Pantastic Harley-Davidson Street Custom Motorcycle
The result was a machine that looked like it had rolled out of a time warp, yet possessed a mechanical clarity that only modern engineering could provide.
THE smell of gasoline, hot metal, and old leather hung heavy in the air, a perfume that Ben and Nick Allen, the designers and creators of this visual metal masterpiece, had breathed since they were teenagers. To the uninitiated, the garage is a chaotic workshop of tools and parts; to the brothers, it’s a sanctuary where history is resurrected.
This particular resurrection was a 1950 Harley-Davidson Hydra Glide, a rigid machine that sits low and menacing under the lights. It isn’t just a motorcycle; it’s a philosophy cast in steel and aluminium.
“It’s about going back to go forwards,” reckons Ben, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. His eyes fixed on the rigid frame. “Tradition never dates.”
Nick, the younger of the two but the one who started it all, ran a hand over the high-compression Panhead engine. He had been just 15-years-old when he built his first hot-rod in a tiny garage and front yard, self-taught and fearless. That instinct had never left him. While their hearts belonged to hot-rods, their hands knew the language of Harley-Davidson intimately. Since 1993, they had owned and built eight of them, but this 1950 FL was different.
Inspired by the raw danger of 1920s board-track racers and the stripped-down minimalism of 1950s bobbers, the bike was a tribute to the era of Evel Knievel and the almighty XR750 flat-tracker — a machine Ben proudly owned — which influenced this build’s aggressive stance.
The bike was a factory Hydra Glide, but the Allen’s had stripped it of every ounce of ‘dresser gear’. To them, weight was the enemy.
“Lighter it gets, the faster it goes,” Nick said, a mantra that explained the obsessive drill holes peppering the brake backing-plate and various mounts.
The engine was the heart, a Panhead that had been resurrected by Perry Kime at FLO Headworks in California, a specialist who knew these engines better than anyone. It was rebuilt with genuine H-D parts but improved for modern punishment. The ignition is stock, save for a Dyna coil and vintage cloth-wrapped leads, but the breathing was pure Allen’s. A polished S&S Shorty carburetor sits bolted to a YOST manifold adaptor, fed by an air-scoop scavenged from a Stromberg carb on Nick’s Rat Rod. Nick had spent hours fabricating a special adaptor to make the mismatched parts fit; giving the engine a retro race look that felt like it belonged on a 1930s dirt track.
Exhaust was handled by custom slash-cut drag-pipes, baffled but left in bare metal and coated in heat-resistant clear. It was a theme that ran through the entire machine: the beauty of raw steel.
“The metal is straight enough,” Nick said, tapping on a fender. “Paint? We don’t need any stinking paint.”
It was a philosophy born in the 1990s when they built a chopper for a mate who couldn’t decide on a colour. The bare metal bike had looked good then, and it looked better now. Nick had handled the metal finish, clear-coating components that would traditionally be chromed or painted, creating an industrial, functional aesthetic.
The handlebars are flat drag type, clamped down by custom brass risers that matched the brass nails Ben had drilled into the running boards. The bike had come to them with no foot-controls. Ben, the auto electrician with a fabrication habit, had made all the brackets himself, restoring old swap-meet running boards and adorning them with brass nails for effect.
The frame was the original 1950 H-D wishbone, but the geometry was altered. The original Hydra Glide forks were cut down to level the frame with the ground, giving it that aggressive, earth-bound stance. The fork boots were borrowed from a 1960’s Triumph, a subtle nod to British steel.
The shifting was old school — a jockey shift via an original ratchet lid H-D four-speed gearbox, rebuilt with Andrews gears. The clutch was operated by a foot pedal, connected to an early BDL open primary two-inch belt-drive.
Stopping power is a singular affair: a rebuilt mechanical drum at the rear. No front brake. Ben had spent hours at the drill press, carving out the backing plate for cooling and that vintage race look.
The fuel tank was a masterpiece of frustration. It couldn’t look like a shelf item. Nick had hand-made it, sacrificing a couple of other tanks in the process to get the curves right.
The oil tank started as a piece of scrap steel pipe.
“Here’s the new oil tank,” Nick had declared, tossing the pipe to Ben.
“Why don’t you just buy one?” Ben had asked.
“Because nearly everyone has a damn bought-one,” Nick replied.
Using their day-job skills in air-conditioning, they ran brass oil lines and hard fittings throughout the bike. The petcock was a brass liquid valve, and the oil lines were hard-line brass, gleaming against the bare metal.
The battery tray was another custom creation, bent up by Nick to mount off the gearbox plate. The leather strap holding it down was originally a dog collar, modified by Ben to suit. With Ben’s auto electrician skills, the wiring was hidden completely, leaving a clean, uncluttered finish.
The wheels are H-D, 16-inch, chrome spokers, powder-coated and laced with stainless steel spokes to star hubs, shod in 5 x 16 Shinko nylon tires. The rear fender was hand-rolled to hug the arc of the tire perfectly. The fender brace had been bent over a concrete street bollard — a real customising trick — to get the perfect shape, then spot-welded from underneath. All the welds on the mounts and fittings were sweated brass, giving that industrial appeal that looked like it belonged in a factory, not a showroom.
The result was a machine that looked like it had rolled out of a time warp, yet possessed a mechanical clarity that only modern engineering could provide. It was a bobber in the truest sense — stripped, drilled, and balanced.
Under the garage lights, it is raw, it is aggressive, and it is undeniably cool. It is a testament to a lifetime of turning wrenches, starting from a 15-year-old in a front yard to two masters of their craft.
“Tradition, looking back to go forwards,” Ben said quietly.
Photos and words by Knackers
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