I was 15, and I had already purchased my first car for $75.00, a 1956 Chevy Bel Air. What I thought of as a source of pride, was viewed by those on the street with derision. It’s paint was faded, its wheel wells and floorboards, near non existent. Its transmission was mostly shot and the inline six chewed and spewed oil. But, it was mine.
My dad, a mechanic had said, “It will run till you can afford something better,” so we tack welded sheet metal to the floor under my feet, where I could see the road, and bonded over the smaller holes that persisted. The wheel wells were more difficult to fix, but we thought at least we’d keep out most of the carbon monoxide. When it rained, I’d drive around puddles. I told everyone to keep their windows cracked open to ensure we didn’t get affected by carbon monoxide. I was all about the safety you see.
I had passed my driver’s license test and gained the ability to drive on my first attempt. So, with my newfound freedom I immediately set up a car pool to high school so that I could afford to drive the car. Gas was expensive, and oil, more so. I forget which cost me more. But gas was 49 cents a gallon. I’d need to get a part-time job, which I did, working at a take-out pizza joint.
One morning it was raining heavy and I completely forgot about the holes in the wheel wells. Lynette, a girl who lived down the street, had got in last and was squeezed against the rear door on my side. We’d barely gone a block when we hit this huge puddle. Immediately there was a scream from the back seat and Lynette’s dress was soaking wet down her back. It was the best of times.
Anyway, one Friday night I was offered a proposition by a friend who owned a motorcycle. I’d told him that even though I had wanted to buy a motorcycle, my dad had disallowed it. The family had raced motorcycles in England and it was considered too dangerous on public roads. He said, “How is your dad going to know? You drive down to A&W, we’ll swap. I can use the car for the drive-in and you can have the bike for the weekend.” Not being the brightest of souls, I agreed. ‘Dad will never know.’ I thought to myself, “I mean, how could he.”
Friday night came and I drove down to the corner of the street. Ron was there on his 1970 Honda CB175. Compared to my old Chev, I thought it looked great, and when I passed windows, in my reflection, I was Steve McQueen. Anyway, after a cursory, this is the brake and this is the clutch session, I lurched my way down the street and puttered off down the road. Twenty horsepower never felt so good. And I could take it on the highway, which meant I could get to the beach. Even better.
Within a couple of hours I’d figured out how to not stall the bike, and all was right with the world. In those days, safety being a priority, my cranium sufficed to protect my grey matter, which I had already tested thoroughly, only having fractured it once when I was young. Since it was now the beginning of July, I had secured a job as a lifeguard, having just passed my qualification. I even had a white T-shirt with “Lifeguard” emblazoned on the front.
That night I puttered over to Ron’s house and waited for him to get back from the Starlite Drive In. I could see him coming down the street, a blue haze suspended behind the path of the Chev. We exchanged keys and I rode around the corner, having agreed that we would do the same thing on Saturday. The next morning I was up early and drove to the end of the block, left the keys in the car and jumped on the bike. In the space of one day I had fallen in love with motorcycling. It was pure joy. The wind in my hair, sunglasses on, shorts, runners and my very cool white lifeguard t-shirt. I was a Greek God. A skinny one, but a Greek God nonetheless.
I took off to the “Oasis”, where I had procured my lifeguard job and was to start that morning. It was just a gravel pit, flooded, – with campsites, a concession and bandstand in the middle of the site, and a wooden diving platform in the middle of the pool. I barely had to ride down a gravel road to the site, which I successfully navigated. My first day went by without incident and at five o’clock I rode home, once again the God of Speed and Power on my steed.
This regimen continued through the summer, and I became evermore obsessed with the motorcycle. I had gained some ability by August and Ron seemed to like the car more than owning a motorcycle. The only problem was that I couldn’t take the bike home. We had to exchange vehicles every night at the corner of the street. While onerous, it was the best solution to the problem that I could come up with.
Near the last weekend of summer, I decided to take off to the lake district, which is about a hundred miles from home. The ride out was uneventful and I enjoyed the day on the beach with a couple of close friends. That night I jumped on the bike, and started to head home. I really wasn’t familiar with the road, and trees came right to the side of the rock and gravel constructed lane. In the dark, I hit a hole and the bike swerved towards the trees, which I immediately struck with my head. The bike was in the trees, and I pulled it out back onto the road. “Damn, there are scratches on the paint and on the tank.” Worse, I had road/tree rash and a good sized cut above my eyebrow, that was bleeding profusely down my face. The bike, otherwise seemed fine, and I drove home, stopping for gas on the highway. As I walked into the store, the clerk, took one look at me and screamed. I hadn’t noticed how much blood I had spewed all over my nice white shirt and shorts, but I looked like something out of the Friday night, “Chiller Thriller” hour on local TV.
Before I got home I stopped at the hospital in the city and got patched up, not realizing that they would be calling my father, because, of course, I wasn’t 18. When my dad walked in, he took one look at me and said, “You didn’t get that in a car.” He wasn’t terribly angry, but the jig was up, and so was summer.
But somewhere deep inside my tiny brain, a seed had been planted. One that would remain dormant for years before it finally sprouted an obsession. And the rest is just that.
Steve McQueen wrote many years ago that, “Racing is life. Everything else is waiting.” Motorcycling can be like that as well.
Ciao…
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