Houdini Custom Designs

HOUDINI CHRONICLES: To the best of what’s left of my memory…

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 17:06:02 +0000

To the best of what’s left of my memory, Houdini rolled into town sometime in the early to mid seventies. He was dead broke. With no job and no place to live he was drifting around on his 1950 FLH panhead. I think that he was trying to score house painting jobs whenever he could. Maybe he had just come in from Meridian, Miss. or even Baton Rouge, La. Anyway, he shows up in Pensacola, Florida. Back then there was this biker bar called “Cacks”. Formerly known as “Jan’s” the place had been bought by a guy that everyone knew as Cack. It was on the west side of town and had become pretty well known in the biker world as a place to party hard and have some very wild times. The locals were a tight knit group. You just didn’t go waltzing into the place and expect to have the red carpet rolled out for you. Houdini ran into a guy named Jerry that he had known in Meridian. Jerry was in Pensacola working for the local wrench… a guy called the Rootman. Root and Cack were buddies so Houdini got to know everybody. When Cack found out that Houdini was an artist, he hired Houdini to paint a bar length mural in “Cack’s”. Houdini was paid in beer and those pre-packaged cheese sandwhiches. As he’s working, Houdini meets a guy called Mikey ( remember that old cereal commercial? ) Mikey checks out Houdini’s work and asks Houdini if he could build him a sho’ nuff show winning scoot… maybe good enough to win at the Rat’s Hole show in Daytona. Houdini said that he could. So that’s how they got started on the bike which was about a “59 pan ( told you my memory was going ). Back in that time most chops were stretched with 3 foot sissy bars, king & queen seats and 12 over wide glides. Houdini got started on a low slung rigid with a low solo seat, flipped front fender on the rear and triangular frame legs. The taillight was recessed and the gas tank was a modified galaxy style. The front end was a Durfee girder that was only about 6 over and a nude 21 rolled up front. It was painted black with red pinstripes and murals front to back. During the time that the bike was being built, Houdini lived with Mikey and also Hammer, the big-hearted bartender form Cack’s. Houdini crashed on her couch… more cheese sandwhiches. A lot of the finish work on the bike was done at a small custom shop called “Fantascene” which was owned by Reed Stephens. Reed didn’t ride but he loved customs and especially good custom paint… and Houdini could paint! Let me add something here. When Mikey asked if Houdini could build the show winner and Houdini said yes, Mikey said “If you can do that then you’ll be a Houdini!” After the bike was built Houdini’s name stuck. That’s the way it was. You were named by your friends. You didn’t just make up some cool biker “handle” to call yourself. Names like Pockets, Big Charlie, Lucky, Fat Bob, Bitchin’ and Fig were all bestowed on those guys. So if you made up your own name, and you know if you did, then get a life. Anyway,so Mikey gets his show bike, Houdini gets his cheese sandwhiches and life is groovy until that day when Mikey shows up at Houdini’s door ( he had his own place by then ) all covered in blood and smelling like gasoline. Houdini looks at him for a few minutes and then asks ” So just how bad is it?” Mikey says that it’s pretty bad and wants to know if it could be rebuilt before the Daytona Rat’s Hole show. Houdini said yeah and it was… but that’s another story

ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL: The Right Place at the Right Time

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 17:02:41 +0000

A few years back, in the mid to late 70′s, a big group of us would occasionally ride out 25 1/2 miles to the Blackwater River, set up camp and party for days. At times there could be more than 50 bikes form the surrounding areas out there. People would bring big tents, coolers, grills, cots and a change of clothes. Others, like me, would tie beer, hot dogs and a sleeping bag to their sissy bar and go. We had this favorite secluded spot on the river with a high bank on one side and a white sandy beach on the other. The parties were more fun than I can possibly relate. Guys would fire weapons at flotsam in the water, girls would dance at 9 a.m. ( they never went to sleep the night before ), drunks would fall from the high bank into the river and the trees would rumble from the sound of drag pipes. There was an ebb and flow to the festivites but they never stopped. Occasionally it would become necessary to make a run for more “supplies”. One the second night of one of these parties, Cack decided that he needed to get to town as soon as possible to “get his bike”. I don’t know how he got out there without it. He was going to borrow Root’s 750 Honda to go back into town. He asked me to ride with him so that I could bring the honda back to Root. Mikey decided to ride along with us. Now remember that this was the second night of a very heavy party and we were a bit buzzed ( isn’t that when you make your best decisions? ). Anyway, off we go… out of the woods… onto highway 10… and finally back out onto the interstate. The night was warm and clear and the highways were near vacant. I noticed that Cack began that tell tale nod. Just a little at first until it looked as if he were nodding a giant “yes” to some invisible little gremlin on the gas tank. Then he just laid his face on the tank, dropped his arms to both sides of the bike and went to sleep. I reached over him, grabbed the handlebars and kept riding. Mikey looked over at us with no expression. He just stared for a few seconds and then looked straight ahead. A few minutes later the honda began to cough and ran out of gas. I pulled in the clutch and coasted onto the side of the road. We got Cack off of the bike, found an empty bottle, drained some gas from Mikey’s panhead and were trying to figure out how to tie Cack to the honda when he appears out of the darkness. “Let’s go”, he says. “I’m awake now”. So off we go again. Mikey and I made it back to the party early the next morning. Cack wasn’t there. I wonder if he nodded out when he finally got to that girl’s house? You know he’ll never tell!

STREET SHOWS: The way we used to do it

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 17:02:25 +0000

Let me tell you about the old bike shows that we used to put on and why they were so much more than they appeared to be. On the surface these old shows looked to be just a bunch of scooter people throwing together a low buck bike show. We used to call them “street shows”. Advertising for a show was the simplest… just a sheet of typing paper or a piece of poster board and a marker would announce the date and place and that place was most often the local bar. We might even put a notice up in the local custom shop. This minimal effort was enough however because the bike scene was very tight “back in the day”. Even just the word of mouth would have drawn quite a crowd back then. So now I’m going to make my first point: there was a togetherness… a community ( no not a freaking village ), a lifestyle.

As the word got around people would show up to help. Somebody would volunteer to play the music for free just to be part of what they knew was going to be a kick ass party. I remember one group called the “Curle Brothers” that could rival Stevie Ray Vaughn! This is my second point: good times and good parties were a big deal.

The reason that we used to call these things street shows is because that on the day of the show people would show up at the bar and fill the sidewalk and street with motorcycles. The street would be blocked off because of the number of bikes parked everywhere. The street was taken over hence the name street show. One show was so big that bikes were across two lanes and the band set up in the median of a four lane road. What permit? The cops didn’t bother anybody. Their attitude was that as long as we weren’t tearing anything up that it was cool. Besides, there were a lot of bikers there… old skool bikers. That’s my third point: unity.

Something that most of the the new bikers of today wouldn’t understand is that in many of these shows there were no trophies. No one thought about them or would give a rat’s ass anyway. Unlike today’s t.v. driven new riders with theirbiker t.v. soap opera drama shows, the old guys truly liked their bikes and they rode them. They didn’t need any heroes or small victories to boost an unsure self esteem. It was all about the bikes, the brothers and the individual stuff each guy did to his scoot. If you liked something about a guy’s bike you told him and he’d tell you all about it and sometimes help you do it too! My fourth point: self assuredness or confidence. Maybe the word manhood describes this. You didn’t have to be told that were better than the next guy because somebody liked your paint or handelbars. Trophies or pictures in magazines did not make you a biker. Your bike was enough. Besides, back the just riding the thing got you plenty of recognition both good and bad.

So ther you have it… a street show. Iwish you could have been there because if you’ve taken the time to read this far the maybe you’d have fit in. Maybe you’d have seen what didn’t show on the surface but what was being lived by the people in that street. This story really doesn’t even begin to explain it.

DOING THE HOOCHIE IN THE HOOCHEE: A crazy dance

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:59:10 +0000

I’m going to tell you part of a story about a friend. I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m just going to call him”PA” I’m also going to start in the middle of PA’s story ’cause to try and tell the whole thing would take too long and I’m sure I’d get a bunch of stuff wrong. So let’s begin with PA sliding 67′ on the pavement because of a left-turner who just happened to be related to the local sherrif’s department. In order to shift blame, the local cops shifted all the blame onto PA by among other things claming that he threatned them. PA was railroaded and if you don’t think that this sort of thing goes on… well… just wake up! So PA gets labeled as a violent & mentally ill offender and off he goes. He ends up in the state mental hospital. The state also orders that he be shot up with all kinds of drugs to control him. In spite of this, PA figures out that this is a much better gig than prison. In the “Hoochee” he gets to wear his street clothes and has a hell of a lot more freedom to roam around. The food is catered by a local deli and gourmet food service. He can get a Pell Grant to finish college. He gets all the ice cream that he wants. PA gained about 20lbs from the good food alone. The shop instructor tells him that he can have his panhead brought in and only he will be alloed to work on it. He can even ride it within the 500 acre fenced-in hospital. After a little while they even stopped shooting all the damned drugs into his veins. Lots of contraband was smuggled in and even brand named licquor was to be had for twice the “outside price”. The library had an incredible music and video collection and he could watch all the first-run movies. But of all this and more the wildest thing was “dance night”. That’s when the “crazy women” were brought over for a little co-mingling and R&R. They were all loaded up on state provided mood elevators and in the mood to party. If you asked for condoms you got them… the state didn’t need any more “crazy babies”. The guys and gals were lonley. “Dance night” was greatly anticipated. When the girls got there they didn’t care about much. Everybody did the hoochie at the Hoochee. So if you’ve got to go away, take PA’s advice; “If ya go, go crazy. Go crazy depressed. Ya get better drugs that way. Don’t go angry ’cause they screw with you too much then but if you’re depressed they try to make it all better. And make sure you don’t skip dance night!!!”

MISSISSIPPI SNOW: Mississippi Snow

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:57:33 +0000

Ever ridden in the cold? I mean really cold. “Hell yeah” you say. Well listen to this story about just that. It’s about a ride that Houdini took through Mississippi the long way… north to south… in the middle of winter. It was one of those cloudy gray days with a light flurry of snow that couldn’t decide wether or not it would stick or just turn to patches of ice on Highway 45 south. The flurries got thick around Meridian. Houdini was wearing all the shirts that he had with him and had struggled to zip up his leather. Just north of Waynesboro the ice that had frozen the zipper on his jacket broke the jacket open. A blast of frozen air shot right through all the flannel shirts underneath along with snowflakes that turned to water and then refroze. When Houdini got to Waynesboro he pulled into a gas station that had been converted into a breakfast/lunch diner. His legs were so cold that he had trouble with the kickstand. He ungloved and wraped his hands around the cylinders. His fingers were still too frozen to manage the D-rings on his flat black helmet and full dark-tinted face shield so he just walked into the “eatery” with wild wind-blown hair and beard that was begining to thaw. There were only two older locals and a waitress in the place. Houdini picked the nearest booth and sat there until his fingers quit stinging enough to get the helmet off. No one said a word. They just stared as if they were expecting him to rob the place or soon be followed by a horde of like beings. It was warm inside but the atmosphere was as cold as the air outside. Well it just so happened that Houdini had retrieved an old leather bound Bible from the trash a week or so before and was attempting to read it cover to cover and this seemed like a good time to get some more reading in. So he reaches through the busted zipper of his leather jacket ( which upset the two locals a little… maybe they thought he really was going to rob the place? ) and pulls out the well-worn Bible and starts to read. In a second or two he’s aware of the waitress standing at the table with a pot of coffe and a smile.”Are ya cold, Honey?” she says. Houdini answers “Yes Mam”. “Well here ya go… this’ll help” she says as she pours a cup of black coffe and slids a small plate of biscuts and gravy onto the table. “Where ya goin?” she asks. “Heading to Florida” Houdini replies and the waitress says to be real careful and have a safe trip. She wouldn’t give him a ticket for the food so Houdini just left a Five under the plate and said thanks. He gears up and goes out to fire up the panhead. Back on the two-lane highway to Citronel, Alabama the air temp seemed to rise about 10 degrees and there was no hint of ice or snow and once he got into Florida even his shirts dried out. Is there a moral or some kind of lesson in this story? I’m sure there is. You figure it out.

RACOON EYES: Racoon eyes & six beers

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:56:25 +0000

I hate to ride in the rain. Light rain, heavy rain, misty rain, whatever, I don’t care. I hate to ride in the rain. Of the six major crashes that I’ve had, half have been in the rain. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t because the pavement was wet. They were because someone else did something stupid while the pavement was wet. That having been said, let me tell you a short story about Houdini’s ride in the rain to his 10 year high school reunion. It was the month of June in 1979 when he decided that it might be fun to attend his reunion. In the very least it would be a good long ride with much of it on Mississippi back roads and the rest on the Interstate. He looked forward to seeing some of his old friends and see which of the girls had gotten fat and which ones had filled out. So off he goes on a hot summer morning in Florida heading north and west. In about an hour it became overcast and started to spit out a few drops of rain… the big intermittent drops that let you know that the fun is about to begin. If you’ve ever been in a Florida downpour then I don’t have to explain. If you haven’t let me tell you that the cars pull to the side with their emergency flashers going and hope no one hits them because they can’t see to drive. Even their wipers are ineffective. Houdini is heading to Alabama from the panhandle when the big stuff hits. You couldn’t see a thing and the rain beat the hell out of his face and hands. Pulling over and standing in the rain didn’t make much sense so he kept on going. A big rig flew by in the left lane splashing a momentary dry patch behind its tires. Houdini twisted the throttle and slipped in tight behind the big truck keeping his tires in the drier pavement behind the big truck tires. “Just hope he doesn’t have to pull an emergency stop” he thought. While this kept his tires on drier ground, it put his face directly into the spray so he rode with his chin on his tank trying to dodge the horizontal waterfall. After a while they went under an overpass so Houdini pulled over and rode back to it.Even his wallet was soaked through. He waited for a break in the weather and hit the rode again. He turned north on Alabama 65 and the hopped over to Mississippi 45 north. The wet riding had put him behind his schedule so by the time he made it to his “hometown” and the reunion it was in full swing. Everyone was dressed in their best. Houdini’s face was a dirty dark gray from the oil and water that the truck had washed him with… that is except for where his goggles had been. He looked like some crazy reverse racoon. Not fitting in to well, ( you don’t get to many dressed up women to hug you when you are that dirty ) he went off and bought a six-pak. His dad was closing up the small blue collar restaurant that he owned. Houdini’s dad was his best friend so they shared the six and spent time catching up. The next morning Houdini took off for Florida and of course the weather was great. He’ll tell you to this day that it was worth the ride to tip a few with his best friend… but that he too hates to ride in the rain.

NIGHT RIDE IN THE BLUE LIGHT: Cool blue night ride

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:55:02 +0000

There are a number of times and places that you might say are the best for riding… cool nights, warm nights, bright clear days, magnificent sunrises or sunsets, open spaces or winding roads. It was one of those cool fall nights in Florida. The humidity was low and the roads were vacant. I was on the way home from a balancing act on a barstool in Cack’s bar. As I rolled into the sweeping long curve that runs along the bay seawall I was treated to a beautiful panorama. A large full blue moon was rising behind the 3-mile bridge over the bay and the black water sparkled in the soft blue light. The night was just warm enough to ride with your leather open. You know, it was one of those nights that you wanted to share with someone. I decided to wake up Karyn and take her for a ride. My shovel had no p-pad so Karyn rolled up a towel, put it on the fender, jumped on and said “Let’s go!”. I was just going to shoot across the bay bridge and back for that unobstructed view. We were the only thing on the bridge that night (which was probably because it was about 3a.m.). We were gliding across the bridge enjoying the view and heading toward the speed trap on the other side known as Gulf Breeze. The bay is the boundary line between two counties and the cops on the other side heard us coming. I never intended to ride through “the Breeze” so I cut throught the median after we crossed the bridge and started back the way we came… and the Breeze cops started after us. We never knew that they were there. As I started back across, I rolled the throttle on and the shovel gulped in that cool dry air. When we went across “the hump” in the middle of the bridge, I checked my 6 but the force of the wind had blown my mirror down parallel to the pavement. The blast was also blowing me out of my seat and I had to pull myself down and squeeze the tank sides with my knees to back out of the throttle. We left the cops back in their county and never knew it. They radioed ahead and there was another cop on the other side. As we neared the other side we were greated by blue lights but not those from that beautiful moon. I coasted into a parking lot, shut the bike down,stood by the front wheel and didn’t say a word. The two young cops must have been impressed by how we left the other cops on the bridge because they just sat in their cruiser and the cop riding shotgun says “Nice bike.”. Well, Karyn says “Damn right it’s a nice bike, but you can’t see it from in the car. Get out! Check out the paint and he built the thing by himself.”. She gets the cops out and is giving them a tour when the shift sergeant shows up to see what was going on. The young cops give me a $15 ticket(not bad for 60 mph over and a possible d.u.i.). It’s a damn good thing that I picked Karyn up. That night my shovel was running strong… but the strongest thing running in the blue light that night was a tight butt, a little waist, an open jacket with a tank top and some long black hair.

DING!: Kenny rings my bell

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:54:00 +0000

If you look in the “friends” gallery (or maybe it’s in the “old school” gallery) you’ll find some pictures of Ken Baby. There are a lot of stories that can be told about the Ken Baby and believe me not all of them can be told here. I mean that some of them are not suitable for your tender ears. One that I can tell happened back when he had come to Pensacola from Texas. Kenny was a boxer and was ranked #10 in the state of Texas at the time. He was in pretty good shape and wanted to continue fighting in Florida. He needed a sparring and workout partner. I was working out at the time so in a moment of brilliance I voluntered. We worked out, ran and sparred and got ourselves in pretty fair condition… at least for boxing… but not for drinking. In fact, we didn’t drink at all. In another moment of brilliance we decided to break training and have a couple of beers. So we did. We each had two. That’s all it took. Then we decided to go back to Kenny’s where we had a ring set up and go a few rounds. After we slipped on the gloves and climbed into the ring I looked at Kenny, held my hands out to my side and asked, “Who’s gonna ring the bell?” That’s when Kenny fired a straight right into my left eye and laughingly yelled “DING!”. The shot was solid enough to immediately close my eye. He followed with a rapid fire series of left and rights while I covered up and tried to shake off the effects of having my bell rung. Kenny was throwing left-right-left-right-left-rights in a steady stream. I waited until I felt a shot to the right side of my head. Then I dropped my left shoulder and threw my favorite punch: a digging left hook to the body. At the time I could throw that punch with enough power to stop a wildly swinging 90lb heavy bag and leave a deep fist-sized depression in the bag. The shot caught Kenny under the ribs on his right side and with the combination of his being on his toes and the two beers, he began that sideways stumble to his left. When he hit the ropes he somersaulted right out of the ring and right onto his father. We didn’t know it but his dad had decided to catch a little sack time in our “gym” (the ring was set up in his father’s building that was used to house his construction equipment). Did I forget to mention that it was a little after 2am. His dad was a little pissed off at being disturbed and came in to see what all the commotion was about. When I saw, with one eye, what had happened I took off. Later we had a pretty good laugh about the whole thing. Have you ever tried to ride your scooter using only one eye? Mine didn’t open for a week.

HOW KEN BABY GOT HIS NAME: Baby Face

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:53:15 +0000

Anybody old enough to remember the t.v. series “Then Came Bronson” will get an idea of the time frame for this tale. Ken and his best friend Chuck would sit with eyes glued to the television as the scene that they had committed to memory played out on the screen before them. A Sportster rolls up to a red light and stops. The rider is wearing a wool knit cap, sunglasses and has a sleeping bag on his sissy bar. A man in a car next to him looks haggard and sweaty. The man asks the rider “Takin’ a trip?” to which the rider replies “What’s that?”. Again the man in the cage asks “Say, you takin’ a trip?”. “Yea” says the rider. “Where ya headin’”asks the man. The rider replies “Oh, I don’t know. Where ever I end up I guess”. The man in the car says to the rider ” Man! I wish I was you!”. So the rider says “Really? Well, You hang in there.” The red light changes to green and the rider takes off down the road to the sounds of the theme song “Long Lonesome Highway” as the man in the car looks on wishing he were on that Sporty and Ken and Chuck sat in front of the t.v. and sang along. Chuck would eventually grow out of it… Ken would not. As he would leave high school on his way to work at a gas station (they were full service back then), Ken would pass by a chopper shop called “Rootman’s Choppers”. Ken would look over a think that one day he’d go there and check out some of those bikes. Then the day came. He had saved his money. He had the courage. He went to the chopper shop. When Ken walked into the shop, Rootman was behind the counter. Root was big, burly, bearded and had long black hair. He said to Ken “How can I help you?” Ken slammed his money onto the counter and said” Here’s $800 worth of crap that Ive taken off of people while pumping their gas! I want a bike!” Well that struck Rootman as so hilariously funny that he could not stop laughing. When he was able to catch his breath he told Ken that he knew where there was a ’56 pan that could be had and that most of it was probably there. Root said to come back the next day and that they would go and get it. The, almost as an afterthought, he asked “What’s your name?” Ken replied “Ken… Ken boutwell”. “Well” says Root “Everyone around here goes by nicknames. There’s Spiderman, Lucky, Brass, ‘Rilla, Fat Bob”. He looks over at some of the guys in the shop and says “Look at this kid… What a baby face. That’s what we’ll call him: Ken Baby!” That name has been with him still to this day. You see, when your buddies give you your nickname then it has real meaning. When you name yourself… it’s just egotistical bullshit. WAC

PAST TWO AND REAL COLD: Root’s Rocket Ride

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 16:52:41 +0000

This will be a quick story that will probably only be funny to those who actually ride. There were three of us that had closed the bar down. It was a little past two a.m. It was cold. I mean it was real cold… somewhere below freezing. Rootman was riding a Honda 750 that night. I was on my pan. I can’t remember who was with me but I think they were on a shovel. We hadn’t even tried to kick the Harleys and their semi-frozen 50 weight to life. We were just sort of jumping around with our hands in our jacket pockets trying to warm ourselves up first. Root had the luxury of the button kicker ( electric starter ) so he fired the Honda up. As cold as it was the bike revved up high. Root straddled the Honda, kicked up the side stand and got ready to take off. It seemed that as soon as he dropped the bike into first gear the thing shot off like a rocket still revved up high. It hopped off the curb and went straight across two traffic lanes. It was a good thing that it was so late because there were no cars. The bike hit the median on the other side and it and Root went over the front wheel. Root was so bundled up that he just rolled. We weren’t worried about him. He had on so many layers that he was thicker than a hibernating bear. The whole thing happened so quickly that it was over before we had a chance to react… so we just stood there and laughed until the tears froze on our faces. We got Root up and on his way. All that laughing warmed us up a bit so we got started kicking. I don’t recall how many kicks it took to get the pan going but I do remember chuckling to myself as I tried to huddle into my jacket on the way home. Hell yeah it was cold but I wouldn’t have missed that night.