Installment #01 – Asphalt Treks, Chrome Missions

Hey,

Someone told me recently that I have some fleeting knowledge of the bike industry, that what I have to say about the past, my bikes, and other shit might have some consequence. I tried to convince them that I was drunk or high on drugs during the entire time I’ve been riding and didn’t contribute a goddamn thing. If I did, it was purely coincidental, and I have no memory of it, but they persisted. In order to prove my point, I’m going to punch out a page of my miserable, broken-down life each issue just to prove what a unrelenting bastard I’ve been over the years.

My first big twin was a 1966 Shovelhead cop bike with a tank shift and suicide clutch. I bought it after I saw a “fresh from Vietnam” snapshot of myself on my ’69 Sportster. I thought I looked ridiculous, so I sold the tight custom Sporty and went to find a big twin. Roaming the classifieds in the Long Beach Press Telegram, I uncovered this sucker in a used car lot in Long Beach. I killed the sonuvabitch several times on my way home, jammin’ the tank shift.

It never made it out of my garage in its original condition again. I immediately stripped it down to frame and driveline. I made struts out of the fender rails, lowering the rear end, bought longer tubes, and had the front lower legs shaved.

At the time I was married to my first wife, a wonderful woman with a bright smile and heart as big as a 250 Avon, and the most wonderful tits on the planet, but she was terrified of motorcycles. Hell, the first vehicle I ever owned was a motorcycle. I owned more motorcycles than cars. We were living off her income and my enlisted man’s pay between tours off the coast of Vietnam on a heavy cruiser.

Custom parts were limited at the time, so the accessory list included a sissybar, ribbed rear fender, solo seat, and peanut gas tank, oh and a Bates headlight. I pulled that sucker apart, but was squeamish about yanking the engine. I pulled the carb and rebuilt it. I tore all the wiring out, ground off tabs, threw all the stock sheet metal, tanks, footboards, etc. in the trash and went to making the custom shit fit. I attempted to use body filler unsuccessfully. I didn’t have a can of Bondo, and the shit I was using wasn’t meant to go on thick so it never hardened. I painted the bike with rattle cans after reading several magazines about prepping. I couldn’t afford a whole new exhaust system so I modified the stock two-into-one unit and installed one shorty muffler.

Sure, it looked like hell. I did too. Since I was in the Navy at the time, I had access to lots of brass. I made foot pegs with hexagon brass stock. Terrible to try to keep your boots connected. I also took the front 16 off the bike and went in search of a 21. That could have been the first AAE part I ever bought and perhaps the last. Never liked that company much.

Shortly after I bought that bike I got out of the service, my beard grew out and my hair got long quick. I looked even worse. I rode and worked in the garage constantly. I was taking a certified welding course at Long Beach City College so I could rake frames. My dad had taught me welding and how to run a lathe and various machine shop equipment, but I wanted to learn more. I took the carb off the bike and field stripped it, rebuilt it with the assistance of a bike mag article, and learned how to tune and wire that puppy.

The next thing you know, I was out on the streets riding that ugly bastard. During that era shops seemed to be run by nerds or thugs. I remember walking into a custom joint in Bellflower and asking for a 21-inch tire. “You got a 21-inch Avon?” I asked a long-haired biker who eyed the dork (that would be me) in shorts and a T-shirt and said, “What the fuck’s is it to you?”

“I need one for my Shovelhead,” I said.

“Yeah, so what?” the clerk said, leaning against the counter and eyeing me as if I were the bastard who got his mother pregnant in the first place.

“Listen, asshole, if you don’t want to sell me that sonuvabitch, I’ll get one someplace else.”

He decided he’d grace me with the tire, and I was on the road. Didn’t have many people to ride with at the time, and I didn’t do bars much. On top of that, the ol’ lady would come out on the apartment balcony whenever I’d put on my leather welding jacket to go for a ride. She’d cry as I would attempt to putt away. It’d break my heart and I would often cut the ride short and return to her arms.

Deeply religious, she saw the man she loved slip deeper and deeper into hell’s happy hour. I couldn’t help myselfÑ60-weight oil was already ripping through my veins.

Next issue I’ll tell you about my first ride with an outlaw.