Early
Teenage Years
Entered
the adolescence, still in Switzerland.
As
allowed by law, at age 14 I was qualified to ride a limited-speed
(30 km/h) limited-displacement (less than 50 cc) moped;
basically, it had to be a motorized bicycle.
After long
negotiations with the Treasury Department and Chief Financial
Officer, I signed an agreement to trade away three years
of allowance for the new moped.
1964
Cilo “Vampire”
- the first 1,000 miles?
This
machine was a real beauty; made by Cilo in Italy, it was
bright red in keeping with its Italian heritage.
If
you’re Italian and named “Vampire” you just have to be red.
Its
two-stroke engine displaced 47 cc.
Because
of regulations, there was a requirement for functional pedals,
which doubled as footpegs.
The
pedal/footpegs were an exaggerated version of the offset
footpegs of the air-cooled BMW I would later buy, but that’s
getting ahead of the story.
Starting
was just like riding a bicycle; pull in the left-hand clutch
lever, pedal up to speed, drop the clutch (first tractor
experience paid off) and, with a little twist of the right-hand
throttle, the engine would light off.
Ride
away smugly, then chug to a complete stop a short distance
down the road.
Turn
on the fuel petcock and repeat the whole procedure, not
as smugly as before.
Two
levers handled the braking chores; the right lever was for
the front brake and the left lever was for the rear brake.
Yes, you
counted right, that’s TWO levers for the left hand.
I
soon learned the proper braking technique.
“Ignore
the clutch, grab both the left-hand rear brake and right-hand
front brake and squeeze hard” because these were single
leading-shoe drum brakes and not quite adequate on a good
day.
Then
just before stopping, when the engine was about to stall,
let go of the rear brake and squeeze the clutch.
One
experience with these brakes resulted in my front wheel
crushed under the wheels of a farm tractor that was rounding
a blind curve.
We both
lost a few years growth when the dust settled.
Did
I mention that it was power-limited by law?
I
soon discovered that the manufacturer had placed a restriction
in the intake to comply with this law, and its removal was
accomplished only minutes after this discovery.
This
quick modification didn’t result in the thundering power
increase I had envisioned, and I was puzzled and disappointed.
Thinking
longer and harder, I reasoned that there must be additional
restriction in the intake, so I rotated the intake to point
the opening directly forward, figuring to add power due
to ram air effect.
I
removed the air cleaner to further cut down intake resistance.
The
first test showed impressive power to a breakthrough 31-32
km/h, whereupon the carburetor, how hyperventilating, leaned
out severely, the engine backfired and jettisoned the newly-modified
ram-air tube across the street at high speed.
That
impressed me almost as much as the time when a friend’s
modified machine ejected its spark plug through the open
window of a third-story apartment during a similar quest
for speed.
One
of the features of this machine was that had a functional
front suspension.
Well,
true, it didn’t have any intentional dampening, but just
having spring-loaded telescoping front suspension was a
radical improvement.
Other
mopeds had rigid front forks left over from their bicycle
heritage. My machine
thus shared a significant feature that put it one step closer
to being a real motorcycle, like the Norton, BSA and AJS
machines the police rode.
I
decided that the post mounted bicycle-type single seat was
also too close to being a bicycle, so I removed the seat,
cut down the post, and strapped some foam rubber and an
old rug held on the luggage rack with bungee cords to make
a motorcycle bench seat.
I
removed the pedals, crank and chain, substituting clip-on
footpegs, to complete the illusion of a real motorcycle.
Now
I had a real man’s machine.
Did
I mention that the law required that all bicycles and mopeds
had to have a bell?
Did
I mention that a horn was not considered an acceptable substitute?
Need
I describe the humiliation of having a stupid, sissy bicycle
bell strapped onto this otherwise manly machine?
Did
mention that there was a fine for not having a bell?
Night
riding presented its own special challenges, and back then
before halogen light sources, when Lucas was considered
a respectable light source, the challenges were monumental.
One
night, after an exercise in tree-papering skills, my friends
and I were retreating across an open field, all lights off,
under full throttle and the cover of darkness like the daring
raiders in the movies.
One
minute I was ripping along with the breeze pushing my hair
back, the next moment I was flat on my back.
After
attending a remedial breathing class I discovered that I
had run full-tilt into a soccer goal!
My
friends couldn’t keep a straight face for days.
I
was once offered a backseat ride on a Lambretta scooter.
The
Lambretta was the squared-off imitator of the Vespa.
Its square
lines made it more of a Man’s ride, because Girls rode Vespas.
I learned
a few things on this wild ride.
First,
all of my modification skills were in vain, for here was
a scooter that could easily do three times the speed of
my moped without modifications.
Second,
higher speeds needed much greater lean angles.
Third,
the small diameter tires and soft suspension contributed
to my resolution not to be a passenger!
I
had to have a bigger machine, of my own, all to myself.
Another
one of our group somehow obtained a new Honda 50, a real
motorcycle.
He
wasn’t yet 18 and so didn’t qualify for a real motorcycle
endorsement, but undeterred, he hand-drew and then painted
a fake license plate.
He
was good, but it only took him one short ride to impress
the local police.
I
don’t know if he ever got the bike back.
Ed
bought a used BMW 250 cc single at a police auction.
When
we went to their house for a visit, he showed off its exposed
shaft drive.
I
marveled at it for a while, and then he and I tried to start
it.
The
kick-starter didn’t achieve the desired results, so we ran
down the street trying for a push start.
I
don’t remember being that exhausted after playing soccer!
I
think we got it to backfire once . . .
1966
- 1971
The
Dark Ages
Beginning
with Early Teenage years I wanted to explore uncharted territory,
females, but not there weren’t any who showed any interest
in joining the expedition, so I just hung out with the guys,
and we raced and lied about our machines.
Just
about the time I was getting a bit more comfortable with
around girls (well, one particular girl at least) and was
beginning to see the possibilities, Dad decided it was time
that my brother and I were repatriated.
Bidding
farewell to my first real girlfriend (who either thought
my moto-antics were cute or saw through them completely)
we moved from idyllic Switzerland to a rural small town
in southern Illinois, where my parents had been born and
raised.
As
I acclimated, I noticed a Honda 160 scrambler, complete
with the upswept, open pipes.
I
had to have one!
I
lobbied Mom as never before, but that was a battle lost.
Then
I really
admired a friend’s Triumph 650 Bonneville!
Another
battle lost.
In
1967 I graduated, in the middle of my high school class,
and was pleased when I found that I had been accepted at
University of Missouri, Rolla.
That
summer Cathye announced that she was pregnant, and after
several short, but intense, discussions with respective
parents, I found myself playing the role of father and husband.
Christopher
was born January 28, 1968, during my second freshman semester.
Cathye
and Chris joined me at school as soon as I found housing
for all of us.
Jim,
a college classmate rode his Honda 450 everywhere, in all
kinds of weather.
This
rekindled memories of riding, and created a ream of travel.
I
would have a “big” 450 or a 500.
In
reality, we didn’t even have a car. I walked to all of my
classes, we walked to the grocery store and relatives and
friends would come get us for various outings and holidays.
Our
marriage weakened.
She
reluctantly admitted that she had wanted to get pregnant
to have a way to get away from her mother and stepfather,
and I was as much “available” as “desirable.” We both agreed
that it would be better to end it, and we divorced in the
fall of 1970.
Following
this loss, I dropped out of school briefly for a few weeks.
A
good friend jolted me back to reality.
He
informed me of how absolutely stupid, silly and futile and
worthless it would be to stop just one semester short of
completing my degree.
I
thought it over for a short while, then returned to finish
my toughest semester, and graduated in December.
My
situation was slow to improve from that point.
My
father had returned from Europe, and my mother and brother
had moved to Detroit.
I
joined them briefly after graduation, found employment almost
immediately, and moved out again into my own apartment.
I
met my best friend John at work.
His
parents had property up in northern Michigan, which was
next to a State Forest, and meant unlimited trail riding.
I was immediately addicted.
I
gave in to my John’s suggestion that I get something to
ride in the dirt.
Almost
without thought or negotiation, I found myself the owner
of a new 1972 Suzuki TS-125 “Duster.”
I
reasoned that a dual-purpose bike was the “Hot setup” and
that a 125-cc motor would make all the power that I ever
needed.
I rode
it to work, braving downtown traffic.
It
had enough power and was easy to handle, so I managed to
hold my own in traffic.
This
was in early 1971, and the Vietnam conflict was still going
strong.
I
had been awarded a draft lottery number of 115 and the St.
Louis Draft Board was calling numbers up at 135 when I graduated
and my student deferment expired.
My
new employer tried to get a deferment on my behalf, citing
the valuable public service I was rendering, but with the
Illinois Board was not impressed with Michigan service.
When
I found that the U.S. Navy could not accept me due to below-standard
vision, I enlisted with the Michigan Air National Guard,
who promised to use my electrical engineering degree by
training me as a flight simulator technician.
So
there I was in the fall of 1971, not out of school one year
and sitting in a drab room with several others, waiting
for the airplane to take us to the great state of Texas
and a new adventure, Basic Training.
The
memory of cool, crisp, mornings riding trails in the north
woods was a small comfort.
In
Basic Training the closest I came to a motorcycle was to
exhibit the poor judgement of taunting the Drill Instructor.
I
informed him that he had a really neat motorcycle (a Honda
350 Scrambler), but that it shouldn’t take him more than
one kick to start it.
I
never saw a smile fade so quickly, nor have I ever since
seen such a cold, malicious look.
From
Basic Training I went to Technical School, in the middle
of Illinois in the dead of winter.
It
seemed like spring was years away, and the dreams were quickly
fading.
1972
- 1976
Renaissance
1971
Suzuki TS-125 Duster
- 4,000 miles
I
bought this bike in the spring of 1971, and rode it a few
times “up north,” but had put it away for the duration of
my military training.
In
early 1972, with Technical School behind me and with spring
in the air, I returned home, found a rental home and gathered
all of my toys around me.
I
bought a “muscle car,” coincidentally named “Duster,” with
a 340 cubic inch motor, four-barrel carburetor, “E-70"
tires, and so on.
My
dirt-riding partner John fired the first salvo in what was
to become “Dirt Wars.”
He
bought a Kawasaki 175, with rotary valve induction.
He added
a Hooker expansion chamber.
It
was on the heavy side, but made lots of noise and plenty
of power.
I
made several attempts to coax more power out of the Duster.
A
Bassani expansion pipe would do the trick nicely.
It was
a simple bolt-on job, wouldn’t require much more than a
simple re-jetting, and sounded awesome.
Well,
at least I though it was awesome.
John’s
parents later said that motor sounded more like a large
chicken on steroids with its “braaaak-buck-buck-buck-buck-braaaak!”
two-stroke popping noises.
I
raised the compression, but that only made it harder to
start and it rattled when it got hot.
It
had those squared-off
“Trials
Universal” tires.
They
were meant as a compromise between street and dirt riding;
they didn’t seem much good for either.
1974
Suzuki T-500 Titan
- 22,000 miles
I
realized that the Duster wasn’t going to cut it on the street,
so I bought my first “real” street motorcycle, a 1974 Suzuki
T-500 Titan.
None
of that sissy 350 stuff for me. I was sold on Suzuki’s and
two-stroke power!
I
had bought the blue model, but the only one the dealer had
prepped the Saturday I showed up was a reddish-purple model.
He said
that I could have it at the same price, right then and ride
away, or wait until the blue model was prepped, which might
take a few days.
Well,
I came to the dealership ready to ride, and ride I was going
to!
I
motored away happily an hour later, the proud owner of a
brand-new reddish-purple T-500 Titan.
That
motorcycle taught me a lot about riding:
Speeding
ticket - on the freeway enroute to a Guard meeting, in full
uniform.
(“Well,
Sarge, you’ll just be later
for roll call.
Next time
leave earlier and go slower.”)
Stuck enrichener - the usual
30 mile per gallon became 3 miles per gallon, but with a
2-stroke motor the extra smoke in the exhaust isn’t noticeable.
Ran out of fuel on expressway and had to hop the
fence to get a can.
Good thing that this model was an oil-injector, because
if I had to find gas/oil pre-mix the bike I would still
be there.
Close encounters of the bird
kind when a low-flying bird didn’t gain altitude fast enough
and made sudden impact with the top of my helmet.
Tried the cutoffs and sneakers
dress code. A
full day of riding resulted in sunburn and windburn of legendary
proportions. I’ve
never seen that much skin peel off in one piece!
Had my second close encounter
with Mother Nature when a hailstorm sprang up out of nowhere.
OK, there were warning signs, but remember I was
new at riding. The
pain from the hail itself was almost bearable, but the noise
inside the helmet was deafening.
Experimented with more noise
by removing the muffler baffles.
Learned that a 4-cycle without baffles sounds cool,
a 2-cycle without baffles sounds like an outboard.
Learned that drum-type double-leading-shoe
front brakes are good for stopping in the dry, but are not
good in the wet.
Well, that is they aren’t good until they dry out,
and then they’re very good again.
Learned to relax in a front
wheel skid on wet pavement.
1970
Montessa 247 Cota
- 500 miles; 250 up, 250 down.
John
raised the dirt riding stakes when he bought a Bultaco Alpina.
250
cc, made in Spain, with Akront rims and real knobby tires.
This
was war!
I
countered with a used Montessa Cota 247, another Spanish
trials bike, sure-footed in the trails, similar power, and
that interesting trials gearbox.
Trials
bikes have effectively three speeds: first-second-third,
depending on how much noise you wanted to make at a walking
pace, fourth when it began to move, and fifth which was
only to be used on wide stretches of trail or dirt road.
The
swing arm bearings had a habit of loosening periodically,
which would allow the swing arm to wag back and forth a
few inches, which produced an interesting effect when viewed
from the rear.
I
didn’t notice it while riding; I thought that it was just
the normal mode of the bike moving around in the dirt the
way most bikes do.
It
also had a cracked front fork slide.
After
one particularly good jump the front forks compressed down
to the full extent of front travel, all 5 inches, and stayed
there!
I
remember a brief glimpse of the headlight, upside-down,
and a feeling that I had eaten one or two pancakes too many
for breakfast.
Somehow
I didn’t fall off, and continued at a more subdued pace
back to the cabin.
What
a sight it must have been, severe nose-down attitude, a
wobble (those swing arm bearings that had loosened up again)
and me grinning all the way.
1973
Suzuki T-350
- 150 miles, ridden only when she let me ride it
This
bike was purchased for my second ex-wife, who rode it about
four times.
