By: Paul Harrington

There are a few men, who to a small group of disenfranchised individuals are considered the “last few greats, the Itcas, if you will.” The ones who came up in the midst of it all, putting in their time so the rest of us could enjoy the simple pleasures of things like a throwback Bates seat, an original non S&S over-bored Panhead engine, or simply a wild night off the main roads wielding our two wheeled mayhem machines into the dark in no specific direction.

Taking their licks for being who they were… and giving them, too. Whether it be a prick cop name Serno in upstate New York, or a guy building a custom motorcycle during the glory days with his wallet instead of his hands. It made no difference to them. They were after it for the right reasons and nothing and no one got in their way.

It is because of their commitment that the new generation of garage builders has something to aspire towards in an ever rising sea of homogony. For them, it wasn’t just about rebellion and hav-ing a good time. Mind you, that was all part of it, a byproduct really, but there was something deeper, a soul-tie to the single common denominator of this small group of rousers which the current garage builder movement is bound to: The uninterruptable love of speed and the pursuit of freedom. In that order.

These were their sins and their only way to redemption was to build a church, a religion, one revolving around these practices with the ticking of each valve, and the crack of the exhaust with each thump of the piston towards the head. Call it justification, call it personal vindication, whatever- in the end it was for them and because of that, it worked. They were the ones who went to any length to go a little faster no matter the cost or repercussions. For this group of worshipers at the altar of speed, there simply was nothing else.

Reverend Jim Goodrich, a corner-stone of that church, through which that fanatical manifestation of speed lives and breathes today, sees to it that the coveted verses of their word is both kept sacred and passed on to those deserving of its direction.

Like the smell of your Grandfather’s pipe, or the sound of your Dad’s Chevelle when you were a naive little child, like some chance meetings- the impres-sions never leave your mind. Meeting Rev. Jim for the first time leaves such an impression.

It was at the Bike Builders invitational in Tampa, FL. I was doing a piece on “The suicide of the American Dream and fat-tired choppers.” As the event opens Reverend Jim takes his place at the altar of “The First Church of The Ape Hangers” and passes judgments on the flock. During this time of cleansing, I was fortunate enough to overhear Rev. Jim talking with one such member about entering his trusty steed, a gorgeous completely hand-built Honda 450 café racer.

After some close inspection of my own I could honestly say, this piece of ma-chinery was the real deal, something you would see back in the 70’s running from the cops on a Saturday night with some wild-eyed jockey piloting it excessively around sharp corners, avoiding cars and old ladies with nothing but a pudding bowl on his head and a smile on his face. The owner was confessing that he was late because his buddies’ bike broke down on the way to the event and that they vowed never to leave a man behind. It was only after realizing the issues were terminal that his good friend waved him off to stare the world of indifference in the face with his gorgeous hand built Honda steed. None-the-less, he still missed check-in.

“Nice story, too bad your buddy broke down. I still can’t let you in. Rules are rules and without order in the church the entire congregation would be led astray, my son.”

I think I heard Rev Jim say…

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“ What a waste of a qual-ity example.” I thought to myself.

The shattered contestant threw up his hands in a fit of frustration and walked off. Leaving his alluring creation parked right in front of the revival tent. As a big “eff-you” to every other bike that was getting judged, no doubt.

While cautiously watching a couple of legit 1%ers digging on an old Shovelhead Bobber, I noticed Rev. Jim had made his way back over to the Honda and found himself, I would imagine, somewhat gone by what he saw. You could see the affected eye of an aficionado recognizing the commitment and talent of dedicated follower of the doctrine.

After what must have been an internal “come to Jesus” with himself, he found and approached the builder and simply said; “Hey, listen..pay the $20 bucks and here’s your entry ticket. I’d hang around.”

And just like all the legitimacy in Washington on the 76’ political campaign trail, he was gone. One would wager, were he a betting man, that it takes a preacher who knows when to break the rules to save the masses from their hubris. And the gods of vintage aesthetic have their way and as such- it turns out, that Honda 450 took “Best In Show” in the event.

Given the opportunity over time and some interesting situations, I was fortunate enough to get to know Rev. Jim a little better and I must say that despite what some peo-ple say, he’s not a jerk. Now, don’t think for a second that he wouldn’t tell some wanna-be punk-ass biker with a few bolt on parts and a cool ¾ metal-flake helmet that his ride isn’t worth a two dollar raffle ticket, because he will. But, only for the chance that he’ll spur

the notion of creativity and forward thought in the poor sap.

“It’s for his own good.” He’d say, with a smirk. You see, that’s the thing about Rev. Jim. He’s always working, tending to his sheep. Even when they don’t know they’re in his flock.

I am rather certain, had we more individuals who stood up for what was right instead of what was in vogue, or profitable, that we wouldn’t be in a ever-green latte infused wonder-fuck of culture confusion when it comes to motorcycles and what it’s really supposed to be about.

Building a machine that satisfies your own personal interests, not that of the masses and pop culture. That is.

In addition to being able to crush a man with the sheer weight of his words Rev. Jim is, on the other side, one of the most selfless individuals one will ever cross. A titan among men, he will go above and beyond to help learned and upcoming builders chase their dreams lending both resources and

knowledge when needed and warranted. And I’m not talking about calling in a favor to get a discount on parts from Custom Chrome or some free stickers from Easy Riders.

To understand the how and why you must see, The Good Reverend is from a dif-ferent time. A time when men helped one another for no reason other than to do just that, help someone. A selfless act of human nature that has so long been lost …

Back then, men made things with their own hands, in their image and didn’t give a damn about anything else. And like a true purveyor of history Rev Jim will invest the effort to nurture talent in the hopes of preserving the sanctity of what it is to be a custom motorcycle builder. So long as you earn it…

I am not quite sure if it’s out of the innate desire to err in the face of conven-tionalism, pure genius or Lord Help us, a calculated combination of both, but he’s been creating a following for 50+ years. Oh the poor squares, suffering the rumble of v-twin iron and skin deep art while his devout followers ebb and flow through the streets of modern watered down self serv-ing America.

A few blocks from the main street in that same forsaken sliver of Americana, in a quiet non-descript workshop not much larger than a two car garage, Rev. Jim has, is and will continue to produce some of the most prodigious custom motorcycles and parts our misrepresented generations will ever set eyes upon. An almost raven-ous array of detail is stretched beyond the limits of comprehension with everything he produces.

There simply is no middle ground; it’s the best and by his hands or nothing else. Should it be a one-off hub, custom sprocket or every single nut and bolt (yes, every sin-gle one was made by hand) on his current Shovelhead bobber project he practices his systems of belief with the vigilance of the head of the Vatican, seeking truth and direction for its culture by example.

Watching The Good Reverend exercise his faith is nothing short of a revival. As a now devout follower myself, I assisted him one evening in hand turning a brass kick pedal for a close friend. While I sat quietly; watching and learning I felt like a child comprehending how to walk for the first time.

With a persuasive and exacting preci-sion he loaded the brass into the lathe and began taking measurements with a micrometer, doing calculations in his head with ease, like a man of faith simply recit-ing the gospel from memory. And with the final tick of the scribe he moved to a more

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devoted presentation and commented “this will be our centerline.”

“ You have to have a centerline. No matter what you’re doing. If you don’t there’s no way to measure things or be accurate.” He told me with great fortitude.

“Funny.” I thought to myself. Maybe this is where we as a culture went wrong. We worked hard, made some money, got careless and said “ You know what, we don’t need to take the time to measure that centerline. We’ll just pay someone else to do it and trust that they’ll do a good job.”

Dig it.As I watched man, machine and

metal meld in perfect harmony it oc-curred to me that Reverend Jim, like a handful of others, is a dying breed. The age old art of crafting by hand because one truly believes that is the right way is fading fast, just like legitimacy, real Rock and Roll and the right to be ourselves.

The Great American Landscape is being stripped of all that made it pure and righteous. It is the next garage builder generations responsibility to take care in preserving the reality that is the true custom motorcycle lifestyle. Not the flimsy paged, fancy painted, fat tired magazine stand “satire” that has overwhelmed the masses.

Reverend Jim may be a strong man of faith, but the weight on his soul is far too much for one man to bear alone.

…and the masses stand-up in unison following their own righteous paths, which converge as one. All for but a lasting moment in time; that is what is required for the garage builder movement to secure the fate of their precious religion.

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