Fender Menders : Youths’ Pride and Passion Gleam in Crafting of Lowrider Bikes

Lalo Figueroa’s baroque baby, “Evil Weapon,” spun slowly atop a battery-powered pedestal on the 20-yard line of the San Fernando High School football field.

Rag in hand, Figueroa stepped gingerly over the braided rope that separated a steady flow of admirers from his work of art: a purple-flaked, gold- and chrome-plated Schwinn bicycle. He stopped the turntable and dabbed at a speck of dust on the face of the Grim Reaper, airbrushed onto the rear fender.

“I don’t do this for trophies,” said Figueroa, 19, of Burbank, switching on the turntable. His work resumed its sinister rotation at the recent car and bike show. “I do this because it makes me feel good.”

The latest thing in lowriders travels on two wheels. They are the sparkling centerpieces of a little-known universe where young, mainly Latino artisans build skills and self-respect by transforming antique Schwinn Stingrays into abstract sculpture.

Built low to the ground, upholstered and tricked out with accessories ranging from wet bars to stereos, the bikes are not only hot in Southern California--the epicenter of lowriderdom--but also are popping up at custom bike shops and shows in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, and as far east as Connecticut.

The bikes are even catching on in Japan, on MTV and in the videos of popular rap singers.

Kids building the wildly ornate vehicles spend $200 to $2,000, and say they are driven by the creative urge shared by all artists.

“Some say we’re just gangbangers on wheels--that’s not true,” said 18-year-old Eric Martinez of Sylmar. “Kids get into it because it’s something safe and fun.”

Martinez is a member of the Oldies bike club of San Fernando, a branch of the Oldies car club. He can’t afford a car but says he would prefer his 1960 Schwinn lowrider to one any day. “When you build something, you look at it and you say to yourself, ‘Hey, I did this.’ It’s nice. And I want to take credit for it.”

It’s the promise of being different from every other video-game-playing teenager on the block that is attracting growing numbers of youths to the ranks of lowrider customizers.

“Five years ago, I’d go to a bike show and see a couple lowrider bikes. Now, I see a hundred at every show,” said Alberto Lopez, publisher of the Pomona-based Low Rider and Low Rider Bicycles magazines. “Every nationality has some unique trait. In the Mexican American, it’s creativity and pride. These bikes are an expression of our people’s character.”

But lowriders aren’t just for Latinos any more.

“It’s become super-popular,” said Bill Blake, the owner of Dennison Schwinn Cyclery, located in the middle of cruising mecca Whittier Boulevard in East Los Angeles. “I get surfers coming in here from Dana Point, rap groups are getting into it. It’s just become a cool, hip thing to do, and it’s spreading.

“It’s big business for us,” said Blake, who recently built a lowrider bike with his son.

Old Schwinn Stingray frames--the most sought-after are ones built between 1963 and 1972--sell to lowrider customizers for about $75. A few years ago, a frame cost $10.

Lowrider bikes got their start as funky, low-budget cousins to the expensive lowrider cars that first became popular in the 1960s. While their dads built cars boasting velvet-upholstered dashboards, chromed rims and exotic paint jobs, garage-rat kids began applying their artistry to their bikes.

“It’s kind of a way of life,” said auto mechanic Ken Najera of Sylmar, a lowrider car aficionado who judged the bikes at the recent San Fernando Valley show. Although the bikes have been around almost as long as the cars, they never really caught on until recently. The explosion of popularity in the bikes is partly because of belated exposure in magazines and MTV.

The new generation of two-wheeled lowriders differs from the old in more than just horsepower. The founding fathers of lowriding fused form and power to create a new style of car. Was it art? Maybe. But the cars were functional too.

But to today’s hard-core lowrider biker, form is paramount. Many bikes aren’t ridable; their frames are lowered so far that the pedals don’t clear the ground. The bikes have evolved into design objects.

“Think of it as rolling art,” said Nathan Trujillo, senior editor of Low Rider Bicycles magazine.

Even as bi-wheeled baubles, though, the lowriders have served a higher calling.

Frank Alvarez, founder of a group for at-risk teenagers in San Diego County, was among the first to recognize and promote the artistic aspect of lowrider biking. In October 1994, Alvarez organized a lowrider bike exhibit at MiraCosta Community College’s campus in Cardiff-by-the-Sea. “The idea was to get the kids to work together, to create some sense of unity,” Alvarez said.

Some participants stayed in his group, and Alvarez continues to put their work on display.

“Some kids think they can build these bikes overnight, but there’s a process, and in that process, I’ve seen kids change,” Alvarez said. “They become responsible, get a job to pay for bike parts. That’s the whole idea.”

But while lowrider bikers seem to have inherited the creative spirit that drove their predecessors to custom-build the low-slung machines, they have also inherited old stereotypes--the suspicions and fears of those who equate the lowrider look with gangs.

“We’re just in it for fun . . . not to have any hassles,” said Mark Delgado, 16, his hands rammed deep in the pockets of his baggy black pants.

Still, Delgado’s 1964 Schwinn Stingray--”Alcatraz”--boasts a dreamlike mural of the island prison, including a man with a knife in his back. Delgado said he has no criminal record or love of violence, only a fascination with the legendary jail. The mural--airbrushed by an ex-convict--was not intended to glorify violence, but instead serves as a reminder of how not to live your life.

“We try to think up names and ideas that are like, different,” said 15-year-old Edgar Solis. Not all the bikes have such themes. Najera, the lowrider judge, said he has seen bikes with Jesus Christ airbrushed onto the frame.

“Each bike is an expression of whatever makes a person tick, or scares a person, or impresses them,” he said.

In fact, one award-winner was pure confection: Ernie Trujillo Jr.’s 1974 Schwinn Stingray, “A Passion for Blue.” The brilliant, cobalt blue bike has sparkle aplenty with a double-plated chrome seat, custom rims and extended, 20-inch forks. But not a scary image in sight.

Trujillo’s father, who also lives in Sylmar, helped him with much of the work but also laid down an ultimatum. “I told him I will help as long as he stays out of trouble and keeps his grades up,” the elder Trujillo said.

“I was a lowrider myself,” he added, “and now I’m getting back into it.”