How Did We Get Here Anyway.

Article By: Chris Callen

At the top of our magazine we have been bold enough, this month, to put the words “The Real Deal Biker Mag.” Just so you don’t think we are all gettin’ big heads, this was what we brought back from the V-twin industry show in Cincy. People in this industry are now accepting us for being real and for the work we’re doing to embody the values and traditions of brotherhood, respect and the passion of motorcycling. Although I am honored, this is not because we are some special breed of individuals, this is simply how we were taught. Since this issue marks the 120th time I’ve sat here to write an editorial, and at the same time many of you may not be aware of the 10 year history in Cycle Source, I figured I’d give you an idea of the type of people I always looked up to. Men who made me want to be better than I am, and still do.

Even as a snot nose little prick, I knew I wanted to be a biker. My neighbor and I would sneak away for hours to look at Easyriders and talk about times we’d have once we were old enough to get a Harley. My ol’ man rode and a bunch of his friends did too, so I was always around it, but few people ever had the impact one man in particular did. Of course I will not disrespect him by printing his name in this story, but in it there’s an example that so many people could use today.

Father to my life long brother, I met their family some 25 years ago. The first time he pulled up on his chopper, to drop my buddy off, it was like he rode out of a fiction novel. I mean, there was a fantastic way to describe everything he did and said. His machine roared through town until it over took the block we were on. It exploded around the corner and was bigger than life, as he slid to a stop. The bike was at least thirty feet long and surely had a demon from hell caged in the engine, although I may have embellished this part a little, after all, I was much younger then and more impressionable. From front to back this bike shined like it was ablaze. Chrome and metalflake paint mesmerized our little minds. His son jumped off and without a word he rolled the tire around again and lit a path straight out of town on a bike appropriately named Thunder. We all just stood there, jaws open wide, in pure awe of what we’d just witnessed.

After that night, I would see this man a few times here and there, but as I got closer to my eighteenth birthday I found myself finding more reasons to hang around him and his friends. Their stories and the way they lived drew my attention like nothing ever had. A few months after I was legally an adult I bought a second hand Shovel and of course rode it straight to the spot I knew I’d find him. I pulled up like it was brand new and drug him outside to show him my prize. He obliged my request to take her for a ride and congratulated me. Later on though, he confided that he’d rather have gone to the cat who sold me the bike and kicked his ass. Still, he saw that I was making my first steps into this thing and he took me under his wing. He taught me things like the importance of keeping your machine clean, not because you want other people to stare at it, no, his reasons were so much more pure. He compared everything he did with his bike to how he lived his life. If you had a dirty bike, he said, it showed people that you didn’t care about anything or you didn’t have any respect for yourself. Cleaning also gave you a chance to find loose parts or things that might keep you from enjoying a ride later on. During those long hours in his little garage, we talked about everything that applied to living like a biker. I’m not sure if he realized until just recently, but I mentally recorded every word. I’d like to believe that his instructions are all that is good in this magazine today.

His general appearance was squared away and he carried an air of respect about him that you didn’t miss, not because he walked around with a chip on his shoulder, he was just that kinda’ man, no bullshit. There was a natural order to the things in his life. He showed every one of his kids and everyone he came in contact with what that meant. He was as tough as nails when it came to fighting, man. He’d trade dukes with anyone that came to him. He’d won several tough man competitions and was known all over as the “baddest dude in town.” But, I learned through time, that his heat was even stronger.

Through my humble beginnings, he taught me the mechanical side of life with the motorcycle, and from it I gained patience, responsibility, and respect. When it came time to start adding custom parts to my bike, he taught me to dream. Now I don’t know a better way to put that and if you get it, you just do, if you don’t, then just keep reading.

Even the foundation of this magazine was influenced by this man. When he heard what his son and I had planned he brought his entire collection of Easyriders to our little aftermarket shop and told us straight, “If you little bastards are gonna’ do some kinda’ magazine, do it like this, this was what we all used to dig.”

Years later, we we’re running in different circles, when I heard of his hard times with a mean drug. He was loosing everything that he’d worked for. At the end of a bad marriage, he even lost his bike. I guess his little daughter was about eleven years old then and he knew her mother wouldn’t be able to take care of her, so he picked himself up and turned his whole life around. He took custody of the girl, started a small business, and raised her on his own. For the next ten years he’d put all of the little girls needs ahead of his own, even his love of riding would have to wait until he made sure his daughter was raised right.

All through her formidable years he sat on the sidelines and watched as we grew into what he’d hoped we would, unable to participate in it with us. His son and I were living the life and doing the right things, most of the time, and this made his heart happy. He was still missing a part of his soul, however, and you could see it in his eyes. The little girl grew into a fine young lady and even moved on to college. By that time, he was involved with another woman who had a few young girls of her own, and yes, once again, he did the right thing.

Today he’s raised two or three of his own families, dozens of the neighborhood kids, and helped launch the passion that fuels this magazine. To this day, he still sits on the sidelines waiting. He is nearly in the position to get his own ride again. I know once he does, it’ll never leave his side. This whole story makes me wonder why there aren’t television shows about cats like this. I mean, I know he doesn’t whip wrenches around, and probably wouldn’t sell many t-shirts, but his story IS important, now maybe more than ever.

Here’s why I say this. Almost everyone I know that grew up the way I did, have stories like this about the guys who taught them. They were the caretakers of our life-style, but it seems like we are somehow forgetting this today. We need to constantly honor the men and women who have made lifetime commitments to living the motorcycle life-style and stop giving a title to every Johnny come lately that throws some dough around and claims he has the key to the great gravy train. Let’s get back to a time where each man is judged on his values and everyone has dues to pay, no matter where they come from. After all, it’s the thing that marks the line in the sand between us and them.

So today when the straights look at me and suppose I’m a tramp, that’s DAMN RIGHT! I am a tramp, but by no accident. I’ve worked night and day to live up to the real meaning of this tag. I’m proud that people like this man and other people in the industry who DO matter have recognized any little part of that effort. Yes, I live a tramp’s life, always have and always will.So the day the trend is over and we go back to being the fringe of society, if that ever happens, I’ll still be here, so will my brothers and so will the men whose lessons we govern our lives with.

To all of them we owe a huge debt of thanks!

Wild Man