of my biggest interest!”

“Please send me a message, if you have any questions, or would like to work with me!” Tory said (http://www.torylanexxx.com/main.php).

How about meeting me in the House of Hayden Saloon in downtown Long Beach some night next week?

Details

Height: Perfect 5’5″
Weight: Light and agile 105 Pounds
Measurements: Lick me, suck me 34-26-36
Shoe size: 6.5 for the foot fetish guys
Hair Color: Black as Hollywood late nights
Hair Length: touchable shoulder length
Eye Color: Bandit loving Emerald Green
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Skin color: Cream on me white
Experience: You name it, I tried it

There you have it, Tory on Scotty’s home-built chopper. Our new girl of Bikernet.com.

Click on the Cadillac for more info about the photo master, Peter Linney.

Here’s the deal. We’re working on Scotty’s feature in the free section of Bikernet, but during the interview I discovered Scotty’s seven kids and 30 year marriage. So, out of respect for the Scotty family we decided to slip the wild woman Peter Linney spread all over the Long Beach sand into the Cantina. This way Scotty’s kids can son the feature to their high school teachers and Scotty can slip into the Cantina once in a while and check Tory Lane when his little blond SoCal beach wife, Julie ain’t lookin’.

Hold on the Bikernet 5-Ball Racing phone is ringing:

“Hey! I’m Tori Lane!,” Tory said. “I’m a professional Piercer (working about 6-7 days a week), and an Assistant Manager of a retail store!”

Peter, the photog, confirmed a wild array of piercing in spots we don’t mention on Bikernet, even in the Cantina. He took shot of them and you may see them pop up in more extravagant places in the near future.

“I’ve been modeling for about 2 years,” Tory continued. “Although I started doing small print work when I was about 5 yrs old. Right now, I am working on building my portfolio more, trying to make it as diverse as possible!”

Come on Tory, send us that print work from the toddler day. I gotta see what she looked like then.

“I’m available for all types of photo shoots, although Tattoo, Pinup, and Alternative are of my biggest interest!”

“Please send me a message, if you have any questions, or would like to work with me!” Tory said (http://www.torylanexxx.com/main.php).

How about meeting me in the House of Hayden Saloon in downtown Long Beach some night next week?

Details

Height: Perfect 5’5″
Weight: Light and agile 105 Pounds
Measurements: Lick me, suck me 34-26-36
Shoe size: 6.5 for the foot fetish guys
Hair Color: Black as Hollywood late nights
Hair Length: touchable shoulder length
Eye Color: Bandit loving Emerald Green
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Skin color: Cream on me white
Experience: You name it, I tried it

There you have it, Tory on Scotty’s home-built chopper. Our new girl of Bikernet.com.

Click on the Cadillac for more info about the photo master, Peter Linney.

The high output of nice shaped customs by Thunderbike is meanwhile well known. Though they always come up with an even more spectacular design, a new shape. In late hot summer they brought the „Kreuzfeuer“ to light. A variation of the dragster-frame built by themselves. Based on this they built a flat and mean sight.

Most of the parts are produced only to fit into this concept. The tank eg. was cut into pieces and welded again to give it its round upper shape and length. Much smaller than origianlly produced comes the oil-tank. To obtain the low seat position there is not much space beneath the seat. So the oil-tank was lowered and made small. But still as large to carry enough greasing fluid. A good idea was the integrated oil-funnel. No tubes or disturbing forms, just one supply pipe in the design of the tank.

The Time-Crack-Fork comes a little more narrow, with a flat shape but even with more spring-pitch by redesigning the inlay. The new lower covers are cut transverse, a new shape. The right “slashed“ look for that bike.

On the rear works an airride-suspension, powered by a compressor located in the Thunderbike-swing’s middle.

The engine is an 1550 ccm model with an Screaming Eagle- kit. It breathes out the exhaust-air through a slightly reshaped Thunderbike-pipe.

A general topic on the “Kreuzfeuer“ is the iron-cross- design. On the side-covers it is made of tin, self-built and supported by the colour-design. The bike sports the cross all over the whole bodywork.

On its flanks, the airfilter, the footpegs and even the mirror. The cross is the first part of the name “Kreuzfeuer.” The second part of “Kreuzfeuer“ means fire. That is to be seen on the whole bike too. The special technique by Kruse-Design made it possible to show an almost real fire-shape. Not tribals or old school, real blazing flames. So the crosses and flames combine to the “Kreuzfeuer.”

The wheels are nice shaped Gothik-design-rims with Metzeler rubber. The brakes as well come from their own manufacturing. The rear model is a pulley-brake that runs on the inside of the belt-pulley. Clean sight on the outside.

With the “Kreuzfeuer“ Thunderbike shows again what is possible to be built even with the TÜV-cert by the german government. That means one thing: all parts are reliable and really do their work!

A great shooting delivered Melody, our former German model, definitly one of my favorites.

Former? Yes, she lives in the US of A now, close to San Diego. It’s a mess that we had to hand her out to a husband who carried her off to your far away land. On the other hand I have now one more place to stay when visiting the hot south of California. Maybe a little hotter after Meldoy arrived… More babes and bikes – and more of Melody – online now at: www.motor-babes.com

Bike: www.thunderbike.de
Shooting by: www.wikinger.com at www.pixel- garage.com

The high output of nice shaped customs by Thunderbike is meanwhile well known. Though they always come up with an even more spectacular design, a new shape. In late hot summer they brought the „Kreuzfeuer“ to light. A variation of the dragster-frame built by themselves. Based on this they built a flat and mean sight.

Most of the parts are produced only to fit into this concept. The tank eg. was cut into pieces and welded again to give it its round upper shape and length. Much smaller than origianlly produced comes the oil-tank. To obtain the low seat position there is not much space beneath the seat. So the oil-tank was lowered and made small. But still as large to carry enough greasing fluid. A good idea was the integrated oil-funnel. No tubes or disturbing forms, just one supply pipe in the design of the tank.

The Time-Crack-Fork comes a little more narrow, with a flat shape but even with more spring-pitch by redesigning the inlay. The new lower covers are cut transverse, a new shape. The right “slashed“ look for that bike.

On the rear works an airride-suspension, powered by a compressor located in the Thunderbike-swing’s middle.

The engine is an 1550 ccm model with an Screaming Eagle- kit. It breathes out the exhaust-air through a slightly reshaped Thunderbike-pipe.

A general topic on the “Kreuzfeuer“ is the iron-cross- design. On the side-covers it is made of tin, self-built and supported by the colour-design. The bike sports the cross all over the whole bodywork.

On its flanks, the airfilter, the footpegs and even the mirror. The cross is the first part of the name “Kreuzfeuer.” The second part of “Kreuzfeuer“ means fire. That is to be seen on the whole bike too. The special technique by Kruse-Design made it possible to show an almost real fire-shape. Not tribals or old school, real blazing flames. So the crosses and flames combine to the “Kreuzfeuer.”

The wheels are nice shaped Gothik-design-rims with Metzeler rubber. The brakes as well come from their own manufacturing. The rear model is a pulley-brake that runs on the inside of the belt-pulley. Clean sight on the outside.

With the “Kreuzfeuer“ Thunderbike shows again what is possible to be built even with the TÜV-cert by the german government. That means one thing: all parts are reliable and really do their work!

A great shooting delivered Melody, our former German model, definitly one of my favorites.

Former? Yes, she lives in the US of A now, close to San Diego. It’s a mess that we had to hand her out to a husband who carried her off to your far away land. On the other hand I have now one more place to stay when visiting the hot south of California. Maybe a little hotter after Meldoy arrived… More babes and bikes – and more of Melody – online now at: www.motor-babes.com

Bike: www.thunderbike.de
Shooting by: www.wikinger.com at www.pixel- garage.com

Editor's Note: This feature comes from the Viking in Germany. He writes his one features and is the master photographer. You'll find the story contains an interesting slant.

“A dream comes true!“ Leonie yells as she sees this long highneck-chopper for the first time ready for shooting in our studio. “I was often jealous of the girls who were allowed to pose with choppas like this, and now I’m the one!“ she laughed with a light and girly sound. She spred her legs over the bike, grabbed the grips and made an engine-like sound, “Vrooom, Vroooooommmmmmm“

When we look at this cutie we almost can’t believe that she was a starlet in the erotic business, but not anymore. “Posing is fun, but the hard work on hard-ons isn’t exciting anymore. I’ve had enough, did my thing and had my experiences. Finito, period!“ she said.

Now she’s getting closer to main stream entertainment like music-shows, MTV and tv-hosting. For us she is pleased to pose on the bike, built by Hero Choppers from Herne, Germany.

The license-plate of the City of Herne shows HER- something, and the Hero-boys around boss Markus Wiechers intend to receive a “HER-O-number” for their clients’ bikes. There the name Hero-Choppers comes from. The bike shown is in a way a bolt-on, in another a real custom- bike.

“It took days and weeks to find and order the parts we wanted for this bike. We went the old way. We scribbled a dozen drawings to illustrate and make up our minds as to what we wanted to build. As we nailed it down we started googling, working through hundereds of pages in catalogues and brochures. And then, part by part dropped in.“

Then we discussed it with our partner, Hartmut, the owner. He is a tattoo-artist and ex-member of a chopper-club. “What we wanted was a daily driver, but also a custom-bike. Not that show and shine, but as much show as possible while working well still,“ Hartmut explained.

Based on a single-downtube, Santee-frame they built a really rideable Chopper. The seating position is for tall Hartmut perfect, the position of hands and arms fit like a tv-chair and he can ride hundereds of miles – er – at least until the small gastank by Jesse James is empty. Then Hartmut has to switch the pop-out cap and refill a few litres of the expensive fluid (in fact, the German price for one liter (0,27 gal) of premium gas is almost three $3.00 USD!

What looks like a coffin-tank is only the product of the painting. In reality the tank is round and smooth, no edges anywhere, only a flat bottom.

To take a CCE-springer-frontend as chopper-front is not that much common, but it looks great and works like hell. The LA-Choppers’ Z-handlebar breathes a lot of '70s spirit, black powder-coated it comes modern.

The experiment to use a wide fender on the rear while having none on the front worked out well. Only for rainy periods Hartmut holds a clip-on front fender ready to cover the big 21 inch frontwheel.

Both of the guys show great taste in combining the parts. The air-filter may not look different, and the oil tank only fits in the style shown. The red grips are stylish and also the sissy bar is meant to complete the view of the rear. The bar is totally custom, handmade.

Many details and tiny parts add details, but not to make is a show bike, rather to be the show in total. What Markus and Hartmut built is now a very fine highnecker with parts of the present and the past. Well done boys.

Thank you for hours of erotic posing, Leonie. Enjoy, folks!

Hero-Choppers
Markus Wiechers
Castroperstr.78
44628 Herne
Telefon: 049 – 2323 / 228 48 82
www.herochoppers.de

Technische Daten Highnecker (Tech Chart)

Motor: RevTech 88cui
Carb: Mikuni HSR 42

Frame: Santee Rigid Frame

Transmission: 5-gear RevTech
Primary: 3“ BDL New Style
Cover: Crime Scene Choppers

Frontend: Paughco Springer Custom Chrome 8” over

rearwheel: 6 x 17 RevTech with 200/50 17
frontwheel: 2,15 x 21 OEM HD 90/90 21
front brake: GMA 2 Kolben mit DNA-Scheibe
rear brake: OEM HD Softail mit OEM Twincam-Scheibe

Tank: Jesse James Villain mit Pop-up
Handlebar: LA Choppers Z-Lanker 1 ¼”
Blinkers: Snake Eyes
Footrests: DNA
Airfilter: Crime Scene Choppers
Exhaust: BSL 2 ¼“ Shot Gun
Rear: Custom Chrome / Herochoppers

Sissy-Bar: Herochoppers
Oil-Tank: Custom Chrome / Herochoppers
Wiring: Herochoppers
Seat: Herochoppers
Ignition: Single Fire

Grips: Retro Style rot Custom Chrome
Controls: DNA
Paint, grafix: Autolackiertechnik Mike Bauer ,Herne

As the sun set over the Los Angles Harbor, Bandit’s Cantina took on a celebratory aura. The gang finally relaxed, as if the evil matron in a boarding school was transferred to another facility. Kenny, the junkman, was thrown out on his ass, never to return.

Left behind was Cinderella, a delightful Hispanic youngster with gigantic tits and a smile capable of melting chrome. Her eyes filled with tears as the underwater welding students returned after ousting her slumlord.

“No mi casa.” She stumbled and slumped into a chair, just as Nyla was refilling glasses with strong Cadillac Margarita mix and the Chinaman burst into the dining room with a fresh round of happy hour hor d?vours.

The Mexican busboy, who the Chinaman rescued from the streets and trained in the Cantina galley, ran to her side, speaking in her native tongue, assuring her she had come to the right place. Mandy and Tina followed suit, with Sheila nodding and pointing to various alcoves in the Cantina where she could crash.

“No trabajo ahora,” she muttered as tears ran down her dusky brown cheeks.

“I’ll speak to the boss,” Marko said. “I don’t know if we need another waitress. Maybe Nyla could use a barback, and she could help tidy up around this joint. Ask her if she has any belongings in Wilmington at Kenny’s junkyard?”

The Chinaman’s helper and his wife, Maria, asked her, but she had nothing, except a few clothes she didn’t care about.

The red phone behind the bar interrupted the conversation. It was Bandit from upstairs. Marko answered it.

“What’s up boss?” he asked.

“It’s mudcheck time,” Bandit said and the line went dead.

Marko knew the drill. Over the years, Bandit and the Cantina crew helped folks out, but it backfired from time to time. They quickly developed a prospect period, coupled with heavy security. Every man, woman or child needed to prove themselves before the door was opened all the way.

Marko sat down with Jose and his wife. “You know, we need to check her out,? he said of the newcomer. ?Find out about her past, family, whatever. Tell her that if she wants a shot, we’ll give it to her one step at a time. She will be treated with honor and respect, but she has to prove herself, or we’ll send her down the road.”

Jose and Maria endured similar criteria when they were allowed to come around the Cantina and work with the Chinaman. They immediately went to work on little Cinderella with the big boobs. Marko towered over their small shoulders. Not one of them stood more than 5’4″.

So Cinderella told her tale while Maria translated. The barrios of Mexico City weren?t the safest place for a young girl whose breasts were budding into adolescence. The dirty, smog-filled streets were rife with drug dealers and pimps, always on the lookout for fresh meat to sell into slavery and prostitution.

As the child blossomed, her mother saw the street slime leering at her daughter?s seductive form as she played in the streets. She knew her daughter was a major score for the gang member who could snatch her and sell her into white slavery or prostitution. So, she began saving funds and trying to find a safe, trustworthy, shipping connection to the States. But pitfalls and notorious traps lurked around every corner. It was difficult to save any money with her meager earnings. She tried to pay off the policia to watch out for Cinderella, but they were as corrupt as the gang bangers, demanding more coin, then extorting from her and threatening to take Cinderella themselves. Her mother worked in an American product assembly plant, making a meager salary, which was very hard to come by, in a town where cleaning ladies, street cooks and laundry jobs were the vocational staples. The class structure was limited to two levels. There were a handful of very wealthy. The rest of the population was dirt poor.

Then Kraft Foods opened a product assembly plant, and she begged for a chance at a regular job. They printed and assembled shipping containers, eight hours a day. The facility was clean and well-organized. Fans blew overhead and cooled the massive warehouse.

But while she worked, she couldn’t keep an eye on Cinderella. She was hopelessly sequestered at work each day, away from any contact with her daughter. She prayed constantly and forced Cinderella to stay in school as much and as long as possible, but then she graduated from high school and the funds weren’t available to send her to a trade school or college.

To top off her anxiety over her daughter, hormones flourished along with her body, and Cindarella hooked up with a boyfriend, Jesus. He had long curly hair, big dark eyebrows, and his smile was quirky and insincere. He was from Del Casa de Diablo. That was here mom’s way of saying he came from a bad home. Of course, Cinderella didn’t heed her mother?s warnings. She was swept off her feet with puppy love, and Jesus didn’t make any attempt to ground her in reality. He played the doting boyfriend until the summer rolled around and hormones flared. Her mother?s worries and suspicions grew. The cops quit coming around. Jesus? clothes were pressed and new, yet he had no obvious means of employment and didn’t mention family ties.

During the interview with Jose and Maria, Cinderella often mentioned motorcycles. Each time she did, her eyes sparkled and a smile crossed her face. It seems Jesus invited Cinderella to the coast at Guadalajara for the weekend and her mother forbade her to go, but when the weekend came, she was gone. Friday afternoon, her mother returned from work on the cluttered city bus to find a small note pinned to the door. Something about going to the beach for the first time.

That was the last she saw of her daughter or the boyfriend, although she thought for sure she spotted him getting in a black sedan with tinted windows. She reported her missing daughter to la policia, to surly officers who didn’t give a shit. She spent a month’s wages combing the streets of Guadalajara to no avail.

Jesus had an easy moneymaking gig. He hit on girls like Cinderella constantly, befriended them, did all he could to get them to fall in love and make love. Then when their romance was warm and cozy, he offered to take them away for a romantic weekend. It all started out peaches and cream and fun, with a serene drive to the coast, some drinks and good seafood. Then the story faded. Cinderella awoke in a barred adobe room with only a few clothes, drugged and shackled to a bed surrounded by a dirt floor.

Jesus wined and dined each girl, and had his way with her if they were willing. If not, he slipped them a mickey, had his way anyway, and then delivered them to a remote compound somewhere on the west coast between Guadalajara and Mazatlan.

She awoke with a start. Cinderella’s mom trained her extensively for such an occurrence and told her exactly what would happen. Some girls would be gang-raped and killed. It was like a prostitution training camp. Some would succumb to the game and become players. Some would fight back and be killed or tortured. Some would become drug addicts and used until there was nothing left. She could only attempt to survive. Her mom told her the game, and she contained all the hot physical tools.

A couple of scurvy looking uniforms unlocked her heavy rustic door and shoved it open. An official looking gent wandered in wearing a white cotton suit and dress shirt. He pulled up a chair beside her bed and lit a cigarette. He explained the drill, and in no uncertain terms told her that she was going to be a prostitute, cooperate fully, or die and be buried with so many other worthless bitches in the desert. He didn’t offer her a glass of water, the use of a toilet, a chunk of bread, a cigarette, nothing. When he finished, he put the cigarette out on her ankle.

“You have one hour to think it over, puta” he said as she whimpered and pissed herself. He tore her top away from her jiggling boobs and gawked at them. “You have the tools to make good money and have some fun.” He turned and left the room.

Her leg stung, but suddenly reality stormed over her like a tsunami. She didn’t pay much attention to her mom’s ramblings as a youngster, but suddenly she was faced with all the lessons she?d listened to half-heartedly. She had come face-to-face with no-bullshit, life and death decisions. An hour passed like the last hour for a death row inmate, except she had a choice, the inmate didn’t. As it turned out, Saxon motorcycles was owned by several very successful property developers who were building luxury condos on the coast of Mexico, and they invited several motojournalists, including Bandit, to experience Mexico on the back of their new models. What a ride! They dodged tarantulas and federales to the coast to find luxury condos and terrific food, while riding the entire line of tough-looking metalflake Saxon motorcycles. After a tough day on a hot saddle, the Saxon gang set up a diner, then a ride to a remote compound on the outskirts of Acaponeta, Mexico. The tanned gringos on sparkling new glistening flamed choppers rolled into a full-blown whorehouse and the party began.

Bandit immediately spotted the young Mexican with the giant soft mambos near the pool. She was as gorgeous as the sparkling clear water lit-up in the night. It was dark, except for large candles, mood lighting, the clear starry nights, and the reflections off the Saxon Choppers. Tequila flowed, but Bandit, a security-minded gent, made his way through the throng of young girls to the small one with the torpedo hooters sitting with her short legs dangling in the pool.

Bandit sat down beside her, his dusty boot resting next to her succulent ass on the water’s edge. She was a delight for sunburnt eyes.

“Habla English?” Bandit asked.

“Muy poco,” she returned, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m not much good at Spanish, either,” Bandit said. “So what gives? You don’t seem to be into the party. Are these bad guys? Hombres malos?”

“Si,” she said.

“How long have you been aqui?”

“Un dia.”

The party was in full swing, girls were performing lap dances (including one very interesting routine with a banana), and getting the guys wound up. Bandit pulled his condo key out of his pocket and slipped it under the girl’s soft leg.

“Como se llama?”

“Cinderella,” she said and looked up at him.

For the first time, their eyes met and his piercing green eyes bored into sad dark eyes screaming for help. She leaned forward and wrapped her petite arm around one of his large legs and held it close, as if she found a long lost teddy bear.

“This party could get crazy,” Bandit said, and pointed at his eyes. “Keep close and your eyes open.”

There was one other editor who was taking it easy. He was short, stout looking guy who had a military security background. He kicked back and watched the crowd of a dozen riders, and an equal number of women frolic in the dim lights. As Bandit strolled toward the bar, he paused by Chris and knelt down.

“Quite a compound, eh?” Bandit said.

“Yep, we’re surrounded,” Chris said and sipped his Margarita.

“We may need to make a flashy exit,” Bandit said and stood up. Chris seemed to know exactly what to do. The motorcycles were strewn around the compound and outside the gate. Chris got up, finished his Margarita, and started to rearrange the bikes. Within a couple of minutes, the guys from Saxon started to help him move the motorcycles just outside the gates beside the Saxon truck.

The Saxon leader announced an hour later that time was up and the crew had to roll. As the guys mustered, some getting dressed and stumbling out of small dirt floor rooms, Bandit stuck close to Cinderella as he counted the crew, then leaned down close to her quiet features and handed her a 100-dollar bill. He touched her leg near his key.

“Follow the motorcycles,” he said twisting his writs, mimicking the throttle on a motorcycle. “Stay here, no matter what happens. Comprende?”

She nodded hopefully.

He stood up and walked over directly towards the biggest security guard of the bunch. “Where’s the head?”

“In the back,” the guard snarled and pointed around one of the dusty adobe buildings. Bandit could imagine what a pit the place looked like in the sunlight, but at night with some well-place lighting, a couple of paper decorations, enough women and margaritas and the joint was a castle, except for the stench. He found the pungent outhouse, took a leak, picked up a can of gas, and continued around the building to the opposite end of the U-shaped compound where the bar was. He poured two gallons of gas against the back wall of the bar and through the open window, set it ablaze and ran to the opposite corner.

The bar was aflame and security ran to assist. Bandit ran to where the trashcans resided beside the exit and grabbed one.

“Hey, guys let’s help.”

He dumped out one of the plastic containers and ran to the pool. He scooped as much water as he could carryt and ran toward the saloon, tossing it at the flames. The guards were impressed with his efforts and soon the flames were quelled. During one run, on his return to the pool he scooped up the girl in the trashcan and dumped her outside the gate. Then he returned to the fire.

With the fire out, the Saxon rep gave the saloon owner a couple of hundred bucks to help with the damages, while the guys returned the buckets and trash cans to their rightful locations. They were heroes to the security team and the girls as they mounted their colorful scooters and motored back to the coast where the condos reflected the moonlight against ten floors of sliding glass doors and the rippling Pacific. The smell was fresh and clean as they pulled into the parking lot and locked up the flashy new scooters.

Gradually the riding writers finished their final beers and smokes and wandered off to their luxury rooms. The night was clear as Bandit leaned against a concrete wall overlooking ocean and watched the moon’s reflection dance on the water. He caught a Saxon rep heading to his room.

“Terrific party,” Bandit said. “Thanks.”

“Do you need anything before I turn in?” the young man offered.

“Did you bring any extra bags?” Bandit asked. “I bought some trinkets to take home.”

“I’ll check,” he said. “We brought a bunch of stuff to give away, so we may have something.”

They dug around in the back of the Saxon van and came up with a big cordura gym bag, almost the size of a sea bag.

“Yeah,” the young gent said. “This was used to bring all the t-shirts we gave away.”

“Thanks,” Bandit said. “This may work perfectly.”

He returned to the wall and gazed out at the Pacific as the Saxon rep locked up the truck and roamed off to his room. The night turned quiet. There was no traffic and the nearest town was a couple of miles away. He thought about the girl, and if she would make it or return to the compound. Bandit was never against prostitution; in fact, he favored it, but not the forced variety. He pulled a Jack Daniels flask out of his vest and took a snort. It had been a helluva day.

“Hola,” a small voice whispered at his back. Cinderella stood, covered in dust and dirt with her hand outstretched. She was holding his room key.

“How about a warm bath?” Bandit asked, picked up the bag, and led her to his condo. She was dazzled by the interior.

The next morning, Bandit met the young Saxon rep at the van first thing with his bags, one in particular. He carefully positioned the heavy bag deep in the van and protected it with other bags. That was the last he saw of Cinderella, three years ago.

Editor's Note: This feature comes from the Viking in Germany. He writes his one features and is the master photographer. You'll find the story contains an interesting slant.

“A dream comes true!“ Leonie yells as she sees this long highneck-chopper for the first time ready for shooting in our studio. “I was often jealous of the girls who were allowed to pose with choppas like this, and now I’m the one!“ she laughed with a light and girly sound. She spred her legs over the bike, grabbed the grips and made an engine-like sound, “Vrooom, Vroooooommmmmmm“

When we look at this cutie we almost can’t believe that she was a starlet in the erotic business, but not anymore. “Posing is fun, but the hard work on hard-ons isn’t exciting anymore. I’ve had enough, did my thing and had my experiences. Finito, period!“ she said.

Now she’s getting closer to main stream entertainment like music-shows, MTV and tv-hosting. For us she is pleased to pose on the bike, built by Hero Choppers from Herne, Germany.

The license-plate of the City of Herne shows HER- something, and the Hero-boys around boss Markus Wiechers intend to receive a “HER-O-number” for their clients’ bikes. There the name Hero-Choppers comes from. The bike shown is in a way a bolt-on, in another a real custom- bike.

“It took days and weeks to find and order the parts we wanted for this bike. We went the old way. We scribbled a dozen drawings to illustrate and make up our minds as to what we wanted to build. As we nailed it down we started googling, working through hundereds of pages in catalogues and brochures. And then, part by part dropped in.“

Then we discussed it with our partner, Hartmut, the owner. He is a tattoo-artist and ex-member of a chopper-club. “What we wanted was a daily driver, but also a custom-bike. Not that show and shine, but as much show as possible while working well still,“ Hartmut explained.

Based on a single-downtube, Santee-frame they built a really rideable Chopper. The seating position is for tall Hartmut perfect, the position of hands and arms fit like a tv-chair and he can ride hundereds of miles – er – at least until the small gastank by Jesse James is empty. Then Hartmut has to switch the pop-out cap and refill a few litres of the expensive fluid (in fact, the German price for one liter (0,27 gal) of premium gas is almost three $3.00 USD!

What looks like a coffin-tank is only the product of the painting. In reality the tank is round and smooth, no edges anywhere, only a flat bottom.

To take a CCE-springer-frontend as chopper-front is not that much common, but it looks great and works like hell. The LA-Choppers’ Z-handlebar breathes a lot of '70s spirit, black powder-coated it comes modern.

The experiment to use a wide fender on the rear while having none on the front worked out well. Only for rainy periods Hartmut holds a clip-on front fender ready to cover the big 21 inch frontwheel.

Both of the guys show great taste in combining the parts. The air-filter may not look different, and the oil tank only fits in the style shown. The red grips are stylish and also the sissy bar is meant to complete the view of the rear. The bar is totally custom, handmade.

Many details and tiny parts add details, but not to make is a show bike, rather to be the show in total. What Markus and Hartmut built is now a very fine highnecker with parts of the present and the past. Well done boys.

Thank you for hours of erotic posing, Leonie. Enjoy, folks!

Hero-Choppers
Markus Wiechers
Castroperstr.78
44628 Herne
Telefon: 049 – 2323 / 228 48 82
www.herochoppers.de

Technische Daten Highnecker (Tech Chart)

Motor: RevTech 88cui
Carb: Mikuni HSR 42

Frame: Santee Rigid Frame

Transmission: 5-gear RevTech
Primary: 3“ BDL New Style
Cover: Crime Scene Choppers

Frontend: Paughco Springer Custom Chrome 8” over

rearwheel: 6 x 17 RevTech with 200/50 17
frontwheel: 2,15 x 21 OEM HD 90/90 21
front brake: GMA 2 Kolben mit DNA-Scheibe
rear brake: OEM HD Softail mit OEM Twincam-Scheibe

Tank: Jesse James Villain mit Pop-up
Handlebar: LA Choppers Z-Lanker 1 ¼”
Blinkers: Snake Eyes
Footrests: DNA
Airfilter: Crime Scene Choppers
Exhaust: BSL 2 ¼“ Shot Gun
Rear: Custom Chrome / Herochoppers

Sissy-Bar: Herochoppers
Oil-Tank: Custom Chrome / Herochoppers
Wiring: Herochoppers
Seat: Herochoppers
Ignition: Single Fire

Grips: Retro Style rot Custom Chrome
Controls: DNA
Paint, grafix: Autolackiertechnik Mike Bauer ,Herne