I guess you got that right. Some game, uh? You know, I wasn’t really mad, just wanted you to think so. Boy does my head hurt,” and he lowered the gun as he held his head with his other hand. All was well except for the welt, which took some time to heal. Whew! What an episode. Worthy of note was that the winner of this dangerous but adventuresome game was the future motorcyclist. Uncanny, isn’t it? Another characteristic of the dedicated motorcyclist is revealed. He’s a person with an adventuresome nature and a sense of danger.
All in all, Lloyd was the confidant and competition; Tommy was the catalyst and provider; and Richard was the free spirit and spark that prompted me to take action. And so it started for me too, this business and love of motorcycling. It began with the acquisition of that first moped.
First Bike – A Rube Goldberg Learning Device
What kind of bike was it? My first motorbike was neither mass-produced nor a company-manufactured one. It was a homemade, individually designed and created conveyance. You might call it a Rube Goldberg, or a crudely improvised but innovative learning device. That first bike was nothing more than a glorified bicycle with an engine mounted above the rear wheel. The bicycle frame was reinforced, the suspension was improved with springs on the heavy gauge front forks, but the rear frame was rigid, as there was no swing arm or shock and spring. It had a small gas tank and a single-cylinder, air-cooled, four-stroke engine mounted above the small diameter motor scooter rear wheel and tire. Mounted on the front was a balloon-type tire on an ordinary bicycle wheel. It was chain driven, single geared and even had pedal-assist for getting started and negotiating steep hills. Its top speed was a rousing 35 mph. Finally, it was equipped with mechanical hand and foot brakes fore and aft. What a contraption it was. Yet, as a young teenager, I was greatly impressed by that first set of motorized wheels. The bike didn’t just provide transportation but a means of mobility, freedom, independence and control. The style, power and adrenaline rush, however, would have to wait until years later. The novice moped was strictly a learning device, sufficient for scooting up and down the Northern California hills but not much more. Yet, it was a start, an initiation… a first bike.
An Introduction to a Biker’s Way of Life
My first bike introduced me to the world of motorcycling. I became addicted to a sport and way of life that would last the better part of my lifetime. The motorcycle became a centerpiece of life, a common denominator so-to-speak. It provided a reason for starting conversations with perfect strangers, some of whom became fast friends. The bike was the subject of attention and served as the basis for both social and adventuresome experiences. Races, shows, rodeos, tournaments, expeditions and other events were oriented on the motorcycle. Even work depended on it.
At home the bike occupied my thoughts, time and effort as well. The maintenance and beautification of the beast, service and repairs, accessory items needed for bike and rider, and the money applied to all these items required my attention. Windscreen, helmet, goggles, gloves, boots, leathers, wet-weather gear, compass, toll-coin holder, tank or saddlebags, bungee cords, cover and cleaning paraphernalia were some of the critical items needed by an avid motorcyclist. All these things including insurance, license and registration came at a cost and over a period of time. Accessory items were not purchased all at once. Few riders could afford that. Yet, over the months and years, every biker could afford these accessories. The most essential items were selected for purchase first, followed by those less critical. Luxury items were acquired last if at all. Things like stereo sets with speakers and two-way radios were the ultimate indulgences and were seldom purchased. They were lowest on the rider’s priority list.
A motorcyclist must be a dedicated individual to tolerate all the demands on time, effort and wallet. And, so, motorcycling became more than a sport in my life. It became a way of life. The simple moped, my first bike, introduced me to the biker’s way of life. What a beautiful memory. You remember your first bike, too, don’t you? It’s as vivid in your mind as it was the day you bought it, isn’t it? Some things we never forget. That’s how it is with bikers and their mounts. First bikes are especially well remembered because after all, they are special in that they are “first.”
My top priority after purchasing that motorbike, besides getting it registered, licensed and insured was to safely park it. Now that doesn’t sound like much of a problem, does it? Normally it wouldn’t be, but our house had a small, two-car garage. Our family car took up one parking space; our tenant’s car occupied the second space. My moped had to fit somewhere in between the two cars and there was very limited room. The handlebars of the moped had to be raised above the level of both cars’ fenders so as not to scratch them. The solution was the construction of a wooden ramp for the front wheel only, so as to lift the handlebars higher than the car fenders when the motorbike was parked. The trick was to make sure that I parked the bike before both cars arrived in their parking spaces each evening. Timing was critical. If I misgauged it, or came home late, then my dad would have to back his car out of the garage to permit access of my bike to its ramped parking area without scratching either car. Needless to say, I was reluctant to impose on my father’s kind nature any more than was absolutely necessary. This exercise, however, was required on several occasions and taught me an important lesson: “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Having to interrupt my father made me think things through before I acted and to be aware of the possible consequences. It was a good lesson for life. I wish I had kept it in mind more often as I pursued my own.
The years passed; we boys grew up. By the time we graduated from our respective high schools, each of us followed different paths in pursuing our lives. Contact between us was eventually lost as our individual courses diverged over time. People moved, some took civilian jobs and others went on to college or into the military. Our first motorbikes and scooters were sold; old friendships faded. We struck out along life’s road into an unknown adult future. Our quest finally began in earnest. Such was the prelude to our motorcycling lives.
California Map (Thornhill Drive)
Years of Drought Without a Bike
It was the dry period – a time without a motorcycle that lasted seven years. My life as a biker had just begun during my teenage years and a long interruption had already intervened. This drought was like a plague or blight on my life. There would be other periods like it in the future. They would be memorable only by their extreme monotony. “Into every life a little rain must fall.” Yet, the quest continued even during the dry years.
My fledgling biker’s life was severely interrupted when the family moved and I was sent off to boarding school. I had to sell the motorbike. There was no choice in the matter; it simply had to be done. My parents took a chance, garnered all the cash they could muster from their known assets, threw in with a partner and went into the resort and hotel business. When the house was sold and their first resort lodge at Lake Tahoe was purchased, I became a bike-less boarding student at Saint Mary’s High School located in Peralta Park, California. What a change it was compared to the nice home we had on Thornhill Drive in Montclair. The school was fine, but housing for boarding students, though appreciated, was very old and decrepit. It remained rather inhospitable even after a homemade paint job of my two-man room. Peter Hookendyjke, my Dutch roommate, and I made the best of it. We dwelt and studied there for the next two years until graduation from high school gave us relief. Both of us then went off to the University of Santa Clara in California, Peter as a Mechanical Engineering student and myself into Liberal Arts as an English Major. I graduated four years later; Peter left for Holland after completing his junior year. He didn’t graduate. I never heard from him again and didn’t know the reason for his abrupt departure.
