Oklahoma Chain Gang
By Bandit |
This story is true. The names and exact locations have been changed to protect the innocent—or guilty—depending upon your personal ideas of justice. It must be considered that this event took place in 1979…things were different then.
It was springtime and the sky was deep blue and cloudless as the Superglide pounded its fateful rhythm against the northbound Texas pavement of I-35. As the warm sunshine beat down upon the face of the lone rider his mind began to wander over events of the recent past. Times had been tough, at least from his way of thinking.
Although only 21, Little John stood six two and weighed 240-pounds, most of which was hard muscle. His basic nature had always been that of a gentle giant, and his natural levels of patience and tolerance were, according to almost all who knew him, far above that of the average person. There was, however, one inconsistency: Little John had a snapping point—it was like a switch—and anyone who pushed him beyond it quickly found themselves facing a very different man from the gentle giant they’d first met. Fortunately however, John’s immense size and kind nature had repeatedly saved him from those scrapes throughout his relatively short time on this earth.
His family life had been as good as any and he loved his folks well enough. But eventually all boys grow up and, at the age of 18, Little John had known it was time to leave the nest.
Aside from a natural mechanical ability, yet to be properly honed, the young man possessed no real marketable skills. Many of his friends had done well in the Armed Forces and John had just figured, as many young men do, that a beginning in the military would gain him a trade as well as an opportunity to strike out on his own. After a year of technical training at Lowery Air Force Base in Colorado, he’d been stationed at Bergstrom, which was located just south of Austin Texas.
Yet try to control himself as he might, the service had offered what John considered a much larger serving of bullshit than he’d deserved. There had been trouble. Although other incidents had occurred, the bacon fight was the final straw.
Behind a face chiseled with bad attitude had been a pair of laughing eyes that obviously enjoyed the privilege to wield small power. While standing over a large pan of well-done bacon, the mess-cook refused John anything but a plate of raw pig meat, and the big man snapped. The force of the metal plate and raw meat smashing into the cook's face, first broke his nose before sending him toppling over a hot stove to land in an unconscious heap on the cement floor.
Upon his release from the brig and, after serving three-and- a-half of a four-year hitch, John was discharged under a section eight. They’d said he was mentally unstable.
But that was behind him now and, as the Superglide pulled strong against the pavement of that sunny day, John felt as though he’d been released from the gates of hell to enjoy something like real freedom once again. Momentarily his grin broadened and the young rider found relief in a moment of great belly laughter.
Little John decided to make a road-trip of the journey home. He’d give the wind ample time to blow the cobwebs from his brain while enjoying the ride north along I-35. Somewhere ahead he’d turn west then ride into the Rocky Mountains. Eventually he’d find the roads that led to his hometown of Tucson, Arizona. John had $1,500, a sleeping bag, and the trusty Superglide. It was a good day indeed.
As the Oklahoma state line drew near Little John remembered rumors of the state’s backwoods, and redneck cops. He watched the movie Easy Rider and wanted no trouble like that.
After pulling to roadside John removed the combat knife (two inches over the legal limit) from his belt. He then unrolled his sleeping bag. Dropping the knife—sheath and all—into the bottom of the bag he thought, That's better. Shouldn't provoke no trouble in there.
The Oklahoma state line came and went while the rhythm of the country road soothed the big man's spirit. Two hours passed when John took notice of the state trooper’s red lights flashing in his rearview mirror.
Even though his paperwork was in order, John soon stood at curbside while a porky, stone-faced cop riffled through his belongings.
As the illegal search continued to bare no fruit, the officer’s attitude steadily degraded. Truly he was pissed. Eventually the cop got around to the sleeping bag.
Upon finding the knife he said, “Well what have we here? A concealed weapon huh? Alright hippie; turn around, hands against the car and spread ’em!”
Shortly after the tow truck had hitched up his bike, John found himself cuffed and staring at the fine countryside from the backseat of a cruiser. Before long the car was bouncing down a tiny, pot-holed, road.
The town could have been Mayberry, John thought, had it been slightly bigger and a whole lot friendlier. On the right sat a run down Texaco station, and he could see the chain link fence that encircled the police impound-lot behind as they passed. On the left sat a general store—the only other business in town. Beyond that lay only trees and a few old houses.
The cruiser stopped at the general store and John was escorted inside. As they crossed the wooden floor of its dingy interior, John caught sight of an old man sitting behind the counter in a wooden recliner.
Glancing down the cop said, “Afternoon Ben.”
“Bobby. What yuh got there?”
The Sheriff set the knife on the table, “Found this on ‘im Ben. Concealed weapon.”
The old man reached forward to flip the small sign atop his desk that read ‘Proprietor”. The other side said ‘Municipal Judge’. Little John could hardly believe his eyes. This wasn’t really happening…was it?
The body search back on the highway had revealed Little Johns net worth. The Judge fined him 1,450 of his 1,500 dollars, then passed a sentence of six-months at the county work farm. Embarrassment had prompted John to refuse his phone call. First, his discharge from the military and now this. He prayed his folks would never find out.
Ten minutes after he’d arrived, Little John, still cuffed behind his back, stepped from the porch and back into the squad car.
Outside the main body of the county jail rested a series of rundown metal-buildings surrounded by a tall chain link fence topped with razor wire. An occasional gun tower was thrown in for good measure. This steadily decaying environment served as home to the working prisoners.
Dressed in black and white stripes and shackled at the ankle to the men who worked beside him, John spent his days digging ditches, slinging a sickle, moving rock or whatever other job was assigned. On the perimeter of every work-detail, a handful of pudgy cops sat on their horses with shotguns held across their laps. Little John thought that this sort of thing only happened in the movies. And with each swing of his sickle the big man’s resentment grew.
Serving as a model prisoner had earned “time off” for good behavior and John was finally released after what had seemed like the longest three months of his life.
John thought first of his bike. Fifty dollars would not touch the impound fees and had probably only been left him with bus-fare in mind. They’d robed him then used him as slave labor. Now they would take his ride as well.
Little John had other ideas.
All seemed quiet inside the beat up Texaco station as John slipped unnoticed along the building’s side. Ahead he saw a dirt trail that ran along the impound lot perimeter. To his right grew a wall of thick trees, while his left offered a tall chain-link fence with wooden slats slipped between the links to help deter prying eyes.
Was the Superglide still here? John’s heart pumped a little harder as he slid quietly past the building. The guard-dog’s menacing stare was the first thing Little John saw as he lifted his eyes above the fence. It was an older Shepherd, heavily scared from street fights. He was mean. But it was not his nature to bark and the dog only growled a warning. John saw that he meant business. But the dog was only an inconvenience.
Little John had come for his bike.
Casting a gaze across the lot, he soon spotted her. His gear was still packed exactly as it had been on the day this nightmare began! The dog had gnawed the seat and his gear. John’s anger intensified.
Stealthily, he slipped away.
It was three a.m. and aside from a single streetlight adjacent to the general store, the little town of Mayberry seemed deserted. In the Texaco parking lot sat a single tow-truck. With violent intent obvious in his stride, Little John walked to it. His only plan had been to hot-wire the vehicle then ram the gate. After that, he didn’t know?
Bits of shattered glass flew across the bench seat as a large rock smashed the driver’s window. Next, a work-callused hand reached for the door-lock. A quick search of the truck revealed a set of bolt-cutters stashed behind the seat. “How convenient,” the big man thought. Moments later Little John cut the lock from the impound gate then slid it open.
Again the dog was there. It snarled and attacked.
There was a single yelp as the business end of the bolt-cutters came down on the dog’s skull. In an instant the animal lay unconscious upon the ground. One hind-leg still twitched. John hit him again and the dog lay still.
Five minutes later John pushed the motorcycle to the street then turned left and headed out of town. The bike was heavy, but Little John continued for another 1/8th mile before deciding it was probably safe to try the engine.
After inserting the spare key he always carried, John hit the button. The starter didn’t even click. As he’d feared, the battery had gone dead over his three months of incarceration. Thank god for kickers, he thought. But the spark was weak and still she did not start. He worked hard…still nothing. Desperation gripped him as the sweat began to flow from his body. And still he worked. Finally she fired…but only once, then again, and again. Eventually the old engine came to life and it was with a great sigh of relief that Little John threw a leg over the bike, then dropped her into gear.
It had been three long months since he’d felt the wind in his face and in the wee hours of that late summer morning the quiet country road supplied him with only a warm breeze as he rode free again. Looking to the black velvet sky it occurred to him that all the stars of the universe had come to offer their misty milk-light in a ritual of surreal blessing cast down upon his escape.
But he was afraid. He’d killed an officer—a police dog! If they caught him now, by law, they could send him up for murder. Fear. It seemed a weak word now, for what John really felt was something more like terror. His mind raced for a plan. They know I’m moving west because of my Arizona license. It’s certainly fortunate that the address is wrong. Think I’ll go east. It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all he had.
Once the adrenaline had washed from his veins a horrible anxiety took its place and, stopping only for gas and an occasional catnap at the ground beside his bike, John rode for two solid days. Eventually the North Carolina coastline stopped him. With no interest in the southern route, as it passed entirely to close to Oklahoma, Little John turned the Superglide north.
Somewhere in Virginia the money ran out and John found himself pushing what had begun to feel like two tons of cold steel. Eventually he brought the motorcycle into a small Sinclair Station. The young man approached the proprietor then and offered his labor. “Any kind of work at all,” he’d said, “in trade for a tank of gas.” It was a very embarrassing moment indeed.
The wiry old man looked him over thoughtfully for a moment. His sudden grin revealed two missing teeth. “Know how to operate a broom?” he said. But John knew more, and by that very afternoon his face was buried under the hood of an aging Chevrolet as his hand worked diligentlywith a 9/16 box-wrench. The old man let him sleep behind the station. On the sixth day Little John collected his pay then headed up I-17 once again.
As the Canadian border drew near it was decided to pick up I-90 and start west. The highway now offered some semblance of security in the fact that Oklahoma had been given the widest berth possible and again the ride brought great contentment to the big man’s spirit.
Twice more the motorcycle was pushed into gas stations—intentionally—for John now sought employment before his wallet ran dry. Twice again he found work.
From Washington, Little John rode I-5 south to Portland before turning west for the coast. Now this is truly living, he thought as giant redwood forests dazzled him, and impossibly green landscapes made candy for his eyes, while stunning seascapes filled his lungs with fresh ocean air. It was without doubt the height of his short life on this earth.
A week later Little John pulled into Los Angeles. From there he picked up I-10 east and began the last 500-mile stretch of his long journey home.
As the familiar desert opened up ahead, John began to rehearse the lies he’d tell friends and, especially, his folks about the nature of his long disappearance. But somehow his heart had been changed and John thought he now felt a touch of manhood that had not been with him before. No, he would not lie. Besides, the truth was just too strange a tale not to be told.
Little John pulled into his parents driveway and shut the Superglide down. His mom, startled by the familiar sound of the Shovelhead engine, met him at the door. She threw her arms around him and said, “Johnny, where the hell have you been? I was so damn worried!”
“Well mom…it all started when I crossed the Oklahoma state line…”
This story is dedicated to the real Little John. You know who you are.
Ride long and prosper…
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
Myrtle Beach 2007
By Bandit |
Early may sunshine gently warmed formerly frozen pavement as the old Electra Glide made its faithful way along the small, secondary South Carolina hwy. Dressed in only boots, Levs and thermal shirt, I relaxed into the finely forested scenery that lined either roadside. It was a good day to ride.
Winter always holds the Scooter Drifter to the far south and I never start the northern migration till early May. Well, May was upon me and this year it would begin with the Myrtle Beach rally in South Carolina. I’d arrive within the hour.
For 13-years I’d been committed to this long journey and experience taught that, as per the ways of the drifter, one must sometimes work hard and fast to build his capital then stretch that money across the long periods of travel and leisure that lay ahead. To date, two to three working months per year has always been sufficient. It was in this interest that I’d learned years ago to work for the vendors at motorcycle rallies across the nation. Hell, I was there anyway and had come to know so many vendors and promoters that work for them just seemed the next natural step.
Funds were again slim and work was now necessary. Fortunately, I was prescheduled to work the Metzeler truck this year. This custom built, two-story semi-truck had been outfitted as a rolling tire shop that traveled the country to sell, then install, the tires purchased by so many biking, rally-attendees. Well, they needed mechanics and the long years of repairing my own scooters had qualified me to this relatively straight-forward task. Myrtle Beach rubber jockey. It was a job I actually looked forward to, and the pay was good as well. Still, partying would surely be more fun. But little did I know that nothing could equal the time I’d soon spend among the crazy Metzeler crew…
The roadside forest widened and Myrel’s Inlet came into view. The large and terminally touristy beach town of Myrtle stretches north and south along the coast. Myrel’s Inlet is simply the southern end.
It was 11 am Thursday. By Saturday this world would be filled with blurs of chrome and the roar of engines. But for now the calm scene revealed only the many erect vending tents, and the efforts of those who still worked to set theirs up.
It was the calm before the storm.
After pulling to the curb I called Easy Eddy (my new boss) on the cell. Wanting to settle in and enjoy the rally for a couple days before hell week began, I agreed to start Sunday morn.
The next order of business was accommodations. Just past the southern end of town, a small and seldom used church sets some distance off a tiny side road. Behind it a fine and private plot lay nestled among tall trees. I’d make camp there. Farther into town a huge country club offered hot tub, pool, weight room and showers. A deal was soon struck that allowed me access to all these amenities.
Myrtle Beach was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.
Bikes began to arrive and the days passed in an easy blur of bars, restaurants, and the simple pleasure of old, and new, biking acquaintances. Relaxation and food was the order of the day. Although town became a noisy place at best, the tiny church offered nights as quiet as the open desert.
It was Sunday morning as I pulled the loaded down Harley onto one of the many huge parking lots recently converted into a shantytown of large vending tents. Set some distance back, and parked parallel to the highway, the huge Metzeler truck was nestled among the others; its large awning stretched taunt over the six motorcycle lifts set before it. Inside the trailer would be two pneumatic motorcycle tire changing machines and two spin balancers. I knew, ’cause I’d worked this gig at other rallies in the past. The crew, however, I’d not seen before. Parked in a single row near the working area, their bikes were in obvious contrast to the usual brand new and highly accessorized rides that now littered the lot. Most were older, showed signs of wear, and had obviously been often home repaired by the hands that loved them.
I backed the old FL beside a rusty, custom built, 1964 Sportster and leaned her onto the kickstand. After locking the ignition I strode threw the light crowd then stood for a moment to eye the men I’d be working with. Most Harley riders are older these days, but these were invariably young men. At 47, I’d probably be grandpa here. I turned to greet the boss. Easy Eddy is slightly tall, thin, heavily tattooed and sports a big belly below longish black hair and goatee speckled with gray.
The cat talks kinda funny and, as I’d soon learn, is somewhat of a lunatic genius. After introductions he told me to grab any lift I cared to work at. I retrieved the bag of tools from my own saddlebags then took position. But the week was still young and work was slow today. This job pays by the tire rather than the hour, therefore there’s no “busy work” to be done. When it’s slow you simply relax, drink sodas and bullshit with the guys. And so I came quickly to know most of our staff:
Ray and his wife were familiar since they live aboard the truck. Once their destination is reached a shop owner local to that area is then contracted to bring his guys to work the rally. Different area—different crew. That’s how it works. Both are good people and although Ray only wrenches on the days we’re swamped, he does barbecue lunch for all everyday.
Ken, Eddy’s lead mechanic, was young, handsome, friendly, talented, genuinely demented and the owner of that '64-sportster. There was K-2 (another Ken). Although a factory certified tech, K-2 makes his living as a house painter. Besides the fun of it, he was here for extra money to buy a riding-mower of all things.
Bear (another Sportster rider) was closer to my own age. Tammy, his red headed ol’ lady, would help tend the cash register. Zorro was simply young, fat and rode a crotch rocket. At 19-years old, Minnow would stay in the truck to mount new tires on the wheels we pulled. He was the biking equivalent of “Radar” from that old TV series and everyone kinda looked out for him.
Toby was a new salesmen. A natural bullshiter by trade, this guy was fun. For the topic of women he had only one thing to say, “Rich girlfriend,” and so he had. Haling from Colorado, Toby no longer had need to work. Yet, he enjoyed sales and came only for the action. Toby’d ridden motorcycles over much of the world and we’d come to swap many stories.
The characters were in place. Time passed easily.
Although Eddie and his wife Judy stayed elsewhere, they rented a house for the crew at the north end of town and I was invited to crash there. Sounded like fun, and at day’s end I followed Bear home.
It seemed a long ride. Eventually though, the bikes settled into the front yard of a fine two-story pad. It was clean. Upstairs offered large, wrap-around deck while below sported a hot tub. After dismounting, everyone settled in and the insanity began. Beer and loose talk flowed as easily as the crazy laughter. Those I’d not seen before showed up and it was soon learned that, besides the Metzeler truck, Eddie also had his own mobile mechanic’s spot at yet another location some miles north of town. These new faces worked up there.
Sheila (operator of Eddy’s northern cash register) was hot, compact and as extraverted as few women the world has known. Before long the rusty Sportster was wheeled inside, that she might strip brazenly for an amateur photo shoot atop Ken’s ride. It was nuts man.
Grease came thick around this job. After filling the washing machine I headed for the shower. Next was bed. For many years freedom had been my closest companion. Although it seems strange, for this love I’d been out so long that rooms now felt almost as boxes—four sides and a lid. I made camp in the yard.
The workweek rolled on as the bikes pounded us. This was good. At days end, the boys would often load our best “take off” tires into a truck for transport to the northern sight. A brief mystery to me.
There was always talk of the fun at Eddy’s northern spot. Almost every night the boys rode up there to raise a little hell. But they were young, and I was tired by days end. As the week wore on however, work at the Metzeler Truck slowed to leave me less frazzled at quitting time. The decision was made…
It was full dark when I pulled into the huge northern lot. It took no time to locate Eddy’s place nestled among the others. There, before his big 40-foot motor home, two lifts, many tools, a supply trailer and some chairs rested in the dimly lit gloom. Some distance off a huge, half-lit, crowd gathered around a large burnout pit.
I parked the bike.
Eddy sat shirtless; his tattoos and basketball belly exposed to all the world. Judy had the adjacent chair. Beside them, a tallish and well built young buck—his greasy shorts exposing one prosthetic leg—manhandled equipment with small mercy as he worked to mount one of our used, take-off, tires to his bike. I’d not seen him before. Judy told me to scoot inside the motor home and have some homemade ice cream with the rest of ’em. There was food too. I did. Some of the crew was there and demented comedy seemed the natural order this night.
Before long Ken and K-2 grabbed me for a brisk walk to the burnout pit. They said that the peg-legged dude was a crowd pleaser, and we didn’t wanna miss his show. Hell, put the front wheel against a wall then burn the rear tire off. I’d seen it a hundred times. Big deal.
After pushing through the heavy crowd we laid witness to one ludicrously large burnout pit. Bits of charred rubber coated the asphalt. The restless mob huddled close. I waited in slightly overwhelmed silence. Before long the sea of bodies parted and Mr. Peg Leg emerged with engine revs bouncing off the limiter. I yawned.
Then, rather than against the wall, Peg Leg positioned his bike at ring center and dropped the hammer. The back tire began to trail smoke. The stunts began. Eric’s bike came forward then fell into a long sweeping brodie. He dismounted then held only one hand to the throttle as his bike spun in small circles. Moving around the ring, he switched from one trick to another as great plumes of smoke bellowed from behind. Eventually the tire blew, the crowd cheered, and Peg Leg took his bow. Eric, I’d later learn, was Eddy’s right hand man and a good wrench as well.
Next up was Easy Eddy on his twin-cam bagger. Against the wall he went. At mid performance, he called me to come check the speedometer. A hundred and ten MPH against that wall. Crazy bastard.
On the return walk to the motor home I stopped to buy a couple cigars. Approaching the RV, I stopped to watch some big dude spin my boss over his head then set him easily to the ground. More comedy. I sat to light a stogie then endure the remainder of this insanity with some sibilance of serenity.
It was late when we finally started for home. In the lane to my right sat Ken aboard the rusty Sportie, while Boberry brought up the spot behind him on a Road King. The speed limit was 55.
All was smooth till the sound of scraping metal stirred me to check the rear view and find a meteor of sparks sliding rapidly up from behind. I hit the gas to avoid being run down. Ken moved to the lane’s far side for the same reason. Eventually the hunk of steel slowed to a stop and we pulled over to investigate. The broken Softail lay on its side in the left lane with most of its fancy chrome doodads now scratched or bent. Ken lifted the bike and we pushed it off the road. In a minute the rider staggered outta the bushes, his jacket scuffed and levis torn. Drunk. A crowd gathered now and one man said the cops were on their way. Immediately the Softail guy jumped on his bike, grabbed bent bars, started the engine, and was gone. Guess he figured a busted bike was bad enough. Why add jail time? This event supplied good material for later conversations back at the house.
Eventually the workweek rolled to an end and I readied myself for the coming dinner that everyone talked about. It would be a fine restaurant event and I intended to dress accordingly. Clean jeans, tee-shirt and engineer boots. Still, it was kinda weird to accompany such a motley crew into this fine establishment. Aged beef and lobster for me. The final bill neared $700. Bosses treat. Unbelievable.
After dinner my wages were paid. Work would not again be necessary for some months to come.
Freedom.
My bike had been running like hell even since before Mexico, and I was sick of it. Its problems would later prove somewhat severe. Easy Eddy’s H-D shop was in Huntersville, North Carolina (near Charlotte) and this seemed like a good opportunity. So I asked if he’d mind me showing up there to work on my own sled for a while. Eddy’s response was quick, “Here’s the address. See you there.”
Everyone filed out of the big house leaving only Minnow, K-2 and myself to enjoy the beachside pad for two quiet days more. But eventually they were gone as well.
Again, I began the slow migration north.
Bikernet Interviews John Covington Of Surgical Steeds
By Bandit |
 KRB: What’s your perception of the clone market today? Is it strong? Is it wrong? First off, don’t piss me off with that tired clone label. I just got the new “Complete Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Motorcycles” (Tod Rafferty, Courage Books) and it doesn’t take much research to find out that Mr. Harley and those Davidson bros back in 1903 didn’t come out of the chute with their own engine or anything very unique or proprietary in their first decade of operation. At the turn of the last century, about 25 other contemporary manufacturers were building two-wheeled, motorized transportation using similar technology of the time. Those early motorcycle companies used the same engine and drive train from company to company. Were they all clones? In our relatively short time as an American manufacturer, Surgical-Steeds has made it into the same encyclopedia, so I guess that’s proof that we definitely have our own identity. I think some marketing guy at H-D came up with that clone word about 1996, when they obviously felt threatened by a few small companies improving on the status-quo machines that they were pumping out. Let’s give Harley credit for a lot of stuff, but breaking new ground in engineering, performance, reliability, fit and finish is not the reason people buy their bikes. Those marketing guys at H-D have done an excellent job of building a mystique around their brand. KRB: OK, I give. Clone is a shitty word. It’s condescending. Do you prefer hybrid? What would you call them? Motorcycles. That’s what I build. If you need to put a name to it, I would prefer alternative American motorcycles, while Surgical-Steeds builds “pedigreed custom motorcycles.” We’ve been in business since ’89 and I got into the business because I love to build custom bikes, and that is what we still do to this day. I plan on doing this for as long as I have fun walking, talking, breathing, dreaming and building motorcycles. I took my company through all the fed’s bullshit to become a legitimate American manufacturer of motorcycles for several reasons. We can call Surgical-Steeds a manufacturer because Steeds took the time and invested the cash to achieve EPA-, DOT- and California CARB-approved certifications of compliance to legitimize our niche in the market. That is why I believe that the pedigree status applies to the Steed brand. Our motorcycles have had federal VIN (vehicle identification numbers) since 1994. I started building complete frame-up customs back in 1989. We decided to get our federal license because I was tired of being treated like a criminal when I went to the Arizona MVD to title our custom bikes. Donnie Bitman, who started Illusion Motorcycle Co., inspired me to get a federal manufacturers license. I figured if he could get one, Surgical-Steeds should too. About a year later in ’95, there was a handful of companies like Titan, Big Dog, Pure Steel, American Image, American Eagle, Castle, California Customs, et al, that also decided to build and legitimize their “alternative” motorcycle companies and got licensed. I think that each of these companies had a unique and genuine vision of how they could improve an American motorcycle. KRB: What killed the companies that are going away? GREED. I think a lot of companies started building bikes for all the wrong reasons. Once you’ve lost the passion for what you’re doing and are only out for the money, you are doomed to fail. Everybody has to make a living; I think that most of the companies that have died were out to make a killing. The whole ’90s rush to do an IPO and make a fortune building thousands of motorcycles was flawed. How custom is a bike if there are more than two that look exactly the same? Why would anyone want to pay thirty-five grand plus to have a bike that is exactly like somebody else’s? I remember in 1997, during Daytona Bike Week, when everyone was buying a certain trail-blazing brand of American bike. One afternoon, on Highway A1A in front of our booth, two guys pulled up to a stoplight with the exact same white motorcycle with a purple scalloped paint job. Both of these guys thought they had the coolest custom bike on the planet, until they came face to face with the other coolest bike on the planet. How many more just like their `custom’ existed? Right then I decided that there was no other reason except for laziness and greed to manufacture identical bikes. “Volume produced customs” was one of the best oxymorons in the business. Look where it got them. KRB: What’s the market? Who buys these bikes and why? People who buy Steed bikes are looking for a unique bike that they intend to ride. Our bikes are all individually designed to be durable and attractive while each has its own curb appeal and personality. We don’t make “jewelry” show bikes. Our bikes appeal to the guy who has done his homework and wants a quality machine that fits his personality and riding style, as well as one that is designed to be physically and ergonomically comfortable and balanced to ride. That’s what a custom bike should be. Not just a few of those qualities, but all of them in one machine. That’s what we offer in our bikes. By becoming a licensed manufacturer of custom bikes, we also offer the consumer the security that we have done our part to maintain the value of the motorcycles we build. No excuses, no compromises.  KRB: People like yourself build bikes because you love it. What happens when you try to standardize your craft or try to make it mass market? Standardization can lead to quality, but it also brings the risk of being complacent or boring. Certain quality issues may arise by being too custom, and using the latest and greatest parts. Relationships with quality vendors who are in the business for the right reasons are very important. There is a new company springing up selling a new product every week. A lot of these new products are great, but far too many of them have not had the proper amount of R&D and are prematurely placed the market. When you are leading the way with innovative parts, it is very important that you have a confident relationship with your suppliers. I can’t, in good conscience, put someone out on one of our bikes that has parts on it that may not be tested, safe and durable. That level of confidence only comes with good relationships with your suppliers, and that takes time. Since we are a small volume manufacturer, we can see which components are holding up, which are failing and can make improvements to the components on the run. We don’t need board meetings to make design changes. If it doesn’t work consistently, that part won’t be a component on our motorcycles. We work closely with our suppliers to keep improving all the components on our machines. KRB: Most of the guys in the clone industry must buy the majority of their components from another source. That means they’re paying an extra margin. How tough is it to build these bikes and make a profit? Harley-Davidson has tons of suppliers that they source their products from, so does GM and every company that produces anything. I guess the guys who make steel or copper just make it directly from dirt, but all the stuff that it takes to build a Steed motorcycle comes from somewhere. A lot of it we design and test in-house and then have specialists build for us to our specifications, like our Monoglide chassis. Some of the components come from distributors, but as a manufacturer, we’re working closely with the people who directly create the components we select for our machines. Now the person who is trying to build a bike in his garage has a much bigger challenge ahead for himself if he thinks he’s going to save money by building a bike at home. Too often it is too late for them to turn around after they realize what they’ve gotten themselves into. The prices of quality components really do add up. The level of expertise to build a reliable machine is rarely calculated into the equation, nor is the time it takes to assemble and paint the project. Usually the home scratch-built bikes don’t get finished, or when they do, their owners have difficulty insuring them for what they are worth. I have heard that in some states they are imposing limitations of registering homemade vehicles, and the insurance companies are getting more particular with the special construction titles. KRB: Where are the most sales? Easyriders stores, bike shop/dealers or what? Do you have a dealer program? Until this last year, all of our sales were directly through our shop in Scottsdale, Arizona. We’ve decided to take a cautious approach to establishing dealers. This season we have signed up a dealer in Southern California, V-Twin City, which has two stores, one in Pomona and a new location in Santa Ana, to sell our products. We are in negotiations with potential dealers in Colorado, Texas, New Jersey and Florida. This year we would like to sign up 10 authorized Steed dealers to rep our bikes who share the same commitment to quality and customer support that we provide in our Scottsdale store.If there are any dealers sharing these qualities and interested in joining our team, please contact me at dealer@surgicalsteeds.com KRB: For the guy on the street, is he better off buying a manufactured custom or would he be better off paying a little more and having a one-off custom built? At Steeds we offer both of those qualities to the consumer with our pedigreed custom bikes. You asked, so I’ll tell you: He’s better off buying a Steed. That’s my one moment of shameless self-promotion. There’s a reason I organized this company like it is, and I’m glad that you are asking these questions to help spread the word about what a true manufactured custom is all about. KRB: At one time the average manufactured custom was the full-blown custom on the street or at the shows. Some guys will spend a chunk of their lives hand building a custom in their garage that won’t come out as nice as one of these bikes. On the other hand, it’s forced the truly custom shop to take a giant step forward to be competitive, such as Cyril Huze, Paul Yaffe, Jesse James or Donnie Smith. What has that done to the market? I don’t think that anyone on your elite list has the federal manufacturing licenses and certificates that we do. We offer personal attention to our customers and we work closely with our clients and dealers to build each Steed with all the features and accessories that are important to them. All of the guys on your list are incredible builders and are very talented and innovative movers and shakers in our chosen profession. The challenge for all of us is to be innovative, consistent, ride-able and to maintain the value for the consumer. KRB: Does the Twin Cam make manufactured customs passe if they continue to use the Evo platform? The Twin Cam is the result of Harley-Davidson engineers catching up to the improvements made by the aftermarket and complying with government restrictions on valve train noise. The Twin Cam was basically derived and evolved from the need for Harley to compete with what S&S, Merch, T.P and all the other alternative motor and component companies were doing for many years — building reliable big-inch motors. Now Harley has definitely made the pricing more competitive with its motor program, but when you have the choice, the alternative manufactured drive trains are generally way ahead of the curve. The aftermarket is already offering improvements to upgrade the factory Twin Cam. You do the math. KRB: What could happen next that would harm this market? In contrast, what could happen that would make it even stronger? The worst thing that could happen to this market would be to see another manufacturer bite the dust, or see new companies spring up that haven’t done all of their homework and fail when they aren’t managed properly. I feel very strongly that the consumer confidence in the alternative American segment has suffered some enormous blows and a big negative hit with the financial failures of Big-X, Titan, Confederate and Quantum. I hope the other established alternative American companies can weather the storm and keep building quality machines. There are enough people out there who want what we all have to offer for us all to be successful at what we do, and each of these companies cater to a different consumer. That’s what America is all about, choices, and it sucks when our choices are limited by anything. KRB: What is your perception of the metric cruiser market and its impact on ours? A totally different guy is going to buy into the metric machine. I think that you are trying to compare apples to oranges. On the other hand, it exposes more people to riding who hopefully will want to trade up into a custom American machine someday.  KRB: Here’s an interesting one: Guys buy these bikes to be macho. At one time, a guy who built his own custom and rode it around the country was macho. He did it himself. He lived or died by his abilities and skills. Now a guy can just buy that machine. Is he macho? Muy macho, yes indeed. Either way, these guys are on a bike because they want to ride and have the experience. You can appreciate what it takes to build one by doing it yourself, or understand your own limitations and have a professional build it for you. Here’s the whole “land of the free, home of the brave” concept coming into play again. Do you hear a song kicking in? KRB: The reason I ask that question is that there’s a much smaller audience out there that rides 180 mph sport bikes. They consider cruisers of all forms as lightweights. They are the ones riding on the edge of the curve from a technology standpoint. What do you think? Technology meets American traditions in our machines. These guys are muy macho in their riding and opinions, and there is plenty of room on the road for all of us as long as the cops aren’t watching. KRB: I’m a big bore fan. What performance formula do you prefer for reliability in a variety of situations? I’m riding a 98-inch motor in my personal bike. I like the torque. We also offer 107s and 120s for the guy who wants more. We’re doing a couple of bikes with Patrick Racing 113s that are supposed to be the best of all worlds. Just like blondes, brunettes and redheads, too many versions and not enough time in the day to ride them all. KRB: What’s your perception of the future for Surgical-Steeds and the industry as a whole? Will we all ride sport bikes to hell? I think that this will be a year of slow, sustainable growth for Surgical-Steeds. We’re looking for a few good dealers, and I know that they are out there. I think it may take until next spring to see how it washes out with all the other alternative manufacturers. I just hope that the industry as a whole does not suffer too much of a beating in the court of public opinion. When the dust settles, I know that I’ll still be building custom bikes for people who can appreciate them. It’s a pretty cool job to go to every day, and I’m not ready to retire quite yet. Web site: www.surgicalsteeds.com Online store at www.musclebikes.com  |
Bandit Interviews Jeff Bleustein
By Bandit |
Jeffrey L. Bleustein is theChairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer ofHarley-Davidson, Inc. Of late we look down our noses at big buckCEO’s and their bonuses, but the man at the top is responsible forevery aspect of the company and the fall-guy if something goes wrong.He has primary responsibility for the company’s strategy and performance.
Since joining Harley-Davidson in 1975 Bleustein has served in manycapacities including President and Chief Operating Officer, ExecutiveVice President, Vice President of Parts and Accessories Division; andVice President of Engineering.
Prior to joining Harley-Davidson, Bleustein worked as a technicalconsultant in mechanical engineering for American Machine & FoundryIncorporated (AMF), which owned Harley-Davidson from 1969 to 1980.In 1975 Bleustein moved from AMF to Harley-Davidson’s engineeringdivision and provided leadership as the Vice President of Engineeringuntil 1984. Under Bleustein’s guidance the Company’s EngineeringDivision developed technical innovations including the belt drive,vibration-isolated powertrains and anti-dive suspension. Newmotorcycle designs such as the Tourglide and Softail; and totalredesign of the V-Twin engine, which resulted in the criticallyacclaimed Evolution engine, were all developed during his tenure.The reorganization entailed re-staffing, modernizing engineeringpractices and a major expansion and improvement of the Company’stesting and product development facilities. The primary challengewas to preserve the distinctive styling of the motorcycles whileincorporating new technology. The results of this work contributedsignificantly to the Company’s survival and subsequent prosperity.
Bleustein then focused on strengthening the Company’s Parts,Accessories & Apparel Division. After overhauling operations toeliminate excessive backorders and to generate more new productintroductions, the division began to grow profits. Bleustein’s maincontribution was in conceiving and executing a plan to transform thedealer-owned retail stores into modern retail establishments. Theresulting retail environments motivated both riders and aspiringenthusiasts to buy motorcycles, accessories, apparel and memorabilia.
Jeff also managed to launch an aggressive licensing program that,combined with tighter trademark control, reduced infringement andimproved the Company’s image while establishing a new and successfulprofit center.
In 1980 a group of 13 executives offered to buy Harley-Davidsonfrom AMF. As one of the 13 executive owners, Bleustein helped theCompany regain market share and by 1987 Harley-Davidson recapturedits position as the leading heavyweight motorcycle manufacturer inthe United States. In 1988 Bleustein became Senior Vice President, in1990 he was promoted to Executive Vice President, and in 1993 toPresident and Chief Operating Officer. In 1997 he became Presidentand Chief Executive Officer and in 1998 he assumed his current roleas Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer.
Prior to joining AMF, Bleustein was an Associate Professor ofEngineering and Applied Science at Yale University from 1966 through1971.JB holds Masters of Science and Ph.D. degrees in EngineeringMechanics from Columbia University and a Bachelor of Science degreein Mechanical Engineering from Cornell University.
He serves on the Board of Directors for the Milwaukee FlorentineOpera, the Milwaukee Jewish Federation, The Boys and Girls Clubs ofGreater Milwaukee, the Greater Milwaukee Committee and is a member ofthe Board of Regents of the Milwaukee School of Engineering. He alsoserves on the board of the Brunswick Corporation.He also owns two Electra Glides and a Buell Blast motorcycle.
Jeff Bleustein is no slouch and responsible for thousands of jobs,over 600 dealerships and all the motorcycles we ride. I asked him afew business related questions at a Road Tour (celebrating the 100thAnniversary) location:
Bikernet: What’s your perception of the current stockmarket and the crises which surrounds it?
JB: There’s obviously a lot of volatility in the market,with terrorism, the Middle East, and the economy environment. Peopleare very nervous to make long term investments.
Bikernet: As the boss of a public corporation, have theseactions changed what you do or how you do it from day to day?
JB: No, not really. I don’t think the marketplace as awhole effects how we run our business. The market will have good andbad times. We need to run our business for the business. We feel ifwe make our customers happy, make great products and continue toenhance motorcycling that sooner or later the stock market will comearound.
Bikernet: Do you feel that there are more corporate lawsthat should be passed in an effort to stave off criminal behavior?
JB: I’m from the school that says you can’t legislatehonesty and values. You can make laws that punish if it’s not there,but the same people who would cook their books are the same guys whowould sign off and say that they’re right. There is a movement towardbetter governance which may encourage people to make positivechanges.
Fundamentally there needs to be morality and ethicswithin the company. It is the only way you will have honestmembers.
Bikernet: Do you feel Harley-Davidson is blessed right nowto have their 100th Anniversary to help carry them through a toughperiod of time economically?
JB: We’re certainly blessed to have a 100th anniversary.There have been many special times in the history of the company thathave made is a survivor through tough times.
The 100th duringthis period gives the people of America something positive to lookforward to.
We’ve already witnessed a bump in sales ofmotorcycles, motor clothes, and accessories, that indicate people areenjoying the 100th celebration.
We have been very active in thenew product development which has been a major driver for thebusiness to give our customers exciting new products and to developproducts for people who aren’t into motorcycling or aren’t intoHarley-Davidson yet.
Bikernet: Is there a new profit center started or one yourare considering for the future?
JB: Our business has a lot of different features to it.Motorcycles are 80 percent of our revenue. Parts and accessories isgrowing faster than any other aspect of our business. Our clothingline grows every year and our financial services is growing verynicely. We are always looking for new things to enhance theHarley-Davidson experience. Not everything we do is profitable. Somethings you do because it’s the right thing to do. If we had a newnotion and no one wasTools and Garage talking about it, I wouldn’t be either.
Weare always looking for new things to do, because our customers arealways looking for something new. We are always looking for somethingthat has a connection back to motorcycling.
Bikernet: What’s your best tool for keeping a finger on allthe elements of the company, or is there a tool?
JB: Never sleep…We have good information systems so I’mable, without a lot of hassle, to look at a lot of data and see howthe various networks keep the business going. Basically we run thisoperation in a very participation oriented way. We delegated a lot ofauthority to our heads who work together with teams of other people.People are used to sharing information.
I have a phenomenalstaff.
People who are empowered to do things and if something isgoing wrong they speak up about it and let us know what’s happening.
No one gets beat up for making a mistake. You get talked to, ifyou make it a second time. The third time is a real conversation. Theidea is that people are committed to take the business to the nextlevel, and if something is going wrong to speak up about it. That’sthe way to move toward corrective action quickly.
We really tryto eliminate the fear factor, and when you do that you find out thatinformation flows very easily through the business and makes it veryeasy to see what’s going on.
JW Design
By Bandit |
Jesse from JW Design contacted us here at Bikernet back in Octoberinquiring about a link. When I asked what he was all about, this is whatI received back. Anyone who’ll go through the trouble of giving us thelowdown on their business along with photos, deserves their fifteenminutes of Bikernet fame. Jesse doesn’t need to blow his own horn because I thinkhis style and integrity speaks for itself. All he had to do was give ushis info, we’ll blow the horn for him. Layla
I started JW Design about 10 years ago as a side line business in mygarage, In November 2000, I decided to go full time and haven’t lookedback. A friend of mine built and maintains my web site. WWW.TRICKPAINT.COM has anextensive gallery that in continuously updated and provides my clientsfrom all over the world a chance to see the superior quality work we do hereand see their bike on the web.
In order to insure the highest quality for my clients I do all thepaint and airbrush work myself. JW Design does custom metal work in house like rivetshaving, light recessing, fender stretching etc…
At www.trickpaint.com JW Design, customer service is #1. I work veryclosely with each client to insure I know exactly what they want in their custompaint, It doesn’t matter how nice I think the paint looks, if thecustomer’snot happy, the jobs not done.
The snake bike owned by Chad Eaton of the Seahawks, mentioned below,won best custom paint at the Seattle Roadster Show.
He wanted it to look like a snake was laying on topof the bike. I used 3 different House of Kolor “camelian” kolors to get avery unusual effect, of course the pics don’t really show that. I fullymolded the frame and one piece softail fender. I also did all the final finishshaping of both fenders. This entire job took only 21 days to complete andget back to Classic Iron works in Redmond Wa. for assembly.
“Flames” pretty much speaks for it self. I like to add specialeffectsto my flames to give them a unique look with lots of depth and life.especially in the sun light.
“Walkers tank” is all custom mixed candy colors. This is a hand-stretched tank.
Freedom Stands Tall
-Jess
JW Design
(509) 664-1051
Jesse@Trickpaint.com
You can see a LOT more of Jesse’s work here on his gallery page. It’s worth a look.
Motorcycle Artist Rocks Two-Axle World
By Bandit |
There are only a handful of scooter fanatics and artists who can capture the spirit of motorcycling. They include Scott Jacobs, who recreated the gracious lines of a Panhead, and David Uhl, who spent six months working with oil and canvas to create a scene of a World War II sailor returning home to greet a new Knucklehead and his woman. David Mann is another such artist, who for 30 years has captured the latest styles of custom scooters with acrylic paints. To that illustrious list we can now add Chris Kallas, who also manages to apply his motorcycling heart to the canvas.
We stumbled onto Chris? work at the recent Beach Ride in Ventura, Calif. He began drawing at age 4 with child-like subjects of monsters, dinosaurs, spaceships, Mercury capsules and WWI and WWII battle scenes with airplanes, ships and tanks.
Chris grew up in Southern California, where motorcyclingwas prevalent. His first ride was at age 10, when his dad let himride his brother’s mini-bike home. It was a bicycle-framed, lawnmower-powered, clutch less, push start, direct belt drive, solid rubber wheeled, no-brake suicide machine. His only other experience at the time was riding on the back ofhis uncle’s Suzuki 90. This uncle had a succession of bikes on which Chris would receive rides. While they were fun to ride on, Chris thought, ?When’s this guy going to get hip to a Harley??
Motorcycle Artist Rocks Two-Axle World
By Bandit |
Chris had two friends at school who were into choppers. One of them had a brother with a Knucklehead, and Chris started drawing really cool choppers. The other friend had a chopped Sting Ray with extended forks, lowered seat, custom handlebars and sissy bar. Chris soon modified his Sting Ray. He spent time with this friend working on their bikes, drawing choppers and chopping Revell Harley models.
Chris got his own mini-bike, a Taco 44, for Christmas in 1969. He paid for most of it, though his parents kicked in some dough. Three other kids in the neighborhood got scooters at the same time. Chris’ brother soon bought one from a family friend and he and his two brothers took turns racing around the block, dodging the cops. Later, to avoid the police, they created a course up and down a long driveway, through their garage, into the backyard, around a tree and back the same way. The concrete garage floor made for nice brodies, but the track really tore up the lawn in the yard.
Around 1967-68, during seventh grade, a kid up the street whose brother was building a metal flake green custom Triumph in his bedroom, was out for a test ride. A Harley WL chopper was also on the street at the same time Chris and his family was returning from church. It was a strange time for young kids with straight folks in middle class cars, surrounded by the straight life and years of military style. Society painted the same sober American dream on television, in movies and stores. When a biker pulled alongside their Ford, glistening with never-before-seen green metal flake, sparkling chrome, loud flashy pipes and straddled by a long-haired man with a scraggly beard and raggedy vest, life was suddenly different. To many in the world it indicated an unleashed freedom, the bad side of the tracks and creativity without rules.
Chris was caught off guard. He wasn’t sure what to make ofthe wild men and flamed machines. He started buying Cycle Guide magazine, the only magazine at that time that occasionally featured choppers and custom bikes. Later he bought Big Bike and Ed Roth’s Choppers magazines. Around that time he started seeing Roth’s ads in magazines for chopper posters (photos of bikers on their choppers and David Mann’s paintings).
Original Kallas Chopper Sketch, Circa 1967
During high school Chris drew hot rods, drag racers, customcars, Roth-style monster cars and surfing themes. He collected Pete Millars’ Dragtoons, a big influence at the time. Friends bought his rough originals with their extra milk and snack money for 5 or 10 cents.
He had drawing contests with his brothers at the kitchen table to seewho could draw the best custom car in an hour. This helped sharpen his skills.
Original Kallas HA Sketch, Circa 1969
His brother was also a high school artist, but was less capturedby the craft. In the mid- to late-?60s, his brothers started playingguitar and Chris took up drums. He drew psychedelic posters and rock stars such as the Beatles, Hendrix, Iron Butterfly, Steppenwolf and Cream. Later his brothers gave up drawing for music, and Chris went back to concentrating onart.
Chris continued to follow the craft the way many of us followedbikes — like heroin addicts, shunning the ?normal,? standard jobsof life. And even though riding can be dangerous and impractical, we keep at it, no matter what.
In September 1975, the day after finding out he didn’t win abid on a highway patrol hog, Chris bought his first bike, a 1971 Sportster, from a hillbilly for $1,300. The man had to ride it to Chris? house because he didn?t know how. For a 4-year-old bike, it was a mess, with 6-inch over forks, a reverse direction twist grip throttle (because of installation of a Lake injector), a radiator cap for a gas cap, a cardboard battery cover, no front fender and a transmission that jumped out of third gear. He took it apart a week later and repainted it. In 1984 he traded the Sportster and cash for a special construction semi chopped bike, a 1974 Shovelhead in a 1972 frame, which he rebuilt into a stripped dresser. In 1992-94, Chris restored a wrecked 1970 Electra glide that replaced the ’74. It has won first and third place trophies in shows. In 1991, his wife, Nancy, got her own bike, a 1984 FXR, first year Evo.
Motorcycle Artist Rocks Two-Axle World
By Bandit |
In December 1975, Chris received his first telescope from hisparents and his interest in space flourished. He studied science fiction and astrology at California State University Long Beach while working as a delivery boy for his uncle?s video equipment supply. Chris adapted class assignments to space art themes, much to the dismay of his instructors. In his senior year he had two works displayed in the university’s annual show, which featured the best work in the art department. These two works also won awards in the Society of Illustrators of Los Angeles Annual Show. He was influenced by the work of David Mann from Easyriders and Chesley Bonestell, the master of space art.
In 1980 he moved to Huntington Beach, Calif., and received a bachelor?s degree in illustration. He quit his video company job in 1981 and picked up a small amount of freelance artwork.
In November 1981, his then-girlfriend Nancy set up a visit with Chesley Bonestell at his studio in Carmel to discuss his work with him. Six years later they visited and celebrated Bonestell’s 98th birthday.
In 1983, he and Nancy married and moved to Redondo Beach. They bought a home in south Torrance in 1986.
Chris spent 13 years working as an illustrator for Hughes Aircraft Co. He created detailed renderings of the space shuttle, communications satellites and other spacecraft for public relations, marketing and aerospace shows.
His artwork was commissioned for use in Hughes’ corporate headquarters and displayed throughout the company. After leaving Hughes, he spent 4.5 years restoring his home and rebuilding his bikes. Two ongoing bike projects include a 1972 Sportster and 1948 Flathead.
For his art, he uses vinyl-based paints and does water-based art, such asgouache on Strathmore paper, and paints graphics and art on thesides of motorcycles. In addition, he sells his own series of fine art,limited-edition prints. For information, call him at (310) 316-2790.
The crew at Bikernet is looking forward to having Chris’art on an up coming motorcycle project.
Prints from C. Kallas Fine Art/Illustration
By Bandit |
The spirit and freedom of riding is portrayed in ‘Outwest’ and ‘DesertChopper’, two new prints available from artist, Chris Kallas.
These quality color lithograph prints are produced on 80# acid free cover stock.
‘Outwest’ is 16″x20″ (image size 10″x12″) and ‘Desert Chopper’ is 16″x24″(image size 9″x17″).
Out West
Desert Chopper
These beautiful prints are $39.95 for a signed limited edition of 300 or only$19.95 unsigned, plus $4.95 for shipping.
Each Print is Numbered And Signed By The Artist
To place an order call C. Kallas Fine Art/Illustration (310) 316-2790
Undercover Reporter Reaches Kennedy
By Bandit |
Horse magazine and Bikernet have long sought to find the evilmystics behind the chopper world. The DiscoveryChannel followed suit with their research of JesseJames, Billy Lane, and currently Louie Falcigno. But anotorious figure has escaped the media attention. PatKennedy has been carving choppers out of crude steelsince 1969.
Living in a small seaside village of Oceanside,California, he was a disgruntled freedom fighter whonurtured a reclusive nature with his brothers in ashop that continues to exist today. There he built anenclave of steel creativity in a side room protectedby his dog, Bullseye. No one was allowed in the back.He came to work early and hammered on his projectslate to avoid citizens and the curious. Then thegovernment passed helmet laws and Pat could sense thathis freedoms were waning. Mysteriously, he disappearedinto the Arizona desert.
We had lost track of Pat shortly after his marriage toBrook, which took place in their Tombstone fort home.Darrell Pinney, their custom painter, tattooed Pat’swedding finger with his band of love. We werereasonably confident that a sharp investigative reporter could ride into atown of 1,300 and find the Kennedys.
Tombstone became a silver mining haven in 1877 when EdSchieffel, the founder of the city, bought up theToughnut, Lucky Cuss, and the Contention Mines wherehe discovered silver and ore. In January 1879, he kickedoff the Tombstone Mill and Mining Company to thecity’s delight. By March of 1880, the first railroadfrom Tombstone to Tucson was completed. The cityexploded to a population of 7,000–the size of SanFrancisco at the time. In 1881, the first telegraphwas established. Tombstone was rockin’.
Then Virgil Earp, the brother of former Marshal WyattEarp, became the chief of police on July 4, 1881 and onOctober 26, 1881 the gunfight at the OK Corral shattered the town, whichresulted in the deaths of Tom McLowery,Frank McLowery, and Billy Clanton. Virgil and MorganEarp were assassinated shortly afterwards. By 1912,the Arizona territory reached statehood, but Tombstonewas rocked by the Great Depression, two devastatingfires, and floods that filled the mines like the touchof death to the city’s only industry. The population in the desert berg ofcactus and drydirt roads dwindled to a handful of rattlesnake lovers and OK Corralfollowers.
We sent an equally reclusive moto-journalist,Renegade, on a 1948 Panhead with Baisely dual-carburetor heads, into thedesert to find the Kennedy clan. Itwas rumored that they were hiding in the hills aroundTombstone, Arizona, near a small, desert town on highground near the border of Mexico. Renegade rode forsix hours into Tombstone, the desert community southof Tucson, to find them.
Renegade’s Pan broke down as he entered the town of ahandful of dirt streets today. The vibration took its toll on the handmadecarb linkage. He tinkered and waited onthe wooden sidewalk near the post office that sported the Kennedy address.Brook Kennedy showed up the next day topick up the mail in a mid-’50s Dodge station wagon andeyed the long-haired rider suspiciously. Renegade lacks social graces, butattemped to befriend the lovely Mrs. Kennedy. He cantrue a wheel and isn’t a bad wrench when he isn’tpissed off about something, so she put him to the test.
Brook has a nature for helping people, but Pat taughther toughness and suspicion of others. Renegade was offered tools and aplace to work on his 54 year old ride in exchange for wheel lacing, beforebeing allowed near their innersanctum. Brook explained that they sold their home in Tombstone to atraveling doctor, but kept the small rental out back.
Renegade was given tools and a place to rest his headwhile Brook brought him a couple of 80-spoke wheels tolace and true. She watched closely as he performed thetask on a bench that resided over polished hardwoodfloors in the small two-bedroom clapboard home thatshe and Pat had restored. Brook smiled; she had thetanned look of a countrywoman who loved the outdoorsand wasn’t caught up in the layers of make-uprestricted to city life. She didn’t need it.
After two days of testing on a variety of thespecialized Kennedy wheels, which included80-, 120-, 160-, and now 240-spoke wheels, Renegadewas pulled from the bench and lead outside. Brook kept him alive withmulti-colored chips and salsa, plus Chorizo and eggs for breakfast.Their lineof wheels were carefully designed with the finestcomponents they could manufacture, including stainlessspokes in several varieties from twisted to diamondpattern and polished stainless hubs. Wheels are stillavailable in chrome and in sizes from 15- to 21-inch.By the time Brook invited Renegade out oftown–seemingly to their hideaway–he knew theirentire line of high-quality custom wheels thoroughly.
She cut a dusty trail out of Tombstone while Renegadefollowed, and followed, until he suspected that he wasbeing lured on a ride from which no man returns. Theroad was a straight shot over hot asphalt through theflat desert, scattered with Yucca plants and driedtumbleweed. For as far as he could see, it was openand barren until they turned left on a highway thatparted with the desert and roamed into the hills.
It was as if he was being lured to a shallow grave.Had he laced a 240-spoke wheel and unconsciouslymissed a spoke? Or did his truing tolerances falter tohis demise? He looked to his rumbling Panhead beneath him for a sign of wellbeing. Some eight miles from the crossroads tonowhere, she spun right off the narrow two-lanehighway as if she were attempting to lose him.Renegade envisioned the old ominous, Kennedy fort-like facility on FreemontStreet in Tombstone, with 10-foot-highwalls surrounding the stucco compound. He had livedthe life of a biker on the run for over a decade, yetthe site of the forboding structure gave him the chills as if he was at thegates of a penitentary. What would their next facility look like?
It was too late to turn around and find his way backto the highway. He followed the narrow path off theroad and down the gravel lane beside the slope of thehill into a narrow wooded valley. He suspected thatescape would be difficult. He couldn’t imagine tryingto leave on foot, running without his Pan beside him.The washboard road passed through a stream and therocks slipped and slithered beneath his tires. As theroad lifted, he could see a small country home loom upin the rugged oak trees ahead, and a man lumbered out onto the frontporch without a smile on his face. He had the look ofa knowing man, comfortable with the knowledge that hewas aware of what would happen next. He wasn’t a bigman, but taut and agile with bright eyes surrounded bya full head of salt-and-pepper hair pulled into aponytail. A narrow, gray goatee highlighted histanned, rugged features. He moved to Renegade’s sideas our reporter slid to a stop in the sandy dry soil. Pat’sT-shirt was missing its sleeves and his arms werecovered with intricate black tattoos.
“Come this way,” Pat said, without introducinghimself. Renegade pondered whether to lock his bike orrun, but decided that it was useless. He followed Patto the shop compound. “Let me show you around,” Patsaid in a gracious host-type manner as if Renegade wasa distant friend who hadn’t seen his new facilities.”I don’t want to make a zillion parts,” Pat said. “Isell a few and build enough to build five bikes ayear.” Renegade nodded and tugged on his own long blackgoatee as he followed tentatively.
“I live to build motorcycles,” Pat said. His blue eyesflickered in the blistering sunlight as if he hadadmitted to a long-term romance. It was the key toPat’s anti-social behavior. Renegade discoveredquickly that Pat and Brook loved their solitarylifestyles. As Pat showed him around he was alsoconfronted with their vast bike-building capabilities.Pat showed him the various stations were hefabricates, molds, primes, and paints each bike. Brookhandles the artwork and graphics. She also laceswheels, runs the office, and performs the seat andupholstery functions.
Pat is the mechanic, the designer, machinist for theprototypes, and he builds the frames. He has workedwith one small machine shop on the coast that has manufacturedmost of his components and frame parts for the last 20years.
As Pat showed Renegade the final assembly area where acouple of full custom choppers were entering theirfinal stages, he turned to Renegade and his deepfeatures turned somber. “We like to work with educatedbuyers,” he said. “Guys and gals who know what they want andlike what we build. We don’t build bikes to look likewhat another builder creates. We’re true to what wedo.”
Renegade nodded in agreement and looked around theimmaculate facility, which contained photographs ofa myriad custom bikes for which Pat was responsible.He designed his version of long bike before many of builders saw chrome forthe first time, andhe stayed true to it. Pat even developed and workedwith his machinist to manufacturer adjustable, rakedtriple trees for his wide glides and recently designedan adjustable raked springer for his own customers.
“Brook handles all the initial stages of dealing withcustomers.” Pat’s eyes brightened with relief thatBrook could take care of all the negotiating and help customers through theprocess of ordering.Once a customer was proven to be reliable and sincere,Pat took over. “Some 50 percent of our projects arerigids, the other 50 percent are Softails. We don’tbuild rubbermount bikes, but we work with virtuallyany driveline a customer wants.” He even builds hisown stainless handlebars and exhaust.
Since escaping even deeper into the hills, Pat hasdevoted more time to quality components, focused onfine tuning his craft, and studied the materials heuses. The sky softened with rich Harley orange hues asPat lead Renegade back toward the dual-carbed Panhead.Brook came to Pat’s side as he looked at the richsunset. Renegade fired the Panhead to life.
“When I close my eyes, I only see choppers,” Patmuttered, as if a mystic staring into a crystal ball.He held Brook close as they turned and headed backtoward the compound and Renegade rumbled toward the highway.–Bandit