I've known Tom Rodan since the early '70s. He owned a shop in Tujunga, California until a divorce ate it. He now restores vintage motorcycles with Don Whalen. Tom encountered motorcycles as a kid living in a ghost town of 450, in Watts, Oklahoma about 100 miles from Tulsa. Even in this simple town, circa 1948, on the foothills of the Ozarks he was considered a “City Boy”. Once a year the annual Dogwood (based on the trees) run stormed through the steep hills past Blackjack Oak trees and Pines and right through his town. “I could hear the chains and clutches jingling more than the exhaust,” Tom said during the 1952 races.
They rattled toward Tulsa over Highway 59, into Siloam Springs (where Paul Harvey, the news commentator went to Brown University) in Arkansas, then south along the state line and back west toward Tulsa. “It was about a 250-mile loop,” Tom said, “Randy Smith, the founder of Custom Cycle engineering rode the Dogwood in the '50s.”
Tom's first bike was 1949, 125 Harley, with rubberband front forks, he bought in '56. In those days if you owned a Harley you could receive the “Enthusiast”, so Tom signed up. By 1960 he was riding a bobjob TR-6 Triumph while living in Witicha Falls, Texas. He hung out at Myer's Motors H-D dealership who has a history of board track racing. “Mr. Myer's was my Dutch uncle mentor,” Tom said.
It had a front brake on the left where the Triumph's lever was on the right. “Myer warned me to be careful,” Tom said, “but I still dumped it at the first light.” He rode the WR at TT races and hill climbs until '61 when he gave it away. “I had a partner who was a gambler,” Tom said. “He gambled on everything; I didn't. He needed a lesson. He had a brand new BSA Lightening Rocket with just the right carbs, and killer cams. I offered to cut cards for motorcycles. I drew a seven and almost choked. Then he drew a three.” The kid started to cry. He still owed money on the bike, so Rodan gave him his WR.
Two weeks later Tom T-boned a massive green '60s Pontaic station wagon that pulled a left in front of him, just as he hit fourth gear. “I broke my wrist, I was holding onto the bars so tight, and both ankles, as my feet hit the bars. I never hit the car but did a series of somersaults over it until I saw the pavement racing at me. “Next thing I remember, a woman screamed at the suit who hit me, 'you killed the boy'. I looked at the shiny dress shoes and pressed slacks that stood silently over at me and said, 'hey man, call an ambulance'.”
The TV crew showed up first and his wife knew about the accident before he could call home.
Those were the early days. He moved to Tujunga, California in 1971 and opened a shop, Rodan's Custom Cycles, in an old lath-and-plaster butcher shop that was built in 1928 along, the once gravel, main drag. He told me a story from his early shop days recently: It was 1975 when a 28-year-old customer, wearing new engineer boots, wandered into his shop with a stack of magazines and a ratty, stock, '56 Panhead. He showed Tom the bikes of his dreams. “He gave me a deposit and we went to work,” Rodan said. “I quoted him between five and six grand to build a ground up chopper.”
Tom rebuilt the Panhead engine with S&S 4.5 inch wheels. He rebuilt the trans, raked the frame 1/2 inch, trimmed the wide trees and installed 10-over tubes with Sportster billow rubber dust covers and molded the frame. He installed a K-model solo seat and a fat P-pad, upswept Paughco exhaust with fishtails, Bate's headlight and medium apes. He sawed off the front fender for the rear, added 3.5 gallon fatbobs and the painter primed, then gold leafed the entire frame and finished it off with a green candy. “It was sweet,” Tom said. For six months they worked on the bike while John Doe made payments.
The day the bike was completed the owner owed only $600. “Let me take it home, Tom,” he said. “I'll pay you in a week.” His track record was clean so Tom said, “Sure.” That was the last he saw of John Doe.
Nine months later Tom received a call at his shop. “Did you build a bike for John Doe,” the voice asked over the phone.
“Yep,” Tom said.
“This guy was spouting off about ripping you off and I know where he lives,” the voice said. “He's in Grand Junction on Lone Pike Road.”
Tom thanked the anonymous caller and hung up. The next morning he called Grand Junction, Oregon and asked the operator for a motorcycle shop.
“Any motorcycle shop?” she said.
“Yep,” Tom reiterated.
She gave him a number; he called and asked for the owner. He explained the situation, man to man, bike builder to bike builder, and the man agreed to check out the address. The next day Tom received another call. “Your right, some one was living there, but they up and moved out quick.”
Again Tom lost track of the bike he built. Six months past and another strange call slipped over the lines. “There's a guy at the bar bragging about this bike and how he ripped you off,” the caller said.
Tom didn't ask for a name. “I wonder where he works,” Tom asked the caller.
“I'll call you back in an hour,” the mysterious caller said. Tom hung up, not expecting much.
An hour later the phone rang again. “He works at a printing plant in Burbank,” and he gave Rodan the address and even the time he went to work. That was a mere 40 miles away from Rodan's shop. He finally had a shot to settle a score.
With a brother, Myron, a 5-foot 8-inch wiry biker with long bleach-blonde ducktail hairdo, and his truck, Tom waited outside the chain link fence surrounding the printing facility. John Doe showed up five minutes early for his shift and headed toward the gate. Tom and his brother apprehended the 5-foot 11-inch jerk with his timecard in his hand.
“We'll take the bike or the money, in 45 minutes,” Tom said and the man immediately gave them directions to a body shop. “He gave us no defense at all.” The bike was in pristine condition under a tarp in the corner. They loaded the chopper in the back of the truck and drove directly to the DMV where the title changed hands.
“I still gave him another shot, two weeks to come up with the money,” Tom said. “When he didn't show I painted the entire bike with charcoal black primer and made a beater out of it.” Another week went by and Doe called an pleaded for three more weeks to pay his debt. “I turned him down. He had run out of cards.”
–Bandit
