How To Spot a True Original
Written by Ron Morris
Hunter S. Thompson attempted to chronicle the death of the American dream 28 years ago. The book was called Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I love that book). It was representative of the times. The early 70's... peace and love didn't quite pan out the way everybody thought and people started getting arrested and killed for their beliefs.
It was a dismal end to a high wave of possibilities. Vegas represented the antithesis of one generation's (older) view, hoping to change their luck with the pull of a lever. It's a composite of everything cheap and meaningless with no substance, just neon. A hooker in every room, a drink in every hand and lots and lots of empty wallets... 'money for nothing and your chicks for free'.
Thus the jet engine of this screed... everybody nowadays wants to buy their credibility. The ethic of work and even a vague awareness of desire or a passion for something eludes these potted plants. They are truly devoid of a wanton desire to shake the status quo, make society a little nervous, or create a wave of original thought to disturb John Q. Public. 'It's too risky - people might yell at us'. All you can say to that is this generation is a real bag of hammers.
In 1968 the cost of doing business as an individual came with a heavy price tag... pain! In 2007, well let's just say that that particular item (you know, being a true original) has been drastically reduced in price. In fact, I think it now comes with a Happy Meal. But we ain't sunk yet! Read on.
Opening your magazine gave me a major shot of adrenaline; I was hit with the feeling of people who still have a hold of the value of originality. It exhibits that undeniable feel of, we ain't pretty, we ain't gonna bow down to the rampant mediocrity of today's attitudes and styles... no thanks, we're not about the Trail Blazer and the Path Finder. We're the men and women who don't give a shit about your looks or your income. We seek to respect the past and uncover the future. The 'breed apart'. if you will... and I know you do.
So I offer this story and pictures of my brother, Captain Dave, to inspire those diamonds in the rough to always leave their mark; and as for the rest of this disposable generation... fuck 'em... we don't need them.
Champlin, MN 1968...
Richard Nixon's on a holiday in Thailand. The Rolling Stones help implode what's left of peace and love at Altamont; and the peace sign that was so readily flashed at will has slowly turned into a one digit salute.
Now America is Different...
Stuffed in the corner of a cramped garage, connected to a very average house in the middle of 'Nowhere' Minnesota - a couple of true originals try and do manufacture their own parts for something called a chopper. They have to make them for two reasons: they have a passion (vision) and the things they want don't exist. In 1968 there were no brightly-lit, cappuccino-serving Harley shops or free custom part catalogues being handed out while you browsed in the 'Baby Harley' section. Yeah, were looking at a couple of true originals tattooed with the philosophy... if it's not there, make it appear!
Rebel #1, my brother Captain Dave; Rebel #2, Paul... they grew up together working on Paul's parents' potato farm. Up at 3 AM in bed by 8 PM. Hard work for 12 to 13 year old kids... but that was then. Our story now, they're all grown up, 18 to 19 years old. Back then when you had a jones to feed you just worked - no whining, you just did what you had to (an ethic most definitely lost on today's youth).
Weekends were for choppers, girls and field parties. And in '68 choppers meant Chop! My bro spent half his time searching farms and old warehouses from Redwing to Izanti to Mankato to find that one guy who had an old bike he just wanted out of his sight. For some reason my brother could always find crated 1945 Harley basket cases for $50 bucks. Load them up in his '49 Ford with that big ass trunk and back seat - we were on our way back to Champlin, back to the garage! Where the good Captain, along with the occasional drop-in guest star appearance of his riding crew, would begin the amazing transformation of crap to gold. All day, all night, bloody knuckles, broken tools, empty Grain Belt cans and that stinking pile of Swisher Sweet cigar. He chewed them more than he smoked the fuckers.
I mean this guy did the paint, the electrical, the motor... everything. And he dug it - that's the point isn't it? Nobody digs it anymore. The story about the good Capt'n could go on and on, but that's the way it is with true originals, lots of stories and none of them bad.
Here's a quick one to explain my jones - I think my favorite bike that Dave built was this Pan Head '57 with purple Fat Bob tanks, jockey shift with a beer tapper for a handle. It had homemade up-sweep pipes, a flat black too tall sissy bar, a solo seat and no front fender. Breaks... maybe; but it was loud and cool, and I was nine or ten.
Capt'n Dave decided that I should start my riding career! Did I mention the mini ape hangers? He stretched me out to reach everything, kicked it over and showed me the throttle and the foot clutch. "Push down with your foot, shift the beer tap, let the clutch out while giving it gas. Then when it... Blah... Blah..." I can't remember too much because I was so freaked out and excited and jarred and I...I don't know what, but I managed to get to second gear before I realized I didn't know how to steer. He didn't tell me or maybe he did, I can't be sure. I crashed into a field... the bike was OK. I was fucking freaked but I was hooked - and that was freedom. I did not know it at the time, but I do now. Thanks Capt'n. He also did another thing that all those guys did back then, he implanted in me an attitude of, 'You can do it'.
You can't buy that kind of righteousness. You can only earn it. Watching my bro and friends, those fearless few, hurdle through all the weird stuff in the 60's became the moment of moments for me and set the template for all things that would become my future.
You can always spot an original. He or she is the one person that people seem to unconsciously gravitate to and emulate. So to all the future Capt'n Daves - Good luck, you'll need it!