It's interesting, spending time with builders, their latest rides and their lives. Many times recently I've heard, "Motorcycles, cheaper than therapy," and, "Motorcycles are the cure for insanity." There's something about two wheels, like biplanes soaring along the pavement, unobstructed by society's sounds and restrictions. Scotty grew up in Southern California, mostly in Huntington Beach, where Chica resides. He saw the free-spirited biker lifestyle as a nirvana he sought as a major goal in life.

I'm going to shift gears slightly. I'm about to describe riding in Southern California in the '60s as heaven on earth, in one of the best coastal communities mother nature ever bestowed on the human race. So what did we do? We dropped Disneyland in the center of it and surrounded it with concrete and stucco, until nothing was left. Our brothers in Australia currently have paradise on their island. "Don't fuck it up like we did," I tell them.

So back to Scotty, who at 12 years of age, hung out with a new club called the Hessians. "I polished chrome and sanded bondo for Varmit, the prez," Scotty said as he watched the brothers prepare for a bike show.

Back then, open roads were just a couple of blocks away. They could ride the greatest coastline on Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego to Los Angeles. If the cops fucked with them in one town, they could roll into the next berg unencumbered.

Life was simple, with terrific open roads out of town through orange grooves that ran for miles, surrounding old clapboard houses where bikers could raise hell, shoot guns and do burnouts until dawn, without disturbing any citizen's highly sensitive decibel meter. Scotty fell in love with upswept pipes, wild metal flake paint and narrow front ends.

"I still have ten fine classic custom bikes locked in my memory bank," Scotty said. "I still want to build each one. I'll never forget some of your bikes from the early '70s."

Unlike some of us madmen motorcyclists who attached chasing skirts with freedom and pearlescent paint, Scotty fell in love with his high school sweetheart, got hitched, and stayed connected and true for 30 years. He and his, wife Julie, the blond, still a 120-pound SoCal girl, started a family and never stopped. They currently have seven junior Scottys, ranging from the age of 7 to 25, plus a couple of grandkids. Holy shit, that's a clan and he stuck with 'em throughout the terrible teens.

"From 13 to15, they know everything and are rebellious," Scotty told me in his knowingly fatherly manner. "From 15 to 17, they're sullen and won't talk to anyone. Then from 17 to 19, they wake up and discover they don't know shit and maybe you do know something."

He raised the Stopnik clan with a contractor's license, but specialized in major machinery installations in industrial plants, like boilers in the garment district, prison work and installing equipment in machine shops. "I learned bending steel," Scotty said, "and I became experienced at anything metal. Bikes are just metal machines."

Ten years ago, Scotty found an opportunity to realize his dream of building bikes. He stumbled onto Craig's List and bought a '73 FL from a 300-pound member of a Hollywood Boy Band. "The guy played a roll in the Big Fat Greek Wedding movie," Scotty told me. They said it was a show bike, but it was parked along side the Hollywood home under a tarp.

"I just wanted a bike with matching numbers," Scotty said. "As long as it had four gears and the motor ran, I was cool. We got it started, I paid four grand, and I hauled it home."

He immediately tore it down and began to build a mechanically tight rigid rider. He cut off the stern of the FL frame and grafted a Paughco rear section onto it. "I looked for shit that I remembered from the past, like the AEE headlight."

He didn't have much cash, and although he admired painters like Harpoon or Edwards, he found a painted tank on line for $300. He bought it and mounted in on a Triumph, so he could sell it. The painter was cool, so he worked with him, and sent him this tank and fender.

"I didn't have a paint scheme I wanted, just a handful of colors that were cool back in the day." Jaynes Schmidt of Blue Moon Kustoms handled the psycodelic colors.

While the sheet metal flew across the country, Chica built the engine and Scotty looked for strong components that would turn his parts bike into a solid reliable runner, like the Rivera/Primo clutch. "I wanted to build it after one of my ten favorites."

He was ultimately dazzled by the Blue Moon paint, and while he buttoned it up in the family Garage, his youngsters, Taylor, 11, and Samantha, 7, played video games and named the scooter after their fav, Candyland. His older sons Scotty, 23, and Chris "the Turkey," 19, who ride skateboards for Vans and surfboards for Hurley, work on their '64 Pan and triumph choppers.

"It's a rush to ride with my kids or watch them fly down the block toward home," Scotty said. The kids are members of the Cycle Zombies, CZombiesblog.com. His oldest, Jennifer, at 25, already has a family and a husband who flies for Delta. Scotty has a couple of grandkids, Cole, 4, and Jet, 2. The remaining clan includes Jessica, 16, and Catlin, at terrible 13. Hope I didn't leave anyone out.

There you have it. A story that began in 1959 in Huntington Beach and the motorcycle aspect is still unfolding today. He's got to be doing a couple of items right to have a strong family, involved kids, and still hang on to his sanity. Maybe it's riding motorcycles and the dream to build nine more.

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