This is a tough story to tell, perhaps the toughest I've encountered since, well, it happened to me. I won't go there, at least not here. It would take volumes and the summer's coming. I don't want to spread mass depression through out the Biker Universe. Matt and his brother's story is sad enough to make me weak at the knees. Just pondering their personal plights is enough to send cold, sweaty shivers up my spine. I hope you don't mind if I pour a double Jack on the rocks before I venture down this path.

Let's start with the good shit. These two, Matt Kimmel and Isaac Bowser, grew up together in one of those picturesque Southern California communities, where the sun shinned most of the time, the streets were clean and the beach wasn't far away. They both attended parochial schooling at Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa and endured high school at the same prison.

They ventured into Orange Coast College and Matt struggled through Long Beach State and graduated with a degree in finance, then went to work for A.G. Edwards Financial. Isaac stumbled into Vanguard University, while his dad paid the way building custom boats on the coast. He shared his upbringing with a brother and sister. His mother is currently the church accountant. I don't know if his sister is a stripper or not, but his dad wouldn't let him ride, although as a toddler his first words were, "That's a motorcycle Dad."

Matt's dad was an optometrist and mom was a pre-school teacher. He grappled with similar anti-motorcycle controls, but as soon as both men were free, they bought and customized British bikes. Isaac scored a '67 Triumph and Matt a '65 BSA. "I sold mine to finish this bike," Isaac said.

Matt sold his BSA and bought a rigid from Huntington Beach Motorcycle Shop, rode it around town for a while, rattling his spine, then sold it to build this Softail. Both bikes were built out of Matt's garage.

"I'm the creative type," Matt said, "and Isaac gets the job done." Fortunately they both have access to Isaac's dad's shop, which contains a paint booth, end mills, drill press, cutoff saws and welders. "Both were painted with boat paints."

Since they're both first-time builders, they encountered obstacles with wiring issues, ignition failures, and busted rear fender brackets. That was lightweight. Even experienced builders encounter all sorts of dilemmas during the creative process. That's why it's advisable to road test a bike before the paint and chrome process is applied.

Currently, Matt works at Charles Schwab handling the vast Bikernet portfolio, and Isaac has a successful career in outside sales for Pella windows. They're both educated and free, or once were. Here's where the story spirals into the toilet.

Both men were capable of being respectable bikers of the first outlaw order, chasing women and building bikes for years to come. They could have learned the lingo of the streets and how to make shady deals while roaming the countryside breaking hearts and getting laid, but nooo.

Instead Matt got married, which is acceptable. I did it five times. But in the true outlaw spirit, he should have started growing stands of Thai sticks in his back yard, got raided, blamed it on the ol' lady and divorced her while she was doing time.

That's where a big-titted redhead could have come into play, but nooo, he's been married six years and when I ran into him, trying to figure out why all my stocks are worth shit, Kelly, his wife, was pregnant.

That brings us to his better-half brother, Isaac. He watched Matt stumble mercilessly down the isle and get hitched for his mental demise. He would have been better off to take notes, drink heavily and party with bi-sexual strippers for both of them, but he didn't. He witnessed Matt's wife being supportive of his motorcycle efforts and had the audacity to believe the same could befall his biker bones, so he fell in love with Nikki.

"She's got her shit together," Isaac said and Matt nodded in agreement. I stifled the urge to puke, and guzzled another Corona to quell the nausea.

Matt's Kelly hoisted a major red flag warning in the form of triplets, and I thought for sure the tired pillows under Matt's eyes would send a final strident warning to his brother.

"We're going to get married," Isaac said, then explained how he and Nikki were buying a house together.

I couldn't take it anymore. I saw only stucco prison cells, cases of Sam's Club diapers, open roads waiting with hot babes in every state. My head swam with memories of wanton women, drugs, police busts, terrible hangovers, angry husbands, more cops and moving vans. The conversation brought back memories of psycho broads, divorce attorneys, destroyed friendships, break-ins, fights, lost loves, sapinias and warrants.

On the other hand, I was also beginning to think they had the correct impulse in mind. Maybe at 28 and 29 years old they were on the right track. Could it be?

Then my cell phone rang. It was a big, disfigured bill collector hired by my ex-wife. I closed the phone and ducked out the back of the Mexican fish market.

"I'll catch you guys later," I said. "I better move my Shovelhead before she has it towed away."

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