Garage Builder Sam Baldi's Sidewinder

we came across this killer bike on the Dennis Kirk Garage Build pages. This bike began in 2011 as a challenge when Sam Baldi, now 62, of Cherry Valley, California, had recently won a bike show in Sturgis 2010. He was challenged by the promoter to build another one and come back in 2012 to compete in the AMD show. Baldi, never one to turn down a challenge, accepted and immediately. He went home to his fabricator buddy,

Jimmy Totorovitch, full of ideas to make a bike look old school but use modern technology. They knew they wanted to fabricate as many parts as possible with the end goal for it to look like there weren’t enough parts for it to run.

With those goals in mind, it became a “What do you want to do? I don’t know, what do you want to do?” situation with the two of them. They finally decided to go pro-street style. Which, after a bit, decided was the wrong direction. After five different frame chops and multiple design ideas, the board-tracker style became their top choice.

They both worked day jobs, so they could only put the time in on evenings and weekends in Jimmy’s home garage. The motor was sourced from Patrick Racing, who supplied them with one of their 113 S&S Motors. Next, they went to Baker Transmissions and asked them to build a 6-speed break with a tranny, which was a first for them.

The bike was almost complete, save for the paint job, when in the last year of the build, tragedy struck Sam’s family. At the time, his daughter was pregnant with what would be their first grandchild, a girl. Shortly

Owner: Sam Baldi City/State: Cherry Valley California Builder: Jimmy Todorovitch Year: 2013 Model: Custom Value: Priceless Time: 2.5 Years

ENGINE Year: 2013 Model: S&S Super Sidewinder Builder: Patrick Racing Ignition: Unknown Displacement: 113 Pistons: Patrick Racing Heads: Patrick Racing Carb: Mikuni Cam: Patrick Racing Air Cleaner: Velocity Stack Exhaust: Chad’s Customs Primary: Evil Engineering

TRANSMISSION Year: 2013 Make: Baker Shifting: Auto Clutch

FRAME Year: Custom Model: Custom Rake: Unknown Stretch: Unknown

Forks Custom Builder: Jimmy Todovitch Type: Girder Triple Trees: Custom Extension: None

WHEELS Front Wheel: Rampage 3 piece Size: 23” Tire: Avon Front Brake: None Rear Wheel: Rampage 3 piece Size: 18” Tire: Avon Rear Brake: Trans Brake,No Rotor

PAINT Painter: OneXtreme Color: Lexis Champagne Type: House of Color Graphics: OneXtreme Chroming: Orange County Plating

ACCESSORIES Bars: Custom Hand Built Risers: Custom Hand Built Hand Controls: None Foot Controls: Custom Hand Built Gas Tank(s): Custom Hand Built Oil Tank: Custom Hand Built Front fender: None Rear Fender: Custom Hand Built Seat: Paul Cox Custom Headlight: Custom Hand Built Tail light: Custom Hand Built Speedo: None before the bike went in for paint, three weeks before the event, his daughter called his wife with complications, and two days later, they were grieving the loss of the baby. Any motivation to finish the bike had vanished, and his focus turned towards the loss of their little angel. They ended up attending the event with no bike to show.

A month or so after their return, Sams’ painter, Alberto Ahumada, sat him down and told him he needed to finish the bike. They decided to make it a tribute to his granddaughter. That conversation was all he needed to reignite the spark. Sam immediately knew it would be called “Lost Angel.” Alberto immediately started on the paint, using a more subdued champagne color. The seat pan was sent to Paul Cox, who, after hearing the story, was more than happy to help out. The bike took a grand total of two and a half years to complete. When they finally made it out to the 2013 Grand National Roadster Show, they took home the “America’s Most Beautiful Motorcycle” award.

Sam would like to give special thanks to Jimmy and Alberto for pushing him to finish and to his wife for being so understanding. If you’ve got a great Garage Build, head on over to www.garagebuild. com to submit yours.

NO THERE ISN’T ANY REAL PRIZE, JUST SOMETHING TO DO WHILE YOU’RE IN THE CAN.

1. West Wood On Hat 2. Braid On Right Side Of Head. 3. Extra Chain On Wallet. 4. Missing Flame On Tank. 5. Missing Rivit On Tank Skirt. 6. Missing Red Stripe On Oil Tank. 7. Extra Exhaust Pipe Under Oil Tank. 8 . Missing Stripes From Left Shoe. 9. Extra Oil Line On Filter. 10.. Points Cover Rotated 180 Degrees.

s I now know well, after working scores of rallies over the past four years, the days immediately following a big show are to be treasured. Long days of laboring in the heat are over, the raucous crowds are gone, and the pockets are (hopefully) full. The Monday after Sturgis has become a particularly special “Day of Nothing” for me. It’s the one place where I camp with numerous other rally workers who genuinely appreciate and enjoy those pseudo-holidays.

Back in ‘17, after my first Sturgis, I masterfully stretched that day into four and didn’t leave the Black Hills until Thursday. Those lazy days were nothing but hanging around camp, riding the traffic-free Needles Highway and Custer State Park, and bumming around town while the annual circus packed up and rolled away.

While I never committed to an actual exit plan, there was some talk amongst a group of “Sturgis survivors” about leaving town with Scotty and heading to the Veterans Rally in Cripple Creek, Colorado. My only plans for the next few months were to visit friends over Labor Day in Portland, Oregon, and get back to Rhode Island by Thanksgiving. So far, I had been flying solo, “by myself but not alone,” so a few days

ariding with others sounded great. Especially with the chance to see

Scotty’s motorcycle vagabond lessons in action outside the campground classrooms.

When the time came, five of us went to meet up with the old Scooter Tramp himself but retreated back to camp when the skies opened up. By 3pm, the rain had subsided, and my crew of almoststrangers, all newly acquainted that week at camp, was itching to go. Scotty had seen too many rodeos to think that was a good idea. Despite his wise advice and an invite to a party in town, we pointed our bikes towards Colorado, threw caution (common sense and the weather forecast) to the wind, and hit the road.

On his 250k+ mile FXR, running point was Vietnam Veteran Mark “Jed” Mullen, a seemingly manic-depressive wildcard who would always keep you guessing. Jed, the grizzly tribe-elder and self-proclaimed “real American steel-horse riding cowboy.” could go from zero-to-ahundred real quick, and so could his bike!

Behind his lead, heart-of-gold Cody Walker kept pace on his old Venture Royale, which always seemed like Yamaha’s Pepsi, to Honda’s Coke, the Goldwing. Cody is a Godfearing, mother-loving Missouri man, and the world could use more men of his caliber and character.

Close behind, cracking eardrums with his Mad Max-ed Suzuki M109r, was Scorpio Drake, and his “shitty wiener” (Daschund/ Shih Zu mix), Titan. These two had been chasing rally work for a while and had recently spent some time traveling with Scotty (which I just eventually learned, after a couple nights in The Keys with Scorpio,

was well chronicled by Scotty, in the 248th edition of this “simple monthly offering to the motorcycle gods”). My only interaction with this face-pierced, tattooed outcast was him ripping by my tent every morning, repeatedly showing his displeasure with how Steve, The Cooler Kid, allegedly dropped his icehouse trailer across the “path” to Scorpio’s tent.

Falling in behind them was Maryland Mike Mchone, on a Heritage Classic that he had owned for about a month (and hated for about 3 weeks!). Mike was the youngest of the bunch and was on his first Harley after a lifetime of dragging knees, ripping wheelies, and toying with cops on various 1,000cc superbikes. He was someone I spent some time with throughout the rally and had gotten to know well, at least compared to the others. A couple hours into the trip, somewhere along the eastern edge of Wyoming, the weather forecast held true. That wicked wall of black clouds was only pierced by the constantly flickering lightning, and its grumbling thunder seemed to be laughing at us. When the first drop hit my face, I pulled to the shoulder of that deserted two-lane in hopes of at least keeping my boots dry. By the time I pulled on my first boot-cover, three of the guys had circled back, while Jed apparently swam his way through the deluge.

Without much hesitation, we unrolled Mike’s oversized Harbor Freight tarp and got to work. Two

corners were quickly lashed to the top of a dilapidated sign, just over the endless barbwire fence, then, after a little shuffling, the other two corners were pulled tight to the bikes. It wasn’t pretty, but we were out of the rain and feeling pretty good about ourselves. Slowly, camp chairs came out and comfort set in.

About an hour later, Cody broke into his cornucopia of a saddlebag, fired up his camp stove, and made a roadside dinner that was more than suitable for this listless posse of dropouts and drifters. The rain had already let up quite a bit, but the sun was falling behind the clouds, and nobody was in any rush to leave.

While our selfappointed chef was busy earning the nickname “Cooky”, Scorpio and I were rigging up a screen and Bluetooth speaker for that night’s feature presentation, “21 Days Under the Sky”. That artistic documentary of four guys doing a 3-week trip on old chops opened with, “Put more down and take far less. Get over the finer details and do one frivolous, no-good thing on nothing more than the idea of it. Forget the words adventure, epic, legend; ban them from the present life you lead, for it doesn’t start as an adventure, it begins with a risk”, and we were hooked! It was surreal when the narrator, Robert Patrick, asserted that “The best stories start with strangers winding up in an unfamiliar place”, as us strangers were lying in a most unfamiliar place! Lines like, “Four guys, brought together for a handful of reasons” and, “...for

Americans, it’s unnatural; this level of open-ended discomfort died long ago”, resonated well with us, as we laid on the hard ground. Like it or not, we were the “dropouts and off-gridders, Veterans and unpredictable underachievers”, being described on the screen, “the un-cut, hard-breasted dregs of America”.

From inside our movie-theaterfort we’d see tiny headlights miles down that arrow-straight road. Eventually, a vehicle would whiz by at 80MPH, then, about 15 minutes from first sight, the taillights would finally disappear in the opposite direction. This was some seriously wideopen country, and our conversation turned to Jed, who still hadn’t returned. Cell phones were rendered useless, but we all felt confident that a man like Jed could hold his own. Like a scene that could have been in the film we were watching, the only bike we saw all night slowed to a stop, presumably to ask if us fellow bikers needed any help. Surprisingly, that was not the case. He was there on a promise to deliver a message. “You guys know Jed?” he asked. We affirmed in unison, all unknowingly sharing fears of the worst. He told us they had met about 100 miles south and that Jed wanted us to know where and when we could find him the following day. This brief interaction wasn’t much, but it gave a quick glimpse into a lost world without cell phones and

constant connectivity.

A beautiful sunrise greeted us in the morning, and I already knew it was just the start of a really great day! How could it not be? I had three like-minded road warriors with me. All were ready to see the rest of Wyoming as a preface to Colorado’s wonders in August.

Once on the road, I could easily tell that I wasn’t the only one enjoying the newfound camaraderie. We all contained ourselves, as ‘real men’ hide their emotions, but the excitement was evident in moments like Scorpio going sidesaddle for the camera, a few rolling fist bumps, and Mike and I dropping back to pass a cigar I rolled, backand-forth, at 70MPH.

By noon, Cheyenne was behind us, and Colorado was just over the southern horizon. I had visited once before, but that was on an airplane with skis in tow, not on a twowheel freedom machine. As thoughts of 14,000-foot peaks grew in my head, a kamikaze bird slammed into ole Gloria without me ever seeing it. The guys behind were privy to what they said looked like a pillow exploding, as feathers flew everywhere, including some we later found stuck in Scorpio’s beard and on my bike.

Contact was made with Jed, and an overnight pitstop was scheduled at his place, a little northeast of Boulder. We traded stories of the

previous night with him, went for a sunset ride in the front range together, then stopped at a local boutique shop to pick up some supplies for a rare night indoors.

Over mellow music and cold beers, we sat in Jed’s increasingly smokey apartment. We avoided getting sidetracked long enough to finalize plans for Cripple Creek. We’d leave in the morning, hookup with Scotty, then figure out a place to camp, which is always more of a challenge with a group. Jed eventually retreated to his bedroom, somebody took the couch, the others took the floor, and I made my nest outside on the porch. It had only been a couple days, but these men were strangers no more. Traveling in this manner, on motorcycles, camping under the sky, battling the elements day and night, has a way of accelerating relationships forging strong bonds. Had I never seen any of these misfit toys again, I’d have always considered them friends. Fortunately, that was not the case, and they are all not only still a part of my life, but friends that I consider family and know I can count on. Normally, I wouldn’t label us as such, but I’ve got to agree with the movie, “Only America, with its un-ending roads and backbreaking expectations, would give us losers like these.” @chipakid