Sometimes life gives us surprises—people who shift our worldview in ways we only recognize later. Pony Boy was one such surprise, a man whose presence left an indelible mark on my life.
I was operating a small independent motorcycle shop in Southern California. This was not a storefront-type business with corny biker T-shirts in the window, or even the type of motorcycle shop you could look up in the phone book. This was a word-of-mouth, invite-only motorcycle shop. Its location would oftentimes change from spot to spot. This particular story takes place in an outdoor storage facility—you know the type: pay by the month, 800 square feet with electricity and a roll-up door. Yeah, that’s where I met a legend.
My first sighting of this salt-of-the-earth Spartan was in that storage lot. He ran the place and spent his lunch breaks working on his 1930 Ford truck. He stood about 6ft tall, 175 lbs. Hair was greased back with a prison fade. Neck thicker than a cinder block, stretching an old faded tank top that was always turned inside out. Remember the Spartan I mentioned earlier? Yeah, he looked like that—only with sun-dried leather skin covered in tattoos, scars on his knuckles, and a pair of golden gloves tattooed on his right arm. Yeah, that’s right; Pony Boy was a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth. Hands had permanently bent fingers from the brawls he’d been in. Pony Boy didn’t only look the part of a grimacing outlaw, but he lived it. Only thing was, he was the kindest guy you could ever imagine—until his favorite sports team lost. But that’s another story. This guy would give you the shirt off his back and the keys to his truck. If he liked you.
Pony had been around the Southern California area his whole life, never left. Dago to the core. His hand-carved leather wallet hung out the back of a pair of Dickies shorts. White socks pulled up over his legs with red-and-white Vans that looked like they’d seen a thousand sunrises—if you know, you know.
His obsession with vintage trucks quickly became a passion for vintage Harley's after we met. We hit it off instantly, like we had known each other since school age. Quickly, my next project was building his first custom motorcycle. He brought me an old, non-running Harley and a picture he’d cut out of an Easyriders magazine—of an old chopper straight from the good ol’ Chopper Days. His voice as serious as ever, says to me, “Turn that - into that,” pointing to the Harley in the shop and the chopper in the picture. So I did. It was perfect for him. And he rode it like he had something to prove. This was his first Harley-Davidson and the bike he would go on to prospect and eventually make full patch in. But that bike didn’t last long; he was abruptly cut off in an intersection and T-boned by a citizen in a cage doing her makeup before work. Typical Southern California city crap. Once that one-of-a-kind custom bike was wadded up like a pretzel, we quickly started his next build: a true So Cal classic club-style Harley-Davidson Dyna. There was no holding back on this bike build; we went full send, making it a screamer. This bike would scoot from 30 mph to 80 in a flash—the flick of the wrist, just a thought, and the bike was off like a horse at the racetrack.
If a stare could tell a story of a thousand words, his was one for the books. It pierced through the toughest situations like a welder’s torch. Cool and calm don’t even begin to describe his demeanor. In his pocket, a straight razor so sharp he dry-shaved with it regularly.
To most, he was fringe, everything your mama warned you about. Well, that’s because he was. His resilience in life showed through in his custom motorcycle. The bike’s ability to withstand the harsh riding style mirrored their shared resilience. His loyalty to family and club was impeccable. A father that many looked up to and admired by most… feared by all else.
His bike sits high and ready to jump curbs, a stallion of forged darkness and rebellion. Not sleek, not chromed to a blinding shine, but built like a weapon, honed for war on Asphalt. This is the Iron Carriage, the mount of a man who lives by the code of the old way, reborn in a cut and engine roar. Every bolt, every rivet tells a story of the road, of battles both physical and personal. The frame, heavy-duty and scarred, bears the deep, matte finish of battle-worn steel. There’s no fancy paint, just the raw, brutal beauty of functionality. No one mounted a steel steed quite like Pony Boy.
The last time I saw him was from our clubhouse porch in Northeast San Diego, about 5 a.m., the four-lane tarmac deserted. He tore through a sweeping right-hand turn at 90 miles an hour, one leg propped on the primary, huge arms on the bars, cool as the underside of a pillow. A visceral mix of intoxicating and intimidating. That sunrise wasn’t early for us; it was the tail end of a biker’s all-night run, the morning sunrises we caught after the party, the club, the life.