I was about 26 at the time, full of piss and vinegar. I was going to the annual Chili Burn at the Hells Henchmen clubhouse. I rode my 93-inch, S&S flywheels, cone Shovel. They didn't make engines back then. I used 4-speed Andrews gears, Phase Three 2-inch belt, the widest they had, with a Competition clutch, state of the art for 1980. Brakes were supplied by a Harley, dual disc, with a narrow glide up front and the infamous banana caliper on the rear.
Being a hangaround I had some privileges that a citizen didn't have, one being able to park my sled with the club bikes, which of course I did. Everyone had the news of this big Stroker I was riding, so some of the clubbers wanted to race. After chili, beer, beer and more beer, weed, numerous pills, and the usual powder of the day, plus endless coercion, I agreed. I went out to the pen. There was an 8-foot fence with barbed wire on top for the club's property, and I proceeded to kick the bitch.
I kicked and kicked and kicked, and finally I puke all over the ground. After I regained my breath and the laughter settled down, Bird said, “Fatbob you want me to peg you to start it?”
I said, “Sure.”
For those of you who don't know, pegging is your bro's foot on your passenger peg, slowly pushing you and your bike up to speed. We did this up and down the side street of the clubhouse for three or four times and no dice. It wouldn't start. By then everybody was tired of the comedy act and went back inside.
I was sobering up and thinking through previous events. When I rode into the park the bike was cool, ran fine. I shut off the gas, and I turned the gas back on, when I attempted to start that slut. I should have had plenty of gas when I started kicking.
Bird said, “Fatbob, check the gas anyway.”
I gazed into the tank and it seemed low. We added some gas, that I siphoned from the club truck, and the bitch fired on the second kick.
“You high motherfucker,” Bird said, “good thing I like you or you'd get your dumb ass spanked.”
By then the brothers and old ladies came out to see what the thunder was all about, and to this day, Bird never gave me up about being out of gas. So much for 2-gallon tanks. I soon learned big inch strokers use a lot more gas than a standard 74.
I did a couple hole shots, but the drag race bit didn't seem like a good idea since the party was in full swing and the titty contest was starting. So back in to the clubhouse.
I left when the sun had been up past coffee, had breakfast at the greasy spoon went home and crashed. I was lucky about fucking up and not getting my ass kicked. I wrote a poem for the club. I earned some respect, for my ability to build bikes. Of course, if I hadn't been friends with Bird and George before they joined the club, it could have turned out bad.
They were both full patches and had rank, so as their guest, I got to skate for the most part. I learned early on that Clubbers require respect and was always careful to give it. The brotherhood came first, regardless whose friend you were, and a black eye was only as close as a dumb-ass remark. I spent many nights partying with those guys. and there are more stories to tell. The lifestyle was open to only a select few back in those days, and I'm glad I got to live it. Today the people who hated us wanted to be us. Only they missed the boat and are too dumb to know it.
The mystery pans have been in my friends hands for over a year. Eric bought them from Milwaukee Harley- Davidson. The kid has his own little museum, really cool for a 35-year-old biker. His old man is my age and bike trash, so you can understand how he came to be into this cool shit.
He bought those sleds at the Davenport meet. You never know what will show up there. I bought a 3-bike trailer made out of two VL front ends five years ago. I cut that mother apart for the parts: besides, I scored it for a hundred bucks.
This is the knuckle I sold to Yoshi. If I would have known you would run it I would have sent it to you along time ago. I gave Tim, at Negotiable, a grand for selling it. Glad to do it.
Check out Bird's springer. Bird made this piece of art. Look at the detail, a one-off for sure. You don't see this kind of craftsmanship. It's not only beautiful, it is structurally as strong as any springer ever built.
Here I am with my Grandson, Christian, on George's Pan. Bird built the springer, oil tank, frame, rear wheel and modified Wildwood brake calipers from a car to work on this sled, in true Rockford tradition, like Dick Allen did.
These scooters are completely garage built. The experience totals 125 years between the three of us. Bird is a retired Henchman. I was just a hangaround, I would have joined, but I knew I would be in trouble all the time and would have been the world's longest prospect. They both offered to sponsor me. They also warned me, if I hung around too much and another brother asked me to join and I said no, I couldn't hang out anymore.
They were cool about it because I knew them both before they joined the club. George is a couple years older than me and got me into Harleys. His big sister lived across the street from my parents.
Here is that short bike; the guy with me is my best friend, Carnie. He has wired our shit for 30 years, until he taught my son, who wired this bike.
Here is the real deal, the Holy Grail, a 1936 one-year-only out of the cache from New Mexico. It's gone sold to a cat in MD. I made a friend though, and traded a set of '37 Knuckleheads that were cracked for a good big port '41-'46 set. I plan on building a square motor, 61-inch lower with a 74 top end, hence a 68-inch Knucklehead. Will send pics when I get it started.
–FATBOB
