THE SCENE : Wheels of Fortune : A Pair of Santa Ana Teens Are Spokesmen of the Streets With Artfully Appointed Lowrider Bikes

Santa Ana High freshman Benito Miranda has a ride like no other.

He’s got a phone, a tiny television set in the steering wheel and a special case for his Game Boy. The audio system--a compact disc player, equalizer and remote control--blares from a red crushed velvet boombox. There’s a bar with cup holders, a space for a goldfish tank and enough cut mirror to put a disco ball to shame.

Barring the fish tank and Game Boy, consider these features standard equipment in any limousine. So what would a 15-year-old be doing with a limo?

A limo it’s not. Because, like with most teens his age, Miranda’s ride is a bicycle.

His isn’t of the two-wheeler variety. That proved too mundane for Benito. Instead, he opted for five wheels, one in the front and two on each side of the boombox. Tough for turning corners, but not for turning heads.

Though the number of accessories and wheels on Benito’s Schwinn Stingray is extreme, his excessive indulgence is not.

Tricked out with all the flashiest fixings and almost dragging on the pavement, custom bicycles such as Benito’s claim ties to their engine-powered cousins, lowrider automobiles.

For teens not licensed to drive, lowrider bicycles are an option that lets them express themselves with all the chrome and velvet they could possibly desire. That these wheels are powered by pedal instead of petrol makes no difference.

The term “lowrider” refers to the precarious proximity of a vehicle from the ground. Lowriding emerged with the zoot suit assaults of the early 1940s, when Mexican Americans living in Los Angeles were harassed and sometimes jailed more for their race and flamboyant dress than any proven crime.

“Lowriding became a form of expression, an art form, for Chicanos,” says Mark Hansen, spokesman for Lowrider magazine in Walnut, Calif., which has chronicled such vehicles since 1976. “There’s always been white guys that thought it was cool. In Japan, it’s a phenomenon right now. But for Chicanos, it’s a way of life. Lowriding embodies their ideal of what’s beautiful and cool.”

The first lowrider bicycles surfaced in the early ‘70s. There’s more speculation than any specific anecdotes or facts to explain why it took so long. Younger siblings wanting a piece of the action, perhaps?

Flash forward to today and that’s the motivation behind Benito’s friend, Horizon freshman Armando Gonzalez, who transformed his Stingray into a three-wheeler.

Armando, 15, recalls his fascination with the decision by his older brother, Romero, to drop the body of his 1983 Ford Escort just inches above street level. Romero, 20, and his cronies returned the admiration and let the teens include bikes in their lowrider car club, California Class. Members tow the bikes along on their monthly cruises, making occasional stops in parking lots to let Benito and Armando show off their wheels.

The silver-flecked, brandy coat of Armando’s bicycle and the coffin-like velvet “love seat” hooked to the bike recall the gaudy opulence and super-fly style of the ‘70s. The gold-link chain steering wheel attached to the handlebars seems borrowed from the requisite accessory on every hairy chest of that era.

Lowrider cars can be almost any model or year, but it’s the basic frame of the Schwinn Stingray that makes it the starting point for lowrider bicycles.

Just about everyone who was a kid from 1963 to 1979 when the Stingray was manufactured had or wanted one of these midget bikes with the crazy banana seat. If you were really groovy, you had high-rise “ape” handlebars. Stingrays were far from performance bikes. And by design, they poised a young rider in such a way that oozed attitude.

Schwinn, which ceased production of the Stingray due to dwindling sales, might want to reconsider dusting off the old model. Even with reproductions being churned out in Taiwan, vintage Schwinn Stingray frames carry a greater value for enthusiasts--most of whom weren’t even born when the last one rolled off the assembly line.

It’s among this generation of high schoolers that the lowrider bicycle subculture is coming into its own as more than just a younger sidekick to cars. The number of entries at custom bicycle and lowrider car shows is increasing, say observers, as is the sale lowrider bike parts at bicycle shops. Stores such as Dave’s Schwinn in Anaheim and Pedal Pushers in Newport Beach report a 5% to 20% increase in related parts sales in the past year--up significantly from the past two decades, say the owners, who have been in the bicycle business that long.

Another significant factor in the past six months is a shift in the customer base. Latino teens still dominate the numbers, but owners of both stores count an increasing patronage by Anglo kids wanting to build lowrider bikes.

Dave Bodin of Dave’s Schwinn attributes it to the cross-cultural influence in fashion and music that’s become a hip part of being young in the ‘90s. “Rap and baggy clothes--the gangster and cholo look--has become so mainstream. These white kids want to imitate what’s cool with the Mexican kids,” Bodin says.

The emergence last fall of Lowrider Bicycle, a magazine catering to enthusiasts--specifically those in the “18-and-under generation”--is widely considered the catalyst that pushed lowrider bicycles into recent trendy status.

The slick quarterly magazine sprung from its parent, Lowrider, when editors realized the subject demanded more space. “We suddenly had too many kids asking to see more bikes,” says Nathan Trujillo, 29, Lowrider Bicycle’s editor. The new magazine’s circulation is at 40,000 at the third issue.

Because it targets mostly young teens, the magazine is produced so “kids could take it to school.” In contrast to its parent publication, there are no bikini-clad babes and no foul language. “There’s a little slang,” says Trujillo, “because we wanted it to still be as cool as possible.”

Keeping a degree of hard-core attitude is crucial. An integral appeal of the lowrider culture is a tough machismo that teeters on gangster cool, Trujillo says. “It’s only a role, like playing rebel--something all young people do.”

But don’t expect to find a journal of juvenile revolt. In between the profiles, the how-to articles and the photo spreads, the magazine encourages doing well in school and opening communication lines with parents. Trujillo supports his belief in the positive activities of his young readers, particularly staying busy with their bikes.

Keeping his son occupied with his five-wheeler is Benito Miranda Sr.’s intention. Miranda, 36, a metal painter, says that the wild bicycle keeps his son away from gang influences plaguing their Santa Ana neighborhood.

“That’s why I keep him doing different things. There’s always more to add and change. It’s never finished,” Miranda says.

For this fall’s L.A. Super Show, among the nation’s largest lowrider events, father and son will finish gold-plating the chrome (a popular trend), replace the basic wheel assembly with 100 spokes and install a hydraulic pump so the boombox can “dance”--similar to the effect achieved with lowrider cars. The two expect to take the first-place trophy as they did at last year’s Super Show and at every contest since.

Before the bikes, it was go-carts for the Mirandas. “We spend a lot of time on these projects together,” Miranda says. Most Sundays are spent traveling to contests, held two to three times a month, in Orange County and as far as Pomona and Phoenix. Few, if any, award money; in those that do, the amount barely covers the winner’s expenses. But it’s more about time invested than money, insists Miranda.

Still, a lot of green can go into this hobby. Bikes less elaborate than Benito’s can be finished for about $300. The more customized, the higher the tally, which can reach $4,000, as Benito’s does. The frame, found at a swap meet, cost $25. Consider the $1,000 stereo, and the value skyrockets. Miranda occasionally exchanges his mechanic services with friends and relatives who deal with auto upholstery or body work. He did the same with the fender murals by Santa Ana auto-paint master Eliezer. The airbrushed images of the Grim Reaper, a cemetery and assorted skeletons are worth a grand, he says.

“Benito pays for it with his good grades,” says his father. “He’s a good kid, and he has fun.”

The experience has also included more than this shy teen bargained for, including coverage from Lowrider Bicycle magazine, MTV and, recently, from a French publication.

To him, though, the bike is about him and his friends “hanging out, talking and working on the bicycle,” he says. As many as 10 guys congregate in the Miranda garage daily, offering kudos and advice.

Among the pack is Armando, who sometimes brings his ride to the Mirandas to tinker with. “I encourage guys to build bikes,” he says. “I know guys who spend their money on doing drugs. For me, I’d rather spend it on this.” Armando has raised the hundreds of dollars poured into his bicycle by working at the swap meet with his father.

For Benito, this activity is a pretty simple choice that just happens to keep him out of trouble. “This is what I like to do--to be a lowrider,” Benito says. “A regular bike is too boring. I’d rather ride in a car than on a regular bike.”

As for when he and Armando finally are old enough to drive, don’t assume that they’ll sell these valuable rides to finance bigger toys. They don’t plan to get rid of their pedal-powered showpieces. They have future sons to think about, they say.