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
