Written by Marlon Slack.
10 years ago, public appreciation was heaped on enormous cruisers that were adorned with novelties and caked in chrome. People loved those things, all 500 kilos of rolling tribute to American ostentatiousness. But as the GFC hit and wallets emptied, tastes shifted and the love of gleaming polish and excess gave way to matte paint, raw steel and clip-ons. Somewhere in between these two extremes sits The Gasbox’s 1944 Harley Davidson Knucklehead. A bike that’s clean, lean and executed with no flourishes except an incredible eye for detail and a masterful understanding of knowing exactly what works.
You’ve got to hand it to the Spanish. They are nothing if not risk takers. While America, Australia and England get their jollies from innocuous bat and ball sports, the Spanish get theirs taunting angry bulls. Now, I think it’s fair to say that the number of combined casualties for soccer, cricket and baseball players over the past few hundred years or so would be pretty much zero. Sure, there’s the cricket players that died of boredom and the soccer players that were just pretending to be dead, but overall they’re negligible. But compare that to bullfighting’s 533 deaths in the last 300 years. Serious stuff, but probably what you should expect if you jump into a ring with a beast like that. Or like this. Wave your red capes in honour of the nastiest, most powerful bull that’s ever lived, ‘La Bestia’ from Madrid’s Valtoron.
One of the best named motorcycle blogs on the information super autobahn is Eat The Rich — after the classic film and Motörhead song. The blog is run by classic parts dealer Peter Stansfield from the U.K who is always buying and selling custom parts for many different types of bikes. Last year he came across this drag bike frame for sale on ebay and knew he had to purchase it. “I bought the frame for £170 and the rear slick for £10” he says. “I bought it from the guy who originally built it in 1968, he raced it first with an iron 6T motor then later put a Hillman Imp engine in it. It was last used in 1974 when he built a new bike.”
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I had the weirdest dream last night. At least I think it was a dream. I looked down to the end of my bed and saw a very well dressed gentleman sitting in my chair, smoking a pipe. “Mr Jones, I presume.” he enunciated. I nodded slowly, still not sure what exactly what was happening. “My name is Brough. George Brough. I have but two things to say to you, Mr Jones. Firstly, I’d like you to know that I think you are a cad, a scally wag and a imbecile.” There was a pause. He looked at me with a face that betrayed some kind of irrational rage deep inside. I wondered what I possibly could have done to piss him off so badly. “And the second?” I asked, cautiously. With barely a blink of the eye he stood up, rolled up the sleeve to his crisp white linen shirt, and punched me square in the face with a superb English Private School right hook.
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