the edge in convincing my parents that the moped was a sound investment for business purposes. Of course, it provided for pleasure trips as well. The motorbike saved time and effort. It was a more efficient way of delivering newspapers and of making monthly monetary collections for the service. Albeit, it was probably a less frugal method of delivery because of gasoline, license, insurance and maintenance costs, but the time and effort saved were devoted to my school studies instead. Owning a bike also taught me driving responsibility, safety and how to take care of a vehicle.
I learned how to drive safely and responsibly in two ways: First, by taking a safe driving course for motorcyclists, and second, by on-the-road driving experience. The course actually came years after the actual driving experience for the simple reason that there were no formal motorcycle safety courses during my youth. These courses were established years later in response to the rising number of motorcycle accidents. I finally took such a course at Camp Zama, Japan during March of 1986 to renew my motorcycle license and reduce my insurance premium. The course concentrated on driving techniques such as counter-steering, emergency braking by evenly applying both front and rear brakes, maneuvering to avoid obstacles, recognition of international road signs and a myriad of other driving aspects. It focused primarily on defensive driving, proper signaling, appropriate motorcycling attire and safety factors.
It was the actual on-road driving experience that was my best teacher during the learning process. Giving myself enough room to stop when following the car in front of me, or avoiding tailgating, was one lesson. Another was the use of both defensive and offensive driving to avoid trouble. All your senses have to be alert when you ride. You must anticipate what other drivers will probably do and be prepared for the opposite reaction, too. I learned to use my engine brake first and then complete the halt with the front and rear wheel brakes. Equally important was the use of speed and maneuvering to get out of harm’s way. Where to drive on the road was another critical factor so as not to be the victim of a carelessly opened car door, or of an oncoming driver’s overstepping the centerline. Looking beyond the curve and keeping your line in negotiating it, then applying power at the apex to power out of the curve was a worthwhile lesson learned. Other valuable lessons were learning to slow down during periods of low visibility or wet weather, and keeping the bike as near vertical and as perpendicular as possible when driving across railroad tracks or painted surfaces on pavement, especially when wet. Using curb crawling and split-lane driving techniques, where legal, in a safe and sane manner so as not to startle and upset other drivers or encourage road rage were also beneficial lessons. Finally, and most importantly, I strove to be a true “knight of the road” in my motorcycle driving so as to give motorcycling and my own reputation a good name. Keep in mind that you are automatically enrolled in the brotherhood of the road from the time you buy your first motorcycle. Good road manners are part and parcel of that initial purchase. It’s like keeping the faith.
The Influence of Tommy Llewellyn and Other Friends
The thought of my buying that motorbike in the first place was prompted by three of my friends: Lloyd Sorenson, Tommy Lewellin and Richard Jacobsen. Lloyd Sorenson was my buddy and neighbor from across the street. He was my age, blond haired and blue eyed, athletic and well liked by all the folks in our neighborhood. He was a leader-type personality, the Oakland Tribune Newspaper boy in our area, my major competition, and my best friend. Lloyd acquired a three-wheeled motor scooter for use on his paper route. That got me to thinking – good idea. The idea grew into the purchase of my first bike.
Tommy Lewellin was a friend from across the valley on the other ridgeline. Lloyd and Tommy were close friends from school; I was the third wheel in that relationship. Tommy and I were just casual friends, but he was the one who owned the motorbike that I eventually purchased. He was a couple of years older than I was, and he put the moped up for sale after buying a newer and more powerful motorcycle. He was hooked. Motorcycling was in his blood forever. Of course, I seized the opportunity presented and acquired his old motorbike. That started me along the same path that he seemed to be following.
Tommy had a catalytic effect on me. He was the guy who sold me the three-speed racing bicycle a couple of years earlier. I bought it cheap for twelve dollars. It needed new handgrips, a new pedal on one side, a gear-cable adjustment, a rear brake-cable and a paint job. I gave it all those things and had a first-class racing bike – the fastest, slickest bike in town. It was a beauty.
Tommy was a character with a heart of gold, an innovator and a daredevil. He always seemed to have a smile on his face and was a happy-go-lucky type of person. One day when he was showing us his new motorcycle, he rigged a sparkplug in the end of his muffler and exhaust pipe and hooked it up to a wire connected to the plug cap on the engine head. He cranked up the engine, and with each throb of the motor the exhaust pipe belched a two-foot flame of sparkplug- ignited exhaust gas. We were impressed, to say the least. It just shows you how nutty we were at that age, and what stupid chances we used to take. It also reveals the true character of the avid and dedicated future motorcyclist. We were innovators, daredevils, risk takers, and some were incurable romantics with hearts of gold.
Richard Jacobsen was the final influencing factor in my purchase of the motorbike. Richard lived on the opposing ridgeline, and he was one of my close friends from school. His amazing stories mesmerized me. Those piercing brown eyes accompanied by his intensity, facial contortions, hand gestures and slender body language, as he told his fascinating stories, are the attributes I remember most about Richard. What an imagination he had, and how well he could express it. His imaginings were contagious. He inflamed my mind and thoughts as well. Cowboys and Indians, BB gun hunts, bike hikes, camping trips, motor vehicle voyages, cops and robbers, and commandos – all were subjects of his wild stories. His epic renderings stirred my mind, heart and soul and prodded my spirit of adventure. That is how Richard influenced me.
I recall one episode in particular that illustrates Richard’s rich imagination and its impact on me. We were horsing around on a BB gun hunt in the woods near an old deserted shack on stilts in the Montclair Hills. How it all started, I’m not quite sure, but we began shooting at one another and chasing each other through the woods, as though we were commandos on a raid pursuing the enemy. It was all in fun, of course, but we should have thought of the possible consequences. What if one of those BBs hit an eye? That could have caused blindness for life. I eventually ended up in the abandoned shack shooting out the window at Richard, who was in hot pursuit of me but still outside. He rushed the shack and ducked under it. I leaned out the open window and popped a shot at him from a distance of about 20 feet as he stuck his head out from under the shack. He tried to sneak a peek at me to determine my exact location before taking his shot. All of a sudden, he screamed in agony, dropped his BB gun and held his hands over his face as he fell to the ground. Fear struck me as I stood watching my friend writhing in pain. I immediately regretted having shot him, especially at such close range with only his head and upper body visible. It was too risky, and it was too late.
“You okay, Rich?” I queried.
He didn’t answer. He just lay there breathing deeply. Suddenly and violently Richard lurched to the standing position grabbing his gun as he arose. He stepped out from the side of the house, turned and looked up at me with the fiercest squinty-eyed look I’d ever seen on his pain-grimaced face. He cocked his BB gun while staring at me with a look of rage and bolted toward the front door of the shack. I thought I’d had it. Richard was angry, and I was the target of his spleen. He charged through the front door, stopped and took up an aggressive stance. We both took aim at one another from a distance of 12 feet, held our fire, and then… I started laughing. His expression changed from one of anger to one of bewilderment.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You’re okay, except for that ‘strawberry’ on your forehead, but you’re okay otherwise. I thought I put your eye out with all the screaming you were doing, but all I did was give you one heck of a welt on the head. And that’s proof that I won this game, isn’t it?”
With
