Triple T Choppers, shown on the day it was raided in 2006, was Terry’s sanctuary for building motorcycles for over a decade, a meeting place for club guys, and sometimes a home for wayward brothers.

TRIPLE T CHOPPERS WAS TERRY’S HOME away from home from 1988 until 2002. It was a place where Terry could hang out and find relief. Triple T stood for Terry, Tekla, and Terry Jr. Although Terry and Tekla hadn’t made a very good romantic couple, they made excellent friends and Tekla remains an important part of Terry’s life to this day, so much so that she became the middle “T” in “Triple T Choppers.”

“I always dreamed of owning a shop,” Terry said. “Plus I could keep club action away from my home. We had a meeting place.”

It rapidly became a gathering place for anyone who was interested in custom bikes and the lifestyle. Even a local LA Sheriff’s deputy stopped twice a week and delivered coffee and donuts.

“He was close to retiring,” Terry said of the short, balding deputy. “He never asked about the club; he just talked motorcycles.”

One shiny southern California morning, as Terry arrived at the shop, he could smell the distinct aroma of aerosol paint and then heard the hiss of a spray can.

On alternate days a railroad union worker wandered into the strip-mall shop, sandwiched between a head shop, a pet shop, a rehab center for recovering addicts, a baseball card shop, and Andy’s liquor store on the corner. He delivered the morning supply of pastries and steaming cups of java.

Terry’s son, Boomer, handled all the shop marketing, silk-screening T-shirts, printing and distributing fliers, running ads for the shop, and keeping the name alive in the motorcycling community.

Club brothers used the shop as a place to meet and repair their motorcycles. It was also a place where they could get away from families, but the shop created its own family atmosphere.

As street gangs flourished, tagging and graffiti became an issue in the Los Angeles suburb smack in the middle of the L.A. basin, surrounded by freeways and 30 or 40 other suburbs, such as Whittier, South Whittier, West Whittier, Montebell, La Puente, and El Monte to the north, and La Mirada to the south.

One shiny southern California morning, as Terry arrived at the shop, he could smell the distinct aroma of aerosol paint and then heard the hiss of a spray can. He went to investigate and discovered a lanky kid on top of his fence leaning precariously toward the side of his building to deliver his tagging message. Terry charged.

The kid had a partner who immediately beat feet out of harm’s way, leaving his buddy to fend for himself. Terry yanked the kid off the fence and dragged him into the shop.

“You’ve got a choice to make, kid,” Terry said. “You can clean up and paint the side of my building or I’m calling your folks.”

“Are you going to call the cops?” the frightened kid asked, shuddering in his Converse All-Star tennis shoes, Levi’s, and paint-stained white T-shirt.

“I want you to go to school,” Terry instructed. “But I want you to come by here everyday around five. I want you to see how this shop works, and how folks make a living in their shops that you want to fuck up with your tagging.”

“We’ll see,” Terry said. Terry dug out all his cleaning gear, paint, and rollers. The kid quickly went to work prepping and painting the damaged area.

“Will that do it, sir?” the kid asked as Terry inspected his workmanship.

“Are you attending school?” Terry asked.

“Yes, sir,” the kid quickly responded.

“I want you to go to school,” Terry instructed. “But I want you to come by here every day around five. I want you to see how this shop works, and how folks make a living in their shops that you want to fuck up with your tagging.”

The kid agreed and came by the shop at 5:00 p.m. He swept the sidewalk and cleaned the counters. Day after day, the kid—his name was Joaquin Fernandez—came to the shop and helped out. After a couple of weeks, his folks showed up at noon with a basket of burritos and tamales for the shop crew.

“Thank you for giving our son a break,” the father said.

“Let’s keep him in school,” Terry said.

Joaquin watched motorcycles come together every afternoon as he arrived at the shop for his cleaning duties. He watched Terry build one bike after another. One in particular caught his attention, a yellow chopper with ghosted pearl-white flames, with chromed ape-hanger handlebars and a five-inch extended glide front end. The beautiful Softail chopper glistened as Terry rolled it into the sun. He was admiring it when a customer, a tattoo artist named Bobby Gonzales, approached.

“When will it be finished?” Gonzales asked, staring at the chromed-out, Evolution-powered, fat bob chopper in the afternoon sunlight.

“In couple of days, but it needs to be broken in,” Terry explained.

“What do you want for it?” Bobby asked.

Terry’s first new Harley-Davidson, in 1993. After 20 years of building bikes and selling them to raise bail money, he finally was able to afford a new Softail.

Joaquin had acquired discipline, integrity, and brotherhood at the Triple T shop. He learned from the master.

“I hadn’t thought about selling it,” Terry said, “but I’ll take $18,000.”

Bobby nodded, eyed the chromed, spoked wheels, the 180 rear Avon tire, the bobbed yellow rear fender, and billet controls, and then left the shop. Two days passed and he was back.

“When will you start it?” Bobby asked.

“In a couple of hours,” Terry said and continued his tuning procedure.

Two hours later, while Joaquin swept the shop, Bobby showed up with his girlfriend and a briefcase full of cash.

“But I haven’t road-tested it,” Terry said.

“How does she run?” Bobby asked.

“Like a dream,” Terry said.

Bobby handed over $18,000 in cash and nodded to his girlfriend, who took off. The tattoo artist straddled the fresh motorcycle.

“Where are you going?” Terry said.

“Las Vegas,” Bobby said. He rapped the pipes, dropped the clutch, and peeled out of the strip mall onto the 605 freeway heading north to Interstate 10, then the 15 toward Vegas, 257 miles away.

Joaquin witnessed the passion in a man’s eyes as he straddled the bike of his dreams and rode into the desert.

Bobby rode the chopper to his tattoo parlor, Sin City, in Vegas, spent a couple of weeks riding around the sinful town, then rode the ground-up custom bike back to Triple T Choppers.

“Have any problems? Terry asked

“Not one,” Bobby said, beaming from ear to ear. “I need it serviced and the oil changed. I’m riding to Chicago tomorrow.

As Terry became more confident in Joaquin’s work ethic, the job duties for the fifteen-year-old expanded to answering the phones and watching the counter. The kid stayed in school but stopped over every night to see which new bike Terry was building, including a bare-bones 1958 Panhead basket case restored to a show-ready ride. A wealthy Asian stock broker had the basket case shipped to Terry’s shop because he didn’t want his wife to see it.

Terry made sure Joaquin stayed in school, kept his grades strong, and his folks continued to supply a hearty Mexican lunch from time to time. A couple of years passed and Joaquin graduated from Los Altos High School and enrolled in the Cerritos Junior College, gaining knowledge and a solid work ethic while continuing his work at Triple T Choppers.

Terry continued to work with the stock broker, who drove a shiny new Bentley. He restored the basket case and his customer shipped it to Japan. More projects were delivered to Triple T for ultimate export to Japan. Terry built bikes for Zeke, a shop owner in Hollywood, who in turn sold them to Hollywood elite, including Billy Idol and Lorenzo Lamas.

Finally Joaquin graduated from college with a degree in criminal law and joined the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. A strange conclusion for someone who started out tagging garages, but Joaquin had acquired discipline, integrity, and brotherhood at the Triple T shop. He learned from the master.