That title rings true today constantly, but this was based in '71. If you think newbies run afoul of old school now, hang on. This is a story about a rider, Bob T., who rode with me in the early '70s. He was laid off from Hughes Aircraft after his stint in the Marines, as a Small Arms instructor at Camp Pendleton. His pops hated bikes, but he was also ousted from Hughes at the same time–cut backs. Dad bought a Der Wienersnitzel, fast food hot dog joint, and was making a living, so he bought another one on Torrance Blvd. in Southern California and put Bob to work. His dad got divorced, changed his ways, bought a 350 Yamaha and a sportscar. Both, he despised during his family-man era. It was a 350, all orange and goofy looking. It had a two-stroke and smoked like a diesel. Bob thought his dad had lost it, but felt the freedom to jump for a new '71 Super Glide for $2,695. It was red and black with pin stripping. He just rode around town, green as hell.
He didn't know anything about bikers, but scooter tramps started coming around the dog stand, since his bike was parked beside the A-framed looking joint.
“Show up by eight o'clock or we're ridin' out,” one of them screeched through the take-out window. “You don't have any balls, if you don't make it.”
He didn't. They all looked like 1%ers to him, but he was intrigued. They kept comin' by and scoring dogs from him and givin' him shit about his new stock ride. He finally was needled into heading out with them to the Gas Light, a biker hang out in Redondo Beach. When he pulled in the parking lot scattered with choppers, he noticed that they were all riding rigids with jockey shifts. He rode to Lake Hughes with them and they gave him shit about his new Levis, his new bike, that the bike was stock, that it wasn't a rigid and he hadn't done shit to it. But he had a great time.
“The fuckin' guys were nuts,” Bob barked. “They rode like maniacs, pissed in the streets and didn't work much.” He fortunately met Dick Allen, an innovator at the time. He also met Skip Fisk and a riding welder at Imperial Welding. This guy built him a rear section for his frame to make it a rigid. A Marine buddy was part of the American Mag family and scored him a early mag rear wheel.
He tore the bike down, welded the rear section on and installed the 15-inch wheel with a 155 Pirelli radial car tire. It was a big-tire deal for the time. He caught a razzing for being down for more than a couple of days. He was harassed everyday by his brothers. He was still a pussy, 'cause he rode with a hand clutch, so he made a jockey shifter with a glass door knob for the knob. He used chain for his clutch rod.
He was still running the stock narrow glide although he made a sissybar by hand and painted it black. Mike, who owned Michael's Motor Cycle Works at the time, took a truck across the country buying up old parts. When he returned, all the guys rode to his place and dug through the treasure chest. Bob bought a springer and immediately installed it.
The bike dragged the ground since the older stock springers were shorter than the new glides. He traded a Colt 45 and a bag of ammo for a longer, by 2 inches, XA springer. With the taller springer installed the bike was almost cool.
At the time Perry Sands, who owns Performance Machine, was just starting out. He was selling Edco disc brake calipers for custom bikes. They were originally used on Sprint Cars. Bob scored a set and used a Herst master cylinder with car rotors. The coup de grace was a set of D&S upswept fishtail pipes that were straight and he immediately got popped for loud exhaust. The trick at the time was to roll up a band of chicken wire tight and shove it in the pipe for a baffle. He drilled a hole in the side of the exhaust and used a nut and bolt to anchor the makeshift baffle. Of course, one day while blasting along the coast, one of the wire bundles blew out, making the bike pop and wheeze on one cylinder.
His Levis collected grease like an honor student collects extra credit. He found an old UL oil tank and replaced the stock unit, but the young tuffs still looked as his stock primaries as if he lowered and flamed a new Cadillac. He just didn't cut it yet, but fate moved his evil hand over Bob T. once again. On the run back from the Bonneville salt flats, they took a side trip to Wells, Nevada, 55 miles from Wendover, Utah, to the whorehouse. They partied for a couple of days then split up for the ride home. Bob and a riding partner rode through Lone Pine, California, crossing the state toward the coast when his front tire blew-out. He had a Jammer steel rim with no safety ledge so the tire slipped off the rim like a banana peel slithers off the fruit.
The scooter wasn't destroyed, but the primaries were, and he slid over to one of the first belt drive manufacturers in the industry, Nez, to score a belt drive. Nez harassed him for going down. He picked up the belt drive with drooped shoulders and went back to his pad to fix his ride.
The bike was a far cry from stock, but he was still catchin' shit. It was ratty, scuffed, running an open primary and a black sissybar. He couldn't find a seat that fit, so he stuffed a Levi pant leg with towels and bungie-corded it to the frame. That did it. He finally received a modicum of respect from his pal Craig, who they called Jaws since he never shut up.
Bob finally pissed himself, ran from a cop, wore greasy Levis to work, painted his pipes black, got fired by his old man, and made it with an underage broad. He was finally cool.
–Bandit
