Richard Kranzler straddled a Harley of sorts when he was 16 years old. He's been building bikes and bouncing around the industry since. Recently his wife was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and Lupus. Richard left his job in the engineering field, sold all his bikes, gave Sportster parts to Jon Towle and hauled all his belongings to Washington to be close to the Holy Family Hospital, one of the best MS clinics in the country. It looked as though his wife had little time left. Assuming that it could be a decade before he would ride again, Richard spent his time furthering a solitary resolve, “I wanted my wife to receive the best care possible and to live out her life as comfortably as I could make it.”
Richard, a regular Bikernet contributor, needed wheels and the crew dug deep. In the near future you may witness a collaborative effort between Bikernet, Richard and Tim Condor as a wild Twin Cam, Pro Street comes together. In the meantime the Bikernet Crew packed our Excelsior-Henderson and shipped it north.
But first we need to reveal Richard's story. The sordid tale of his indoctrination into the motorcycle market will bring back memories for many asphalt veterans.
His mom ran a biker bar in Williston, North Dakota. She tried to screen Richard from her late-night vocation, but he grew up sniffing beer soaked decks and puke filled heads. “Ain't bars the best,” Richard added. She owned three sloppy saloons during her barkeeper career.
In the early '80s a biker moved in next door to the family home. His name was Stoney, a 325-pound member of the Hell Bound MC. Richard watched the longhaired monster tune his '56 Panhead. Richard rode dirt bikes as a youngster, but shortly after he met the patch-holder he bought his first H-D, a '72 SS, 350 cc Ameromacchi Sprint. The following year he ran away from home and rode to Sturgis by himself.
It took him a day and three breakdowns before he rumbled into the Badlands and slept under a bridge near the mall in Rapid City. “The points went flat,” Richard said. “I pulled off the highway to set them with a match book.” Another 75 miles and it coughed and died once more. “The points were okay,” Richard commented. He was in the middle of the Teddy Roosevelt National Park on a two-lane highway. “I pulled the float bowl, and it was empty except for a wad of rust particles. Bad gas.” He emptied the fuel filter and moved on. Stoney taught him much, but he was on his own this time.
The next morning the scrawny kid awoke along side his single thumper and wondered what the hell to do. “I could either find a bar or a bike shop,” Richard said. “I went to the Harley Shop in Rapid.”
He stumbled into the dealership and pondered a vending machine breakfast when someone snatched him up by the collar of his dirty black t-shirt. “It was Whitey, a gray-beard member of the Hell Bound MC. They had all just rolled in.” He followed Stoney, Whitey, Tattoo Johnny and the pack of 15 to the Dad’s Campgrounds on the eastern edge of Sturgis off Interstate 90. “I didn't know what to expect,” Richard laughed thinking about his first run 18 years ago. They blasted into the grounds over gravel turf and down rolling hills to the club's annual spot at the base of a grassy knoll, and the party began.
“Seven days of non-stop party action,” Richard said with a gleam in his eyes.
He learned that boots burn if he stood too close to the evening bondfire and to never trust that the clear liquid in a mason jar is water, “It ain't,” Richard gagged. “That's moonshine.”
He learned brotherhood, saw a man stabbed by a club member over a woman. Watched as an outlaw organization was run out of town by the cops. He scouted the Badlands, Deadwood and Rushmore on the back of Stoney's rigid. At three in the morning a couple of members blasted into the campsite tearing up the tent stakes and sending him tumbling toward the turf from his swaying hammock. The party renewed and the action didn't subside until the sun crested Rapid and his skinny stomach called for bacon and eggs. He became a man.
He returned from the Badlands aboard an all-white Shriner FLH '77 Shovelhed. He moved in with the big outlaw, sold his H-D 350 for $500 (he bought it for $150) and bought a 45 Servi-Car basket. Whitey turned him on to Sportsters and ownership became his goal. Short and skinny Whitey with long gray locks, rubberbanded in a ponytail, rode a '57 first year Sportster. “It was two-tone blue and white,” Richard said with a smile. “It even had a two tone Lexon windshield and white hand grips.” The bike was immaculate, but perhaps it was the 60-year-old's hot looking 25-year-old girlfriend who swayed him?
“She was a stone-fox,” Richard said looking around for his wife.
He molded the entire trike frame, rebuilt the motor and sold it to purchase his first Sportster. From '85 to '97, annually he rode to Sturgis to celebrate steel wills, the open road and Sportsters. Maybe next year he'll have the chance to ride again.
–Bandit
