I was sitting at the dinner table unveiling my plan to my wife. Usually, this tactic ends with her screaming and hollering about me being a horrible and selfish bastard who never listens to her. I don’t really remember what she calls me, as I don’t really listen to her.
Anyways, I was explaining to her my plan to ride to Sturgis for the first time this past August. Not only was I going to Sturgis, but I was going to take a week off without pay from my job.
Well, she was really….weird. First of all, she only smiled and said, “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.” Of course this remark was followed by the standard rolling of her eyes.
Then she got a sort of nervous look on her face like I had just farted or something. Not knowing what to expect, I braced my legs under the table so the force of her punches wouldn’t knock me over backwards.
Instead of hitting me, she just smiled and said,“Hey, I was going to send you to Minnesota to see your little brother Ricky, for your birthday.”
Inside my head, I was ecstatic. I love hanging out with either of my brothers, and I looked forward to seeing them whenever I can. On the outside, I acted insulted. She was trying to control me again by using my brother as bait. She is famous for trying to ruin my good times, and she was at it again!
*Note* I didn’t realize it, at the time, but my wife had already bought my ticket and was planning on surprising me for my birthday. I was being the pig-headed lout I have become famous for, and tried to turn it into a big controversy theory to steal my fun. In fact, I seem to suspect the wrong thing many times and should probably seek professional counseling. So, in spite of it all, I rode to Sturgis. I had the adventure of a lifetime and created many memories on that 7 day 4000 mile round trip. But now it was back to real life.
I work for a chemical plant in Houston, Texas, monitoring distillation columns. My job is an important one, as an error could result in loss of many lives, but not very demanding. Working 4 day, 12 hour swing shifts, I end up flying through months before realizing what day it is. Seriously, when you work days and nights, time doesn’t matter anymore. I used to look forward to the weekends, but now a Wednesday is the same as a Saturday. It just doesn’t matter.
So here it was, the last weekend in September, and I came home from work feeling exhausted from the mundane tasks I must perform day in and day out. Although I rode to Sturgis on vacation in August, my body and schedule never seemed to line back up. I was running on fumes and I needed a break. Between work, the kids in school, and the hurricanes, I ran non-stop for several weeks. I planned on walking in the front door, opening an ice cold beer, and vegging out on the couch.
When I got home, my wife called me to the bedroom. Knowing it was for some tedious honey-does, I grimaced silently and plodded around the corner. My heart sank as I rounded the corner and saw an open suitcase on the bed. Oh my God, she’s going to leave me. I was surprised to find out she wasn’t leaving me at all. She had bought the plane ticket for Minnesota, and I was flying the next morning! She was packing my clothes, but she knows how picky I am. Yeah right, everything I own is Black, Orange, or Blue. So the next morning, I headed to Cologne, Minnesota to visit my baby brother.
Four days with no callouts from work. Four days completely away from the computer and articles due. Four days without …my bike. That sucks, but I can take it for only four days. I was ready to go to Minnesota and just hang out with absolutely nothing on the agenda. This would be the best trip I had ever taken. Boy was I wrong!
I awoke the next morning and high-tailed it to the airport. My flight left at 7:30 am, and thanks to the towel-headed Punjab’s, I had to be there an hour ahead of time. The boarding of the plane was fine, and the flight went very smooth. I printed up the Saxon Motorcycle review off Bikernet and read it on the plane. As I landed and headed for baggage claim, I turned my cell phone on awaiting my mongoloid brother to call and tell me he was late or lost. No sooner had I turned the phone on and put it back in my pocket when it began to vibrate. Damn, that was quick!
“Hello, fat bastard,” I greeted my little bro with my normal salutation.
“Fat?! I’ll kick yer young ass! Fat?!!! What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, Bandit, sorry. I thought you were my brother.”
“If I was your brother, I would have killed our mother, you idiot. Hey, you just landed in Minneapolis, right?”
How does he do that?
“Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”
“That’s what I do kid. Hey, go by Donnie Smith’s place and get me a few shots for Bikernet. I want to do a feature on his shop.”
“Donnie Smith lives close to here? How do you know he’ll even talk to me? He’s probably busy and won’t have time for my little ass.”
“Nah. He’s a really down to earth guy. He’ll talk to you. Just tell him you are doing an article for me and that should get you in the door. Just don’t act like yourself. Be cool. Try to act like you know what you’re talking about. Don’t bullshit him, just be confident.”
“Ok, ok. I will try to give him a call…”, I heard the phone go dead.
Great, now I have to work. I’ll bet this guy won’t even talk to me. Shit, it’s Donnie Smith, one of The Big Three along with Arlen Ness and Dave Perewitz.
I was still disoriented by the call when my 235 pound ex-football player brother blindsided me with a picture perfect open field tackle. We must have slid twenty five feet across the linoleum airport floor before finally skidding to a stop.
“Good to see you, Bro! I have been waiting for you since August when you bailed out on me for some bike rally.” He helped me to my feet before giving me a nice jab to the ribs.
“Sorry, Rick! I had to work the rally. Bikernet.com has been floundering and needed some young blood to bring some life in.”
“Yeah, right! You probably hounded the guy with e-mails until he finally agreed to let you go so you would shut up and stop whining like a bitch.” He always had a way of looking at things where I ended up looking like a chump.
“Whatever, Rick, at least I can still see my dick when I piss.”
“Hey, that’s cuz you got Mom’s Italian genetics. I was cursed with Dad’s Irish blood and got stuck with this beer can between my legs. Still works, though. So, shaddup before I hold you down and smack you in the face with it.”
Ah, brotherly love.
We went to his place to relax and drink some beer. Well actually, immeasurable amounts of beer. You see, we were really close and used to hang out all the time before life took us by the sacks and tied us to a post. Once we got married and I started having babies, we only got to talk on the phone. No more hunting trips, no more weekends playing Playstation, no more riding our bikes together. I know that’s what happens as you get older. People grow apart and get on with their lives, I’m just saying it sucks and I don’t like it.
The next morning I woke up with a terrible hangover and a bad case of cottonmouth. I was trying to find my bearings when my brother came bounding down the stairs with my cell phone.
“Hey, wake up sunshine. It’s some guy named Bandit.”
Damn it! I’ve only been here one day, what’s the rush?!
“Why haven’t you called Mr. Smith yet?”
“I called yesterday. He never called me back.”
“Bullshit! Get your ass over there and do the story. Don’t make me call you again.” With that he hung up.
I crawled out of bed and started getting ready for the day. Because I was on vacation, I wasn’t able to get my morning protein shake mixed with coffee, so I settled on some dark lager my brother referred to as “Liney’s”. I wasn’t too sure about it, but anything tasted better than his breakfast burritos. Yeesh!
We decided to give Donnie’s shop, Donnie Smith Custom Cycles, a call to let him know we were coming. I ended up leaving a message on his voice mail and deciding to wait till he called me back before dropping in unannounced. I had to get ready for the interview. There were lots of questions I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to do it in an amateur style exuding my novice status. I wanted to get to a gym and pump some iron, but things didn’t work out that way.
My phone rang again as I was getting out of the shower. I checked the voice mail to discover Donnie Smith had called me back! He was happy to do an interview and said he looked forward to my call. I’m not sure what I said when I called, I just remember saying I’d be there in an hour.
My brother and I jumped in his camouflaged pick-up, and headed for Blaine, Minnesota. Now, if you have never been to Minnesota, it is really beautiful country. The lay of the land reminds me of a mellow southern Colorado. Mountains are more like hills, and roads are a little wider and less spaghetti-like. The place is a wilderness worth visiting, but I don’t know about moving there. It gets down below zero degrees farenheight there, for God’s sake!
We pulled up to the shop, which looks like an industrial delivery service, and parked out front. No bikes lined the front. No giant neon signs proclaiming “Look at me!!” Just a couple of trucks, a custom painted trailer, and a blue tin sided building that houses the proprietorship of one of the most innovative builders to ever pick up a wrench.
Standing in the doorway was none other than Donnie Smith! He greeted us as if he’d known us for years. Inviting us inside, he stepped into his office to take a phone call as my brother Richie and I took a lay of the land. The shop was very clean and orderly, but was a bustle of activity. As soon as you walk in, you notice the custom bikes parked to the right. Looking like a row straight out of a magazine, each bike boiled with Donnie’s talented design touches.
“Those are past and future projects,” Donnie startled me with his statement.
“Their beautiful. I guess you don’t do rigids anymore?”
“Bullshit! I’ve rode to Sturgis and back more times than you can count on a rigid with a girder front end. I’ve never had a problem.”
Original hard ass!
“Oh, I rode from Humble to St…”
“I bet you rode a Softail, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess. Take a look around and I’ll get back with ya’ll in a minute.”
We walked around the shop noticing pieces of history adorning the walls. There was the pinstriped, ribbed, frisco-style, gas tank on the wall. There were the numerous magazine covers and articles pasted to the walls in blown up laminated form. The place emanated class. Just standing there realizing some of the sickest bikes to ever be seen by human eyes were created under the tutelage of this man seemed so surreal and dreamlike. I literally had to keep pinching myself to be sure it wasn’t all a dream.
Richie was looking at photos of bikes and talking with Donnie while I took some shots of the shop. The place was a bit smaller than what I would have expected, but that’s where he feels comfortable. Unlike his close friends Arlen Ness and Dave Perewitz, he doesn’t plan on getting into any other areas besides building his bikes.
“Life gets way too complicated.”
The guys in the shop were all very polite and helpful. Unfortunately, I cannot remember any of their names. One of the downfalls of not taking notes is not remembering names two months later when writing an article.
The visit went faster than I had expected and it was closing on lunch time. So, not wanting to be a pest, we decided to excuse ourselves and let him get back to work.
“Nonsense, I’m hungry too. I know a place up the street that sells great meatloaf.”
We were shocked. Now he was eating lunch with us. So we went to lunch and shot the shit for a few hours. To not know this guy was a legend probably made my brother feel comfortable. Unfortunately, I knew exactly who he was, and I was shitting my pants!!! Not only was he nice, polite, and very gracious.
We took him back to the shop and said our goodbyes. He gave my brother his cell number, and they will probably hook up at the SEMA show in Vegas next year. Maybe Richie will be able to save up enough change to get a bike built by him one day.
My brother and I left that day feeling very awestruck because of the man we had just met. Even though he had been building bikes longer than I had been alive, he seemed truly thankful that we wanted to talk with him. He still seems to appreciate the fan-fare and popularity. The main thing I got from Donnie Smith was trends come and go, but relationships with people can last a lifetime. No matter how famous you may get, or how popular you become, never forget where you came from.
Enjoy the pictures of the shop. Take your time and look at some of the bikes. Try to vision yourself there; the sound of classic rock music competing with the clatter of wrenches being turned and phones ringing off the wall. The place was magical, and I look forward to my next trip there!
