Bandit,

I was very proud when you nominated me as the meanest man in the motorcycle industry but unfortunately, I am going to have to relinquish the title. My demise started early in the week. I had an urgent request from Custom Chrome to design a tread pattern for a new tire. They wanted me to come up with something quick -- just the kind of job I like.

I took a tire, sawed it in half and filled the treads with bondo. At the time I was in the middle of a big tank project for the engineer at work, who needed it to check out one of his projects. The fit was for a 2000 Softail, which sat in my shop tankless. I needed a break from it, so while the bondo was setting, I put it back together so I could ride it down to Custom Chrome. I put on more bondo, finished the bike, filed the tire, added more bondo to get the shape, did another job I have been meaning to do, more bondo, more filing and lots of little jobs in between. I intended to get the tire smooth like a slick and paint the required tread on it so from a distance it looked like the real thing. I smoothed it, prepped it, painted, did a shitload of stuff in between coats, including a repair on my hydraulic rolling road Dyno, which was sitting outside my shop. I had a snooze and did more work. This went on all night. I am too old for this, but I could see the job coming together and I was pumped. I finished about 5 a.m. and was surprised how good it was. I decided to screw it on a stand for my presentation. Boy were they going to be pleased. I made the base and as I pulled the side of the tire out to go over it, all the bits of bondo that I had taken all night to smooth and paint shot out of the treads like 100 ice cubes. I was left with half a stock tire again, but now it had splotches of paint on it. The door of the shop opened. Genny had just gotten up and made a cup of tea. She gets pissed when I stay up all night. "What the hell is the matter with you? You’re going to kill yourself. What have you been doing all night?" Nothing, I told her. She split. What a waste of time, all night for nothing. Anyway, I wanted to get this new bike I am working on (it’s a butt-ugly touring bike with a very radical front end) on the Dyno so I could load the rear wheel and watch the chain (the swing arm is extended 6 inches) but it was a weird angle from the shop and I had to hit it hard to bounce over the roller. I warmed it in the shop, put it in gear, flew out of the shop and hung the back wheel out to line up with the ramp. (The Dyno was still on blocks, so it was about 3 feet high, and it was a long steel ramp.) I hit it dead square, gunned the motor and the front wheel jumped over the roller. The ramp was damp with dew. The rear wheel spun, I bounced down to give it weight and it flew out sideways. It went off the ramp, flipped me highside and ended up hanging nearly upside down from the Dyno. What a shit. I had to get a long metal pole to get it upright again. I nearly gave myself a hernia.

Fuck it, I needed to get the Softail to the engineer. I felt like freezing my ass off so I closed up shop and rode down to CCI. It started raining, so not only was I cold, I was wet as well. The engineer came out, looked underneath the engine, stood up, and said, "So that’s what it does" and walked off. I was amazed. "How long will you need the Softail?" I asked. "I’m finished,” he said. I started to feel what little blood I had in my lips drain.

Another engineer started chewing my ass because he had drawn one of my prototypes ready for production and they’d had a rapid prototype made to check the shape. He was pissed off at me because the part that was the same shape as his drawing didn’t look like my prototype he was supposed to be copying. I walked off shaking my head and bumped into an upper management guy who will remain nameless because he is a friend of mine (Steve Fisk). We chewed the shit for a while. "What are you working on now?" he asked. "I have been working on the tread pattern for the new tire," I said. "That gas tank is your priority," he said. Translated, that means stop dicking around with the tire, stop riding around all day on company bikes and get some work done.

Now the point.

I did not change my expression, I did not defend myself, I just stood there like a big old limey pussy. No snarling, threats, smart assing, shouting, sarcasm, nothing. I didn’t even feel any emotion. I fired up the bike, went and had breakfast, which is rare for me, went home, sat in the hot tub for an hour contemplating my navel, watched motorcycle racing on television and worked on my own stuff all day.

What a let down. Remember the old days? I feel desperately ashamed. I know if it gets out, a lot of people will think I have let them down. They may expect me to start acting my age. Now I am tamed. I have tried to pretend it never happened but I can’t keep it in any more.

Later,

John (Pussy) Reed

P.S. The next day, Jim Fueling called in with his three-cylinder and let me have a ride. It goes like a raped ape. I rode it hard, scared myself a couple of times, but was amazed how smooth and powerful it was.

P.P.S. I have a neat personal project putting a 100 cubic inch Revtech motor and a 6-speed transmission in a street luge.

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