Editor’s note: We all find two-wheeled piles of junk online and in the newspaper. It is usually a fruitless affair, yet sometimes that trash we search through actually turns out to be treasure. Such is the case with Mr. Jackson’s Shovelhead. The man has been through hell and back with this bike, and we are glad he still is among the living to regale us with the short, but sweet tale of how this motorcycle came to be his.

Thirty years ago, my old man sat me down at a booth in Tiny Nailor’s; a mid-century diner where each table had its own toaster and the waitresses owned stock in Aqua Net. He decided it was time to school me on what it takes to be a man. As I pulled from my chocolate malt, he rambled on about responsibilities, hard work, and all that bullshit. The only thing I really remember about that conversation was this, he said, “Kiddo, I don’t care if you decide to be a trash collector or a train robber, just be the best damn train robber this world has ever seen.” Then he went to use the pay phone and left me with the bill. Those words stuck with me for years, and I tried and tried to figure out how I would ever live up to such high expectations. I might have misunderstood what he was trying to tell me, looking back on it now, but all I really heard was, “You’re gonna be the best damn train robber ever.” I had no experience with train robberies up to that point, it’s not like he gave me any pointers, and it didn’t seem like it was a very popular crime in the ’80s. Why couldn’t I be a coke dealer or a bank robber at least, banks are everywhere and banks got all the money. In 1990, I was 16, the Berlin Wall had just fallen, and I was dead broke. I was living in a roach-infested apartment, dining on chorizo, and Old Milwaukee. My Shovelhead had a dead piston, and my day job was 30 miles away. There would be no more talking my way out of missed shifts. There was a guy I knew. Randy. He lived in a cabin in La Tuna Canyon, and he owed me a favor. He was a tweaker, I guessed. He had Hendersons and Excelsiors parked in his living room, but most of the time his power was shut off. I knew he wouldn’t have any cash to loan me, but I figured he might have a ride for me until I got the Shovel back on the road. Well he did, in his den, next to a stack of newspapers a mile high, was a crusty old Knucklehead. It was in a wishbone frame, with a chrome springer, a Bates seat, and a peanut tank. I stood there for what seemed like an hour taking it all in. “Does it run?” I asked him, to which he replied “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?” I never thought too much about one-legged ducks, but I guess the answer to that would be a big 10-4. It was a stroker, with UL flywheels and an SU carb. He told me the bike had belonged to a brother of his, Jeffro, out of Pacoima, who had to tuck it away when his ol’ lady started taking a hatchet to his belongings. I guess it officially became Randy’s when the aforementioned ol’ lady took a hatchet to Jeffro and then took a header off the freeway overpass. “I can ride this sucker till my bike’s running?” I asked. He laughed. I guess my credit with him wasn’t quite that good. It was for sale, not for rent, and if I wanted it, I was going to have to step it up somehow and in some way. My father’s words rattled in my skull like a muffler bearing on a ’73 Super Beetle. I knew I had to finally become a man and make my old man proud. There was a small container of electronics coming through Union Station on its way to Silicon Valley. I can’t get into any more detail for legal reasons, but I figured it would set me up for a long time and get my skinny ass in that crusty old Bates seat. I needed a partner just like Butch and Sundance, so my friend, Chuey, put down his crack pipe long enough for us to hatch a scheme. Long story short, things didn’t go exactly as planned. At the end of the day, we had scored a case of penicillin and a wristwatch. We managed to unload the medicine for 60 bucks on the black market, I threw the watch in my sock drawer, and that’s where it sat for the next few months. See, Chuey had pinned the robbery on me when he got busted for possession. I never did any hard time, which is good because I was too good looking if you know what I mean. Taking my age into account, and no prior felonies, and considering overcrowding in the Filbert St. Juvenile facility, I ended up with five years probation and a slap on the wrist.

There is something about the South Bay style of choppers. The style revolves around rigid choppers with decent rake, some upstretch, long, skinny springers, American Racing 12-spoke magnesium wheels, and dual-strut sissybars. Many of my favorite bikes, including Dick Allen’s Locomotion and Joe Hurst’s White Bear, are good examples of the style.

I never knew I was going to be building bikes for a living, but here I am. It all started when I was six years old; I received my first model car and loved it. I have built models all my life, and still do. When I was about 10 my older brothers were always in the garage, building hot rods with their friends. I would be building and painting bicycles next to them, trying to fit in any chance I got. I was also always drawing and when I was about 13 I picked up my first pinstriping brush and loved it. By then everything in the house was pinstriped. Let’s just say my mom did not like that at all. At 16 I got my first car; a ’62 Chevy Impala, which was given to me by my dad and brother. I really wanted a motorbike but wasn’t allowed. I stuck to cars and after high school I got a job at a restoration shop and worked there for two years restoring old muscle cars. After leaving there, I bounced around to a couple different body shops. When I was about 20 years old, I found myself working at a top-notch restoration shop painting high-end cars like Ferraris, Lambos, and Rolls Royces.

The worst part about going to Sweden was realizing I’m a kook on at least two continents. I did have the best time ever there being the lamest dude in the room, so I have that going for me. The Swedes are so nice and way cooler than us Americanskis. Though the people are cool, the bikes are another story all together. They are just so clean in Sweden.

Back in May of 1972, Eric C. Stark, a.k.a. Gore of Wellsville, New York, scored a ’59 Panhead for $750. With another $1,500 and five years of time, he transformed this stocker into an homage to Ozzy and company. Starting with the frame, Gore raked the neck 5/8 inch, stretched the front triangle by a foot, and molded the holy hell out of it. Up front he used the stock glide frontend and extended it 12 inches for that proper ’70s rake. The bike ran a set of 16- and 21-inch wheels with Pirelli tires. The engine was rebuilt with a Sifton 412 cam, alloy pushrods, and spring collars, as well as 0.070-over pistons and a Bendix carb. Rono of Buffalo, New York, painted the bike in black lacquer and added the graphics. Everything else that wasn’t painted or covered in leather got treated to some triple-dipped show chrome. With a theme bike possessing as much technical ecstasy as Gore’s, we at Street Chopper are sure Tony Iommi would have lopped off another finger just to take a spin on this sweet machine. STC

It’s a fact that most custom motorcycles we love are race inspired directly from the drag strip, dirt track, road race or even the old-timey board track. Many of these influences can be seen in the bikes that fill the pages of this magazine. Some very evident and others are subtle. In the case of Len Higa’s 1975 Honda CB400 Four, grand prix race bikes from half a century ago come back to life through his busy hands.

From our neighbors to the north, they sent a machine magician: Del Uschenko from Delmo’s Speed and Kustom. Known mostly for his hot rods, a rich racing history, and amazing metal fabrication, Del crosses bridges daily, pushing his own envelope. This Cone-Knuck of his is no different. What can I say? The metalwork and thought put into this bike is flawless. It looks like it was born from the early days of board track racing, but actually this bike started as a throw-in on a deal for his wife. Del has always owned and built rods, and his wife had her keen eye on a ’63 Chevy Biscayne his buddy had. His buddy had his eye on Del’s ’36 Ford five-window, so a trade was in the works. When the day came to trade, Del spied a two-wheeled machine tucked away in a corner in his buddy’s shop. Before the final grease of the palms hit, Del made his bud throw in the bike to sweeten the pot. Yeah, if I was trading a ’36 Ford for a car for my wife, I’d have to get a little something for myself too. With the keys to the Biscayne in hand and the bike in tow, they split back to his shop in the Great White North. Once the bike was in Del’s shop, his friend Pete Burke changed up the stance of the frame and started a whole new mockup. Del spent the remaining time he had in Canada, mounting tanks and whatnot, getting all the parts together on it before he moved to Cali later that year. Once firmly planted in the USA with much work to do on four-wheeled projects, Del left the bike on the back burner for a spell. After a year or so, Del ran into his friend from Manitoba who had a shop called Cycle Boys, and he offered to pick up the bike and get it going for him. Del had seen Cycle Boys’ stuff and was stoked they wanted to take on the project. The both of them have similar tastes in hot rods, customs, and bikes, so the artistic challenges were in great hands. Del had collected most of the parts they needed and with some eBay help and great advice from Cycle Boys, the bike was done within six months. That’s right, half a year later it was sitting in Cali so he could take it for a rip around the block for some poutine at the local topless breakfast spot.

When opening the newest issue of a favorite chopper magazine, we are used to seeing bikes that are well thought out, tastefully assembled, and ready for action. Those are the bikes we all drool over and mentally dissect while jealously coveting the rare parts, proportions, and paintjobs. Presumably that’s why you are reading this right now. But what about the hack jobs we have all seen on the street, at the bar, or ridden by a friend? You know, those “something is off” and not quite right bikes that rarely make it to print? Paul Breece’s Sportster chop falls into the latter category, but the pictures here tell a different story. Until very recently this bike was just another half-assed death trap. Like Michelangelo freeing David from the slab of fine Italian marble, this chop was just waiting for an artist’s touch.

I had a lot of fun building this bike. The best questions I get are from the “Guy.” You know, the guy who has on all the latest Harley-Davidson gear on. I mean this dude is a walking clothing depot for H-D. He is sporting the latest fashion with the price tags still on with the brand-new chromed-out DeluxeBaggerKingGlide. Those kids of guys all just look at my knuckle and scratch their heads.

Ain’t nobody getting rich building choppers anymore. Sure there are guys who still make a living at it, but gone are the million dollar annual t-shirt sales and $100K turn-key “choppers.” With the collapse of our economy in 2008 along went the days of having a two year backlog of customers who re-fied their houses into oblivion for a boat and a big-buck bike.

I am writing today from a bunker in an undisclosed location in an effort to dissuade you from digging any deeper into the Douche LaRouche Motorcycle Club (DLMC) organization.

If you’re reading this magazine, a name you should know is Mike Scraggs. Otherwise known as M.F.S, he’s one of those guys who has lived through and already done what many young, nostalgic chopper pilots are trying to emulate today.

Sometimes bike projects go as smooth as butter. Every piece fits like a Lego and the paint doesn’t even run! However, sometimes when builds don’t go smooth and easy, they end up better for it in the end. Such is the case with Rob Watt’s ’53 Panhead chopper. Rob bought the original bike in 2006 from his buddy, Carl Gorman, a mechanic at the local H-D dealership in Victoria, British Columbia. When he got it, it was a runner, although a bit of a mishmash of parts. Carl was fairly sure that the engine was stroked, although it ran strong so he never had a reason to pull it apart. It had a beautiful set of stainless side pipes, repop twin-bob tanks, 16-inch wheels front and back, and a horrible overstuffed two-up seat. Almost right away Rob put it through a cosmetic rebuild, bobbing the fender, replacing the twin-bobs with a small sportster tank, and replacing the wide mini-apes with a set of Z-bars. The bike looked good and ran strong. However, after only six months of ownership, on a run up to the Pig’n’Fin bike meet on Vancouver Island, Rob blew the engine. Rob was able to shut it down before it completely drained of oil. Unfortunately, that was the end of the trip for the bike. It went into the chase truck, and Rob figured he would deal with the repair at some point after the weekend.

This Panhead story starts like most traditional chopper projects do. A person with the lust to build a bike similar to something he saw in his youth. Fueled by a fever that sparked by a distant memory of a guy down the street with a loud and shiny bike, there is no mistaking that all of our lives have been altered forever with theses similar recollections.

I’ve known John Edwards for close to two decades now. From what I’ve seen over that time John has always been the kind of guy with an eye for what looks right and a talented car, truck, and bike builder. He’s also one funny dude with a great sense of humor, so when he told me he was going to paint his next Panhead pink, I thought he was shitting me. Well, a few months later while we are sitting at a local bar in his hometown of Garden Grove, California, he shows me a picture of his sheetmetal fresh out of his Olde Tyme Custom Paint booth and damn if it wasn’t the sweetest shade of pink I have ever seen laid on two wheels.

Even from my home in Italy the American spirit and tradition, together with the whole ‘60s culture, have always inspired my life. So much so that when I opened the doors to my shop Chop Works I have been living that life ever since.

The “Jerry’s Kid” Shovel you see here started with a call from a guy wanting a radical bike built on a not-so-radical budget. Months before, he had been majorly soaked by some other shop to the tune of way-too-much cash on one of those silly fat-tire, way-too-much-stretch, catalog-style jams and had recently unloaded that made-for-TV piece of shit.

Back in the winter of ’73 Elek Benedek from Nassau City, California, built this 1971 Sportster that featured a 38-degree raked SCE rigid frame with 6-inch stretch. Up front Elek used a 6-inch-over narrow glide, with a 21-inch wheel with Halcraft disc. The engine was ported, polished, and bored out to 1,000cc along with the addition of a Mikuni carb, Barnett clutch, and Sifton cam. Longtime Street Chopper staff member Paul Walker photographed this blue two-wheeled beauty and had a sweetie of a model, who is now in her late 60s, join in on some fun in the sun. STC

Out in Lakewood, Ohio, is a little place by the name of The Gas Box. Since 2009, Jesse Bassett, proprietor of The Gas Box, has specialized in custom fabrication and vintage motorcycles of all makes and models. Having built some nice British bikes, Jesse wanted to build a Harley-Davidson Big Twin, and when a customer by the name of Greg Christian came knocking, a Shovelhead build was next on the list.

Leisure suits. The Bee Gees. Pintos, Gremlins, and Pacers. Yeah, in a lot of ways, the ’70s sucked. Hard. But the ’70s also gave us some serious coolness, especially in the motorcycle department. So, four years ago when Scot Schneider set out to build his latest creation, he had one thing in mind—a loving tribute to the beautiful scoots from what many consider the Golden Age of the Chopper: the 1970s.

Earlier this year I vacated my former place of residence and was for the first time in three decades completely garage-less. It didn’t bother me at first because I have access to our company’s tech center for working on bikes. Believe me when I say that it is outfitted with just about anything needed to fabricate a chopper from the ground up, but it has more of a clean-room feel and less of a place in which to get down and dirty. Don’t get me wrong, having a white-walled wonderland in which to wrench is a very good thing and it allows me to get much work done.

At practically any underground biker brodown you can think of, Tyler Malinky is easy to spot. Just look for the 7-foot blonde cat with the neck tats and piercing blue eyes bobbing through a sea of greasy trucker hats and black T-shirts. As the founder of Lowbrow Customs, it’s Tyler’s job to make an impression at these events. If this brainy entrepreneur from Ohio were the average chopper hooligan, that might mean tackling one of his customers to the ground or lighting his hair on fire. Fortunately, Tyler is smarter than that. Instead of making a scene, Tyler works hard to make a difference. That difference is apparent to the thousands of garage builders the lanky bikerider’s young company numbers among its happy customers. Join us as two old ball swingers in the modern chopper scene give you an inside peek at Lowbrow Customs.

Some bikes just stick in your head like a lawn dart the first time you see them. There is a crazy Knucklehead chopper from Los Angeles that has had this effect on most anyone that lays eyes on it. Seeing a picture of it is wild, but laying your eyes on it in person is an experience that uses most of your senses—all except touch! You better not put yer greasy, sweaty mitts on this bike, but you can be assured it is smooth as the preverbal baby’s keester. You either love or hate the over-the-top paint, but regardless you can almost taste it, which might be like licking the center of a Gobstopper. The tall chrome upsweeps look like they sound loud even when the bike is sitting still and you get a whiff of the old exhaust smell only a 70-plus-year-old glorified tractor motor can churn out. Touch might be worked in after all because you sure feel different after giving this bike the ol’ once over, twice.