It wasn’t so long ago that Miami’s South Beach existed as a shabby collection of faded Art Deco splendor along Florida’s Atlantic coastline. But then the beautiful people, the fashion designers, and the celebrities with their hangers-on arrived, restoring buildings in the historic district and transforming the two-mile stretch of beachfront into a colorful 24/7 street party.
Posing and posturing through the warm evening air, an endless flow of people glide through pools of brightly colored neon. We rumble through as participants in this nonstop show. The sultry beat of reggae, Latin, and Caribbean music spills from nightclubs. Tight clothing clings to the chiseled bodies we pass; their faces turn to check out our rides as colors from the decorative lights explode on the bikes’ smooth chrome surfaces. The throb of massive 111ci V-twin engines mixes with the deep bass rhythm from the clubs. In a town that exists for people to see or be seen, we are turning heads as we enjoy the whole exotic, sensuous field of human experience being played out in the steamy Florida night.
This story originally appeared in the July/August 2005 issue of Robb Report Motorcycling. It has been lightly edited for the website. Photography by Tim Riles.
We are cruising Ocean Boulevard on a couple of clean, tight, minimalist choppers from American Ironhorse. It takes something special to attract attention on this high-profile thoroughfare, and these Texas-built stallions add hard-core American muscle to the startling array of stimuli on display.
As we cruise slowly past the brilliantly hued buildings, whose design drew inspiration from modern art—especially the multiple viewpoints of cubism—I wonder what influence machines and motion played on the architects of the day. How would those pioneers of style react to the wild, fat-tire creations ridden by my buddy Jim and me? Long, low, lean, and built with a sense of purpose, both the softtail Legend and LSE hardtail—with its mind-bending 280mm rear tire—demand attention on the action-packed Miami streets.
First populated more than 10,000 years ago by Paleo-Indians, then occupied by the Spanish in the 16th century, Miami did not hoist the American flag until 1821. Seven decades later, Julia Tuttle, a widow from Cleveland, Ohio, earned the title “Mother of Miami” by convincing Henry Flagler to extend his railroad southward, lay out a town, and build luxury hotels to benefit her 640 acres on the north bank of the Miami River.
In 1896, Miami was incorporated as a city with an Irish Catholic mayor and a populace that included Jewish, African-American, and Bahamian communities; Miami has always boasted a fantastic level of diversity. This increased when the postwar era brought 100,000 people to the area, and when 500,000 Cubans fled Fidel Castro’s rule following the 1959 revolution. Today, South Beach, packed in from First Street to Lincoln Drive, exemplifies Miami’s historic mélange of cultures.
Today, when custom choppers enjoy the height of chic, parking our American Ironhorse motorcycles curbside elicits lively conversations from a quickly forming crowd; one interested party won’t believe these are production bikes and that, yes, he could order one if he wanted—choose his own colors, his own specifications and ride away with the custom bike of his choice, a machine that comes with a two-year unlimited mileage warranty.
American Ironhorse has been a leader in producing top-quality, high-performance customs and choppers for 10 years now, constructing its hand-built motorcycles in Fort Worth in a massive 224,000-square-foot plant.
The following day, riding along Washington Avenue, we open the throttle a little as we head out to Fifth Street for a blast across the MacArthur Causeway. Once out of the traffic, we can let the engines breathe, shifting quickly through the slick six-speed gearbox as Lummus Island passes by across the sparkling water.
In the saddle, the long front end of the American Ironhorse LSE extending out in front of me, glistening in the Florida sun, I am pleasantly surprised at the ease of operation. The bike turns well for its long wheelbase, the brakes are good, and it is not too uncomfortable, even though I am riding the hardtail. The view forward includes a small housing for the digital speedometer and tachometer, and a single chrome headlight. I take in a vista of bending palm trees against aqua-blue skies as I ride.
Navigating tight roads or dense traffic is never a joy on a motorcycle of this nature, and the unnecessary stiffness of the cable clutch doesn’t help; a hydraulic unit would be preferable. This fault is quickly forgiven out on the road with 60 mph on the clock and the stunning Miami cityscape in the distance. We return to the hotel and dress up for an evening on Ocean Boulevard.
The bartender at Mangos—we never master the pronunciation of her exotic name—recommends we cool off by drinking a frozen Banana Cabana. We’re transfixed as she gyrates in time to the throbbing reggae beat while Bacardi, banana liqueur, Kahlua, piña colada mix, and ice get tossed into the blender. After a few sips, we head to the dance floor and take some advice from a Colombian dancer who instructs us to swing our hips, listen to the beat, and watch the other dancers to get the timing right. We sit down breathless, and watch the choreographed professionals work their stuff on the bar to the amazement and excitement of the pulsating crowd.
Soon, we step back into the night under the wash of colored lights, breathing in the fresh ocean air and admiring the canary yellows, pastel pinks, and bright aquas of the buildings cloaked in multicolored neon against the black night sky. We take a curbside table at A Fish Called Avalon and watch the maître d‘ perform. He is a salesman, entertainer, host, and confidant, getting lost in his theatricals as he attempts to woo diners from the street, or make the takers comfortable at their table.
We enjoy the beauty of a woman as she sashays past, accompanied by a brace of strutting peacocks. Confident older couples, immaculately manicured, pass gracefully by the table. After dinner, we decide to enjoy a strong cup of Cuban coffee as flamenco dancing captivates the small crowd of diners. After realizing two hours have passed, it is time to walk some more. As we step between the parading cars on Ocean Boulevard, we hear the muted rumble of a 12-cylinder Ferrari on idle, complete with the smell of unburned fuel as it mingles with the moist salty air drifting across Limus Park.
I find my bike waiting in the street and saddle up, unable to resist one last ride across MacArthur Causeway. I ignite the fire-spitting engine, select first gear, and pull onto Washington Boulevard. After turning right on Fifth and accelerating through the gears, the warm evening air flows across my face. The bright lights from the Port of Miami reflect in the dazzling chrome of the American Ironhorse chopper as the rhythmic pulse from the powerful V-twin takes me back to the beat left behind on South Beach.
