I often state that anything truly cool is running near the edge between life or death, pass or fail, Ted Nugent or “Damn Yankees”, etc.
Just so you know ,when I write these stories, they are not “based on fact” or “inspired by”. They happened, and as a lot of you know the ” smoothing” or “spinning”, as they say, just ain't necessary with some things. All this mainstream chopper marketing reminded me of something:
True, K-models were known to be notoriously slow in stock form. So slow, in fact, that Elvis' management would only let him ride a stock K model in his early days. Another fact about the bike was, in the hands of the right tuner/builder they could flat out leave the ground. A K that was set up correctly could run with anything on the street in the late 60's. Not to mention the little tractor terrorized dirt and asphalt tracks all over the world, WAY past it's freshness date. BUT, I ain't here to talk about that, I'll leave the H-D history to cable.
The 1953 K Model
My dad and his buddy Kenny “campaigned” a street racer K model back in '68 or so. Kenny owned it and my old man wrenched and rode it some of the time. They both worked at a battery factory back then, and a lot of the guys there rode motorcycles to work. Triumphs, Nortons, BSAs, Sportsters…you know. See to kids, back then, a Sportster wasn't considered a “girls bike”. It was a factory superbike.
So anyway, Kenny's K model was undefeated on the street back then. It was a stripped down '54 with metallic plumb tanks, stripped fenders, low bars, open pipes and a 4.00×18 M&H on the back. The best thing about it though… it had an honest to god flat track style motor set up by the late Bobby Hoe of Cincinatti. It was a motherfucker to start, ran on av-gas and had to be rebuilt every year.
Kenny or my Dad would run it. In addition to street racing the giant parking lot at the battery factory saw plenty of terror between rows of employees' cars at lunch time. Back then, when you took lunch EVERYBODY took lunch. Every once in a while, some dude would get a new street bike and want to run that K model. Kenny or the ol' man would roll that thing out, line it up with whatever taker and dust their ass. I can see it now, the glare radiating off all those car windsheilds in the muggy kentucky sun. The K with it's open pipes, roastin' that M&H. Workers yellin and screamin' with sandwiches in their hands. Then….BBBBBRAAAAAAAHHH AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
BUT……Nothing lasts forever. One day a new kid about 18 years old got hired and he was ridin' a brand new, stock, 2-stroke Kawasaki triple, Pea green. He was a scrawny annoying kid who bugged everybody and more or less didn't know or care about the mighty K models street creed. He bugged Kenny and Dad every day to run him at lunch. They'd ride his ass, making fun of him with jokes like “Hey kid, where do you go when you need a 'RIIIIING DING DING DING' for that smelly piece o' shit?”
What happened next was disgusting to anybody who digs harleys and pure monkey spankin' nirvana for those who don't. The day finally came when the mighty K-model lined up with this screeching, stinking, “chuck” tennis shoe wearin', pimply nerd from Fern Creek.
The stocky little H-D was runnin' right, heatin' up the slick on a fresh tank of av-gas and that nervous little freak was blippin' the throttle on the Kawi…RRRIIIING ding ding ding RRRRRIIIIIIING ding ding ding….
“The K-model came outta the hole STRONG, and I knew I had him. Then all I saw was this skinny kid hangin' on for dear life, that Kawi standin' on its back wheel. He wasn't wearin' any socks. I don't know why I noticed that shit but he was all over the thing trying to get it down in the parkin' lot, and there was no fuckin' way to catch him. Nobody could believe it.”
Kenny sold the K a while later to a friend named “Fast Eddie”. Beginning the next chapter of the story…
Fast Eddie was one of those good lookin' drug dealer/hipsters from the early '70s. Badass muscle car, cool chopper, good weed and a plethora of other stuff made this cat the guy to know. Back then drugs were illegal, but they didn't have decades of freaky mojo behind 'em like now. The most hardcore greaser from the day was happily shucking his Levis and Flag brothers strollers for double knit bell bottoms and a fu manchu. This transformation affected everything, as well as the old K-model.
When Eddie got hold of that K he had 'er dipped in gold metalflake and put a brakeless, six over skinny springer on the front. No, he did not rake it. Yes, it handled like shit. So now the little flathead was pointing up in the air with a bitchin' new paint job and a new chrome sissy bar. Kenny and the ol' man were worried. The K wasn't the fastest monster on the street anymore, but it was WAY too fast for a new guy, and that extended front end. It was plain spooky.
My dad claims the '70s were a blur. Between the drugs and the “relaxed” social aspects everybody was kind of “supercharged”. So here's “Fast Eddie”, one of the coolest dudes around. He was livin' fast, “Jesus Christ Superstar”, head shops, cool cars, cool bikes and hot chicks.
So, your Bob. You're on your way home from work in the stationwagon, sitting at a light on Preston Hiway. The wife's at home cookin' dinner and although she's put on a few pounds after having Bob jr. and Sally you still like her. The mortgage is a bitch and that asshole assistant manager Fincklestein keeps you from at least tolerating your job. Suddenly your startled out of your daymare by this harsh ripping sound. A shiny gold and chrome chopper flashes past you in the turn lane. There it is, man.
Freedom, sex (my god look at that chick) and excitement flying passed you. Your new life flashes before your eyes…you pawn the wagon and steal a Harley Police Special. You tear it apart in your new girlfriend's living room (who happens to be a headlining stripper/trust fund baby), where you and your badass biker brothers turn that H-D into a rolling work of art. You got a thousand bucks in your pocket and a jacket full of specklebird as you roll down Preston Hiway….Mutton chops blowin' in the breeze and a firm rack of 38 DDs pressed into your back.
What the…….? There Bob sits, mouth hanging open. His country squire idling smoothly as his brain processes what just happened.
The chopper screamed passed him and then veered wildly to the left as the rider tried in vane to miss the back of that stopped furniture truck. There was the sickening, over-revving of the engine as he froze with the throttle wide open and pile-drove that bike right into the back of the truck. The girl's head popped like an orange (BOOOF!) when she flew over the guy, slamming into the roll up door of the truck, (“Follow me to Furniture World!”), killing her instantly.
The bike burst into crackling flames. There was no other noise as Bob numbly took it all in. One dead girl. Check. One destroyed burning chopper. Check. One blood smeared furniture truck. Check. There's the rider between couple cars, up on his hands and knees. He's the cool guy. He's blubbering incoherantly as he crawls around scooping up hundreds of pills, that are scattered everywhere. He keeps brushing back his long blood matted hair and muttering something about cops. It's not his hair he's flipping back, it's his scalp. The pills lay in a pool of blood and gas and oil and he's all alone for a while. Their eyes meet through the heat rippling off the pavement, as folks start yelling for help and running around.
Bob looks in the mirror and sees one hard working square who needs to get home to his wife, kids and mortgage….Check.
There is no middle ground for some things. Everything else firmly fits into the “SANE” category. It wasn't just Marlon Brando who saved Harley-Davidson. It was the IDEAL of “Fast Eddie”, only smoothed over and refitted, spun into an acceptable version without the risk. I made a chopper out of Razor blades once. I rode it all over town for months without a scratch. It was fucking CRAZY. We all still talk about it, and there's nothing but good times connected to it. But if I would've crashed…If my foot slipped off that clutch in a crowd or someone turned left in front of me…….Well, “you're on your own fool.” It gives me the willies just thinkin' about it…..
Happy trails.
The Conderosa
http://www.armageddontopfuel.com
