![]() ![]() It takes engineering and attention to detail to make a great, big thing like the KRGT-1 work. More than a few forward-control, big-bore motorcycles handle like peg-dragging, howitzer-powered gynecological exam tables. Power is provided by a beautiful, S&S-built V-twin that seems perfectly to scale-until a little math converts its 124 cubic inches of displacement into a jaw-dropping 2.0 liters.Įxcess on a motorcycle is rarely endearing. All that mass is spread over a 66-inch wheelbase. The bike has a monster 240-millimeter rear tire, forward foot controls, and a claimed dry weight of 538 pounds. There is, in the KRGT-1, a recipe for an evil-handling machine. Its partnerships with electronics manufacturers and suppliers have led to razor-slim tolerances between carbon and aluminum parts, and wiring looms elegant in both efficiency and packaging. Its motorcycles pass stringent emissions tests. Dozens of delivered motorcycles later, the fledgling company doesn’t look so fledgling. He liked Hollinger, too, and convinced him to partner up and form a company building the low-slung KRGT-1 from scratch, serializing the design under the Arch name. So he cajoled fabricator Gard Hollinger into building the thing. The Arch began as the brainchild of actor Keanu Reeves, the bike he wanted to ride but couldn’t find: a purposeful, powerful, and distinctively American cruiser. This story originally appeared in the February 2020 issue of Road & Track. What’s left rolls out the door as one of the most exotic motorcycles ever made: the Arch KRGT-1. There, those blocks are ground and shaped by monster CNC machines, reducing around 950 pounds of billet aluminum into three giant bins of curled filings. On a busy street lined with freight operators and check-cashing shops, those trucks deposit big blocks of 6061 aluminum, dull and new, into another low building. A steady stream of trucks grind through town, belching diesel exhaust into the sepia daylight, adding their clatter to the dull roar of highways and airport traffic. Jet assemblies churn from anonymous, slab-sided industrial centers. Rockets jut through yawning hangar doors. ![]() Hawthorne, California, feels like a vision of the state’s golden age. ![]()
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