They call him the Breeze
It was by complete happenstance we even met. Blew into my life, and out just as quickly. The man I came to call my best friend, accomplice, partner in crime, riding companion, brother, the breeze- Banksey.
One hot summer day, about 8 or so years ago- I was working at Catalpa Grove in Toulon. Small town, even smaller bar. It was the size of a trailer, with a bar down one side, two high top tables taking up the entirety of the 'dining area', and a back room with a set of stairs right inside of it, so if you weren't paying attention or you were off your shit, you're going down 12 steps- hard. There were 3 very well placed .45 holes in this bars walls, and ONLY the regulars knew where #1 and #2 were... and WHY. This bar had history- you could smell it in the unfinished wood floors every night you mopped. And the cow shit laden boots of the late afternoon crowd always helped to leave a hefty ring at the bottom of the mop bucket.
My first shift- it couldn't have been slower. Not knowing who I was, the 'locals' didn't want to take a shining to me at all. Not at first- at ALL. I was the girl from 'Chicago" with 'All the tattoos' and I rode a motorcycle to boot. I had been living in town a few months before I got this job, so everyone had seen Helena parked out front of my apartment and asked around and found out- small town. The funniest part, is that I'm FROM THIS TOWN. I grew up here.. but no one had taken the time to ask.. yeah I'd been gone for about eight years, my family had moved, all of them, to other areas of the country.. We had no legacy here, how were they supposed to know who I was- nerdy quiet girl who graduated class of 2001 with really no discernible honors, quietly slips into the world.. never to be seen again. Well.. here I was, back 'home' working at a local bar.
My first customer came in about midway through the week. See- this bar didn't keep a very good customer base, because the owner let you close if you weren't busy, at any time of the day and day of the week- as soon as he'd had enough to drink for himself- of course. So when my first customer of the week walks in, dirty boots and jeans- white t-shirt, about 50-ish, grey beard and hair, gentle blue eyes. He looks at me- and notices the place is empty. Looks at me again, scans the bar and asked "Does anybody know you're here?" I suppose not, I answered him, and he ordered a beer. From that day forward Mike Banks and his work companions came in daily, at the same time, like clockwork- when chores were done, small town. We got to know each other, they talked about working at the cattle farm and coming out to see a baby be born- we started riding together, going to lunch on my days off, drinking way too much and sleeping on floors and couches, crashing college kid parties, smokin' drinkin', and of course carryin' on. Always.
Affectionately called Banksey by the community, Mike was my rock. We developed a friendship that only comes around once in a lifetime. And he left an impact on my life and in my heart I will never be able to un-feel. He got me in super good with the locals, he was a local celebrity- of sorts. He worked for a well to do farmer- small town, and had a personality that could melt the ice off of the most frigid bitch and make her crack a smile. With his social outlets, he helped me get that bar pretty hoppin, and was my favorite riding partner. His 78 1/2 Harley was pretty bitchin, even though he had it a short time before trading it for a Road king in the 90's era.. He was with me when I bought the ironhead, helped me maneuver it into my tiny ass apartment, utilizing the emergency exit without authorization, causing the hasty shutting up the apartment so nobody knew who triggered it.. for a 50-ish year old man, he sure had a lot of mischief in him- and it fed off of mine in a perfectly symbiotic way, that we were always skirting by.
"It is what it is, Kid" "Only time will tell" The advice and the words of wisdom from a man who'd been there. Like stories from my father, the history lesson in life got me through some tough times, some pretty low times, and was more than enough to keep ears enthralled around the many campfires and barbecues we would attend in the 6 years we called each other Besties. He had lived his life with a 'carefree' attitude. And love him or leave him, he did what he wanted. Maybe he could've been a better person in some aspects of life at some other time in life, but couldn't we all? All you can do is live life day by day, make the most of it and ENJOY what you have in front of you. Because tomorrow may never come.
The plans we had last summer, and I'd assume this summer and for what is supposed to be forever, even though we all know good things can never last, and everything ends.. our plans were all similar in nature- get the bikes out and RIDE. Lets go somewhere fun, and get a good bite to eat, meet some local yocals and shoot the shit at a bar. Most people thought he WAS my dad, and most of the time we let the thirsty guys at the bars think he was, so they'd leave me alone. Others thought we were married- small town. And still others thought he was scabbing off of me for my money... HAHA.. MY money.. MAN ALIVE! That was my favorite rumor by far. In reality, he was my shrink. He listened with no judgement and no advice, unless I needed it.. He was a father-figure, he loved me for who I was, and never faltered in his dedication to me as a human for one single second of breath he had in his lungs. He was my shoulder to cry on, and my hug when I needed a fucking hug. He showed me how a lady should be respected, and when that respect was violated, I had the confidence to kick whomever the lowlife was to the curb. If MY MAN can't treat me as well as my best friend.. you're taking ME for granted and you don't deserve me. I think about all of these things and the times we had, the rides we were going to take.. and I put it into my work. I keep my hands busy so my heart doesn't have time to hurt.. I am an artist at heart (thanks mother), so when I am feeling, I Create. I am not an artist to one trade or another, I find a medium that helps me express my feelings in an appropriate way, and I learn how to manipulate it. It is all part of my process, because I am also a Cancer.. so I'm goofy as fuck.
This bike couldn't be a more perfect tribute to my best friend. The spirit of Banksey can live on with me, on the road- fearless as fuck and not giving a shit about what anyone says.
She lended herself to me in such a way, like I had no questions to ask.. it just melted away and let me fix it. From the wiring harness, to the brake cable, figuring out the paint scheme and even laying down layer after layer of rattle can paint... it just told me what it wanted. And when she was all buttoned up and ready to try out- She kicked like a champ almost immediately. Timed, jetted, every part I had been accumulating for the last 1 and a half years, put to use. Risers I bought from @show_class_mag, the chain from @tcbros choppers, OEM wire harness from Bills' Custom Cycle in New York, the numerous swap finds (refer to my swap meet blog from a few years ago) all found homes on her. Perfectly. New tires, new brake cable, oil change. boom. she kicked. "As it should be".. his words calming me when it got tough, and I just took a step back, and it came to me.
I have no idea what it will be like on the road.. I may be jinxing the fuck out of myself, and regret the day I even called her mine.. but I have a feeling it won't be so bad. The spirit of the build will stay with her, and I can fix anything that might go wrong. True independence. He'd be so proud, and I can hear the "atta girl" he'd give me with a big hug..
My build is dedicated to the memory of his free spirit and love of life, and accepting that "It is , what it is". The lesson of how easy life can be if you just let it flow.
One hot summer day, about 8 or so years ago- I was working at Catalpa Grove in Toulon. Small town, even smaller bar. It was the size of a trailer, with a bar down one side, two high top tables taking up the entirety of the 'dining area', and a back room with a set of stairs right inside of it, so if you weren't paying attention or you were off your shit, you're going down 12 steps- hard. There were 3 very well placed .45 holes in this bars walls, and ONLY the regulars knew where #1 and #2 were... and WHY. This bar had history- you could smell it in the unfinished wood floors every night you mopped. And the cow shit laden boots of the late afternoon crowd always helped to leave a hefty ring at the bottom of the mop bucket.
 |
| Banksey at Catalpa Grove |
My first customer came in about midway through the week. See- this bar didn't keep a very good customer base, because the owner let you close if you weren't busy, at any time of the day and day of the week- as soon as he'd had enough to drink for himself- of course. So when my first customer of the week walks in, dirty boots and jeans- white t-shirt, about 50-ish, grey beard and hair, gentle blue eyes. He looks at me- and notices the place is empty. Looks at me again, scans the bar and asked "Does anybody know you're here?" I suppose not, I answered him, and he ordered a beer. From that day forward Mike Banks and his work companions came in daily, at the same time, like clockwork- when chores were done, small town. We got to know each other, they talked about working at the cattle farm and coming out to see a baby be born- we started riding together, going to lunch on my days off, drinking way too much and sleeping on floors and couches, crashing college kid parties, smokin' drinkin', and of course carryin' on. Always.
Affectionately called Banksey by the community, Mike was my rock. We developed a friendship that only comes around once in a lifetime. And he left an impact on my life and in my heart I will never be able to un-feel. He got me in super good with the locals, he was a local celebrity- of sorts. He worked for a well to do farmer- small town, and had a personality that could melt the ice off of the most frigid bitch and make her crack a smile. With his social outlets, he helped me get that bar pretty hoppin, and was my favorite riding partner. His 78 1/2 Harley was pretty bitchin, even though he had it a short time before trading it for a Road king in the 90's era.. He was with me when I bought the ironhead, helped me maneuver it into my tiny ass apartment, utilizing the emergency exit without authorization, causing the hasty shutting up the apartment so nobody knew who triggered it.. for a 50-ish year old man, he sure had a lot of mischief in him- and it fed off of mine in a perfectly symbiotic way, that we were always skirting by.
 |
| Ironhead in its natural habitat |
The plans we had last summer, and I'd assume this summer and for what is supposed to be forever, even though we all know good things can never last, and everything ends.. our plans were all similar in nature- get the bikes out and RIDE. Lets go somewhere fun, and get a good bite to eat, meet some local yocals and shoot the shit at a bar. Most people thought he WAS my dad, and most of the time we let the thirsty guys at the bars think he was, so they'd leave me alone. Others thought we were married- small town. And still others thought he was scabbing off of me for my money... HAHA.. MY money.. MAN ALIVE! That was my favorite rumor by far. In reality, he was my shrink. He listened with no judgement and no advice, unless I needed it.. He was a father-figure, he loved me for who I was, and never faltered in his dedication to me as a human for one single second of breath he had in his lungs. He was my shoulder to cry on, and my hug when I needed a fucking hug. He showed me how a lady should be respected, and when that respect was violated, I had the confidence to kick whomever the lowlife was to the curb. If MY MAN can't treat me as well as my best friend.. you're taking ME for granted and you don't deserve me. I think about all of these things and the times we had, the rides we were going to take.. and I put it into my work. I keep my hands busy so my heart doesn't have time to hurt.. I am an artist at heart (thanks mother), so when I am feeling, I Create. I am not an artist to one trade or another, I find a medium that helps me express my feelings in an appropriate way, and I learn how to manipulate it. It is all part of my process, because I am also a Cancer.. so I'm goofy as fuck.
 |
| Toxie and Two Dusty @ Catalpa Grove |
She lended herself to me in such a way, like I had no questions to ask.. it just melted away and let me fix it. From the wiring harness, to the brake cable, figuring out the paint scheme and even laying down layer after layer of rattle can paint... it just told me what it wanted. And when she was all buttoned up and ready to try out- She kicked like a champ almost immediately. Timed, jetted, every part I had been accumulating for the last 1 and a half years, put to use. Risers I bought from @show_class_mag, the chain from @tcbros choppers, OEM wire harness from Bills' Custom Cycle in New York, the numerous swap finds (refer to my swap meet blog from a few years ago) all found homes on her. Perfectly. New tires, new brake cable, oil change. boom. she kicked. "As it should be".. his words calming me when it got tough, and I just took a step back, and it came to me.
I have no idea what it will be like on the road.. I may be jinxing the fuck out of myself, and regret the day I even called her mine.. but I have a feeling it won't be so bad. The spirit of the build will stay with her, and I can fix anything that might go wrong. True independence. He'd be so proud, and I can hear the "atta girl" he'd give me with a big hug..
My build is dedicated to the memory of his free spirit and love of life, and accepting that "It is , what it is". The lesson of how easy life can be if you just let it flow.
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