American Outlaw - Jesse James [72]
Shifting over to creating entire custom bikes seemed like the next natural step for West Coast Choppers. I didn’t see a future in building fenders and exhaust pipes for the rest of my life. I might be able to make a living at it, but if I limited myself to making parts, then I might as well be a machine. There was probably more money in selling customs, anyway. You involved the buyer in the decision-making process, and then charged him handsomely for the privilege of weighing in on the particulars of the design.
But even more than making a bundle, I was attracted to the idea of the bike as sculpture. Harleys were gorgeous machines, but if you bought them from a dealer, they all looked the same. You plunked down fifteen grand as an expression of your own individual badass nature, and then you lost it in the parking lot among dozens of identical copies.
It didn’t have to be that way. I had ideas for elongated handlebars, dynamic frames, silvered gussets, and chromed-out wheels. We’d capitalize on the momentum we’d generated thus far; our guerrilla advertising and enthusiastic word of mouth would do the rest. It would take a huge amount of effort, dedication, and talent, no doubt. But I was beginning to believe that I might have enough of all three to succeed.
——
As I began to spend more and more time at the shop, Karla was not pleased.
“I never see you anymore,” she said.
“Honey,” I said, “West Coast is at a fragile point. You understand that, right?”
“No. Explain it to me.”
“I just took on two more guys,” I said. “They need my guidance.”
“You just got a pool table in there, too.”
I laughed. “Well, Doyle about rented me the whole place, and we needed to fill a room. Look, can’t I blow off some steam after I get done slaving? You know, I’m working fifteen-hour days.”
“You have a daughter, Jesse. You have responsibilities at home, too.”
“I know,” I said gently. “I will try harder to make time for all of us. I promise.”
But even as I said it, I knew I was lying. The momentum was building for West Coast Choppers, and it was just too damn exciting to be away from there even for a minute. With more employees around to work the hammers, I was freed up to do design work, and I wanted to seize on it.
“What’s that?” Rick said to me, looking over my shoulder in the small office I’d converted into a drawing studio.
“A frame I’m working on,” I said. “See how it’s gonna be all elongated and smooth?”
“You think people will want to ride like that?” asked Rick dubiously, staring at the long, curved backbone and the intricate piping I’d drawn.
“I don’t know,” I said calmly. “I guess we better build one and find out.”
I slaved over the shop jig, welding the tubes for a week, failing at the work, frustrated, then coming back time and time again to correct it. Finally the piece was born: a complicated but ultimately very functional elongated custom frame that would hopefully serve as a structural base for a beautiful motorcycle.
“I’m going to patent this,” I told Rick proudly. “My CFL frame.”
“How’s that?”
“Choppers for Life.”
Slowly, I was becoming better at my craft. Projects I’d seen as overly complex or simply too intimidating seemed wholly within the realm of possibility. Hell, I might as well try, right? I spent a full fourteen-hour day attempting to handcraft a gas tank out of aluminum sheeting. I hand-pounded the metal, softening it, shaping it, coaxing it underneath the foot-tensioned planishing hammer. Back and forth, back and forth, I ran the metal, until it was butter-soft and shining. I welded the partitions together, coaxing shape, form, and function out of what had previously been dull and flat.
I can’t believe this! I laughed to myself, when I was done. It actually worked!
It was addictive. I wanted to do it all the time. Thinking back to the years I’d spent running around with rock bands, knocking people’s teeth out, I could hardly believe I’d been that person. This was so much more fulfilling. It was a completely encapsulating existence, creative while still being badass, and littered