PART I – YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

My first car was was a used surplus mail Jeep that my father bought at an auction from the local post office and had painted the most hideous shade of pea soup green you have ever seen.  You know the type, two wheel drive, asthmatic four cylinder, a big boxy non-removable hard top, sliding doors, right hand drive.   The most un-cool vehicle you could ever imagine!  My dad had visions of installing a small block Chevy motor in it, but to everyone’s relief that never happened.

As a sixteen year old kid, I lusted for an SS 396 Chevelle or a ’69 Corvette but what did I get, a used mail jeep that the gas tank used to fall out of on a regular basis (usually when I was trying to impress some cute young lady by giving her a ride home).  Needless to say, I never had a problem juggling girlfriends back then.  It’s not hard to juggle when you’ve got nothing to juggle with!

Needless to say, I never had a problem juggling girlfriends back then.  It’s not hard to juggle when you’ve got nothing to juggle with!

You might get the impression that I hated this vehicle and you’d be right.  I did at the time, but upon reflection, I loved that car, uh Jeep (whatever it was), it was freedom, rebellion and stability all at the same time.  Fortunately though, this story is not about my first car, it’s about my second car,  one of my most memorable motorcycles, a good friend and a summer afternoon adventure.

PART II – ROOMMATES AND CAMAROS

As you’ve probably realized by now, my teenage years were tumultuous.   A whirlwind of trying to get through high school, getting pulled over by the police on a weekly basis for the crime of being a teenager, trying to avoid the drama of my homelife and just trying to fit in somewhere.  I think it was a reflection of the times, or maybe the environment and I seem to remember that there was a distinct lack of adult supervision.  After all the adults of the community were in the midst of their own mid-life crisis’s.  Remember this was an affluent New England town that was in the throes of mid 1970’s excess, allowing middle age parents to explore the cornucopia of excess that the times had to offer, key parties, attractive middle age divorcee’s, plenty of booze, disco and a little valium thrown in to keep things mellow.

After all the adults of the community were in the midst of their own mid-life crisis’s.

One of my closest friends at the time and a fellow veteran of the era found himself in a disagreement with his mother.  I’m sure she insisted that he attend school, get good grades and try to make something of his life  but he would have none of it.  As a parent she just didn’t understand that there was so much more to learn by trying to interpret the lyrics of the Grateful Dead, so much more excitement to be had by hanging around the cab stand at the train station.   As a result he decided that he would be better off living on the street so I suggested he come live with me and share my room in the basement of my parent’s house.  Which he did for about eight or nine months.  Holy cow, what was I thinking, great memories, but anyway….

As a parent she just didn’t understand that there was so much more to learn by trying to interpret the lyrics of the Grateful Dead, so much more excitement to be had by hanging around the cab stand at the train station.

We had a mutual friend that lived down the street and prefered to drive Camaros.  He had just purchased a really nice 1968 Camaro with a small block 327, vinyl roof and turbo 350 transmission and accordingly had to get rid of his 1967 Camaro, convertible, 250 six cylinder, three speed car.  My buddy learned that the car was for sale, purchased it and being that he was living with me, brought the car to my parent’s house.  To the casual observer, this may sound good but the trouble was the car was a rust bucket, had about a hundred and some-odd thousand miles on it, needed a new top and had a broken rear leaf spring.  A typical teenager with no money car.  As is often the case, time moved on, my buddy patched things up with his parents, moved in with his father and the ’67 Camaro sat in the driveway of my parent’s house, unloved and uncared for.

Until……. one day another close friend of mine from The Pond neighborhood (Remember The Pond?) suggested that we go to the junkyard, get a leaf spring and get the Camaro back on the road.  That was a great idea except that neither of us had any money.  Well, back then that never stopped us so off we went to the junkyard and as we were wandering  around the back lot of the place we found, buried in the mud, weeds and gook a leaf spring for a ’67 Camaro, Voila!  As we were in the very back of the junkyard, in the place that all of the discarded parts go that no one wants, my buddy and I looked at each other, came to the same conclusion and heaved the leaf spring over the fence and onto the side of the road.  I was sure that when we went to retrieve it there would be cops, FBI and a SWAT team waiting for us, but no one even noticed.

I was sure that when we went to retrieve it there would be cops, FBI and a SWAT team waiting for us, but no one even noticed.

Now I’m certain that when I die and I’m being held accountable for all of my sins that I’ll have to answer for the theft of that leaf spring.  My only defense is that I was young, stupid and needed to save the Camaro from an early appointment with the crusher.  Later that day, we fought with rusted out bolts, bruised and bleeding knuckles and managed to fix the Camaro.  It seems to me that one of things that get you through life, are small unexpected successes!

PART III – THE RED ROOSTER

My first 1976 Honda CR125 Elsinore was acquired from a local entrprenuer that used to come around and supply people with medicinal marijuana in the days before they called it medicinal marijuana.  One of the ways that this fellow used the profits from his medicinal dispensary was to buy and restore to its full glory a ’76 CR125 Elsinore.  The first time I saw this bike (I actually heard the bike before I saw it) I fell in love with it’s speed, the sound of it’s piercing exhaust note and the intensity of it.  This was a real competition only motorcycle and I had to have it.  So with a little help from my dad and a $600 dollar loan from the bank I bought the bike.  But, this is not a story about my first 1976 Honda CR125 Elsinore, this is a story about my second one.

My second ’76 CR125 Elsinore was bought from an acquaintance of mine from town.  A guy I knew that was bout my age and came from a family that had a notorious reputation.  For years I was kind of afraid of this guy and his older brothers but as I came to know him, I found that he was not unlike me.  A kid from the wrong side of affluence in a town that had no tolerance for that sort of thing, a kid that was just trying to fit in, and find his way in life.  Anyway, he called me up one day and asked if I’d like to buy a ’76 CR125 Elsinore.  Whoa, this was deja’vu all over again, he didn’t have to ask twice.  So I jumped in the Camaro, drove to his house and a deal was made for $200 dollars and ounce of the medicinal.  Now, I owned my second ’76 CR125 Elsinore but I had to get it home.

Whoa, this was deja’vu all over again, he didn’t have to ask twice.

By this time the Camaro was being used by me as regular transportation and because it was the summertime the convertible top was in the permanent down position.  There were two reasons for this, 1) it was summertime and what better way to enjoy a ’67 Camaro convertible than with the top down and, 2) one of my friends had placed his elbow through the rotten top and I didn’t have the money to replace it.  So, when I went to pick up the second Elsinore, I had to get it home so I simply pried it into the back seat with the front wheel hanging over the rear fender.  Hey, instant pick up truck, I had always wanted an El Camino anyway and this was the next best thing.

PART IV – TWO FRIENDS AND A FLAT TIRE

My co-conspirator in the great leaf spring caper had a really nice Rickman with a 125 Zundapp motor and one afternoon we decided we wanted to go riding.  So, we removed the back seat and loaded the two bikes into the El Camaro Camino and headed off to a riding spot that was a former summer camp for kids in the 1950’s and ’60’s.  By now the place had fallen into ruin and it was used by the area motocross guys as a place to practice.  (As a side note, I now have a friend that used to ride there back in the day and he remembers seeing the old Camaro with a couple of dirt bikes hanging out of the back.)

Not the Camaro’s fault though, it was probably due to the fact that the tires on the old girl were beyond bald.  They were bald times two!

The destination was about 45 minutes from where we lived and to get there we had to go through another small town, similar to the town we lived in.  As we were on the outskirts of the town, on one of the many small backroads that make up the area, we heard a “pop” and felt the inevitable, unsettling feeling of a flat tire.  Dammit!  Not the Camaro’s fault though, it was probably due to the fact that the tires on the old girl were beyond bald.  They were bald times two!

With no spare tire we were dead in the water.  After a couple minutes of “what are we going to do”,  “maybe we can drive it on the rim to the gas station” we decided that we should pull the dirt bikes out of the Camaro and ride them to the closest service station to get help.  (Remember service stations?) Which we did.

We unloaded the bikes and headed off for help.  Meandering along the back roads, creating enough racket to notify the local constable, we eventually made our way to a stop light and to the main drag of the town.  When the light turned green, we looked at each other and proudly, heads held high, rode through the center of town and down to the local Getty service station which thankfully was open.   When we got there we told our story to a young guy and he was cool enough to lend us a hand and help repair the tire.

When the light turned green, we looked at each other and proudly, heads held high, rode through the center of town and down to the local Getty service station which thankfully was open.

With repairs completed, we got back on the dirt bikes, and once again proudly, with heads held high we made our way up the main drag and stopped for a light.  While sitting there, my buddy motioned to me to look up and there was a small sign indicating that the police department was up ahead on the left.  We took that as an omen that maybe our good luck was about to run out and we got back to the car ASAP, loaded the bikes up and got the hell out of there.  We eventually did get to our destination but the ride was clearly uneventful.  I am sure it’s the old saying coming into play, and something that every experienced motorcyclist knows, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

Now, I’m sure there are those of you out there that may be saying what’s the big deal?  But, try getting on your unregistered, vintage dirt bike and ride it down the main street of your town.  You’ll probably get busted, have the bike impounded and wind up on the national anti-terrorism list as an enemy of the state.  I guess what it boils down to is simpler times created simpler adventures.

The CR125 Elsinore was eventually sold to another buddy of mine, you’ll remember him from the previous post about the minibike and the Camaro was reclaimed by it’s rightful owner.  There were a couple of more adventures to be had in the Camaro including an impressive airborne flight on a dark & stormy psychedelic night.  But that’s another story, stay tuned…………

Thanks to my co-conspirator, CB, for helping me clarify some of the details!

PART I – A LITTLE HISTORY

When I was a kid, pre-teens, my family lived on the outskirts of a small city in Fairfield County, Connecticut in a nice 1950’s ranch house with a swimming pool on a private road.   A very nice middle class neighborhood with some eccentric neighbors, family members, friends and a stern but warm Swedish grandmother thrown in to add flavor.

Being the late 1960’s – early 70’s, we lived in what was considered to be the country.  This was right around the time that “suburbs” were beginning to be developed so there was still plenty of open space and wooded areas to mess around in.  Great place to be a kid!

My experiences in this neighborhood helped to lay the foundation of who I am today

My experiences in this neighborhood helped to lay the foundation of who I am today because this is where I was first exposed to sex, drugs & rock-n-roll (Jazz too, as I was studying piano with an eccentric, well known local jazz musician.), hot rods and of course motorcycles.  All of the good stuff!  It was the late ’60’s and even as a little kid, I was aware that there was a cultural change in the air.  A distinct generational division between the kids that I knew and their parents generation.

One of my first and best friends in the neighborhood was a young girl the same age as I was.  She might have been my girlfriend, I think, but I’m not sure.  I didn’t even know what a girlfriend was but when her mother spoke to my father about having me spend the night with her, they both decided I should go home immediately.  Party Poopers!

Her older brother, a few years older than us and who used to beat the crap out of me on a regular basis, went to Woodstock for the festival.  I can remember the conversation with her about Country Joe’s Fish Cheer, gimme an F,  gimme a U, what’s that spell?  What’s that spell?……….   I later became friends with him, but haven’t seen either of them for years.  I hope they’re both OK and doing well.

As a side note, I saw Country Joe perform up at Arlo Guthrie’s church with a couple of longtime, good friends of mine a few years ago and he performed the cheer.  Not quite the same energy as the original, but lot’s of fun just the same.  Anyway……..  Back to the story.

PART II – THE MOTOR

One day, my dad came home and presented me with a mildly used Rupp racing go-kart.  This thing was awesome, the go-kart had  a 3 1/2 horse Techumseh motor, racing slicks, roll bar, number plate.  I was psyched, total freedom for a 9 year old!  As we lived on a private road with adjoining private roads.  I ran the go-kart all around the neighborhood and actually earned a little respect from some of the older “tough guys” because the kart was pretty fast.  I loved that go-kart and drove it for a couple of years until the front left hand tire spindle became bent.  Off it came and the go-kart was never repaired.  I was bummed but as you can guess, there was plenty of adventure waiting as I got older.

Dumb luck on my part because I had no idea what I was doing!

When we moved to the new, previously mentioned upwardly mobile house with the better schools and better address, the go-kart came with us and was thrown into the basement. As luck would have it, one of my first friends from the “The Pond” neighborhood also had a Rupp go-kart that was minus an engine.  A while before this I had taken the Techumseh motor apart, mostly for curiosity’s sake, and reassembled it so it was ready to go.  I’m positive that when I reassembled it I must have advanced the cam and removed the governor because when we first used the motor, it was extremely fast (for a 3 1/2 Tecumseh) and revved like crazy.  Dumb luck on my part because I had no idea what I was doing!

We built up my friend’s kart and had some fun with it until a minor disagreement forced us to part ways.  So now I had the motor back for my incapacitated go-kart.

 PART III – THE MINI BIKE

 About a year or so after I first moved to “The Pond” neighborhood, I met a bunch of guys that would become lifelong friends.  Most of us weren’t really interested in school at that time.  As I remember, our attention was more focused on hanging out, girls, motorcycles, fast cars, music and general mischief, etc… so we all got along famously. For a while we were a pretty tight knit gang!  Some of them have come in and out of my life at various times as our lives have evolved, but each time we re-communicate it’s just like we’ve left off at the end of our last conversation.  Even after several years of non-communication.  I’m sure others reading this will have similar experiences but I take comfort in knowing that these folks are still out in the world and every once in a while, I get to share some laughs (and maybe some beers) with them.

One of my oldest friends from that era (Actually, today he lives down the road from me and we still manage to get into trouble from time to time.) acquired a mini bike, minus an engine (You see where I’m going with this?) from a friend of his.  For some reason which I can’t recall, we decided to mount my Techumseh motor into his frame.  Great idea, this made for a pretty fast little mini bike,

As well as the really cute young lady (Once again, she was only eighteen or nineteen, but being in our early teens, she seemed much older and more exotic.) that was the cab stand’s dispatcher. 

Now, besides “The Pond”, the other place that we would spend most of our free time  during these years was the taxi cab stand at the local train station.  The train station was at the end of the line on a local side line for  the Metro North Railroad and was a magnet for the town’s misguided youth.  My buddy kind of worked there on an informal basis so we knew the guy that ran the cab stand and most of the drivers.  As well as the really cute young lady (Once again, she was only eighteen or nineteen, but being in our early teens, she seemed much older and more exotic.) that was the cab stand’s dispatcher. Next to the cab stand was a small utility closet that my buddy used to store the mini bike.

PART IV – MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT JUVENILE DELINQUENCY

To me, at that time, there was nothing more boring than being in 9th grade english class having a discussion about the Broadway play The Fantasticks, so I said let’s go.

Well, one day while at school, we were in the 9th grade at the time, my buddy threw out the idea that we should go downtown and get the mini bike and go for a ride.  That was an outstanding idea!  To me, at that time, there was nothing more boring than being in 9th grade english class having a discussion about the Broadway play The Fantasticks, so I said let’s go.

Taking our usual form of transportation at the time, hitchiking, we went down to the cab stand and retrieved the mini bike.  First stop was the Texaco station to put about 50 cents worth of gas in it and we were off.  I was riding on the back and I can still visualize riding through the side streets of downtown thinking this was nuts.  Our route took us through a couple of parking lots and across some small side streets.  I’m not sure where our was destination was meant to be, we probably didn’t have one, but as we were crossing one of the side streets we both looked up and saw a police car on the main road.  The cops obviously saw us because as the police car slammed on his breaks, I heard my buddy say “Oh Shit”.  It was too late though.  We were busted!

Back in the day, this was a small affluent town with a low crime rate that had invested it’s municipal funds in a sizable police department.  I guess it made the affluent residents of the community feel safe.  So it was reasonable , given their resources, that they should exercise their authority, arrest us immediately and confiscate the mini bike, which they did.

I can still see the police car slam on his brakes, throw the car into reverse and speed towards us so we couldn’t make a getaway. 

I can still see the police car slam on his brakes, throw the car into reverse and speed towards us so we couldn’t make a getaway.  Hey, as I said, this was a pretty fast little mini bike with all of 3 1/2 horsepower carrying two 6 foot teenagers so the chances of us making a clean getaway were pretty good.  Not really!

After losing possession of the mini bike and being arrested, we somehow landed back at school that afternoon in front of the principal.  I don’t really remember what the principal said, but it was probably something along the lines of “you boys are beginning to head down the wrong path”, but I do remember the look of disgust on the face of my mother and my buddy’s mother when they came to pick us up that afternoon.  I’m sure my father gave me a serious talking to, but I also remember feeling that in some weird way he kind of understood that we weren’t juvenile delinquents, just some kids goofing off and having an afternoon adventure.

As time marched on, there were other run-ins with the local authorities but after all, you only get one first attempt at being a juvenile delinquent!

Epilogue:  I have been reminded by my co-conspirator that the cute young lady at the taxi stand was the one that retrieved the mini bike from the feds.  If anyone knows the whereabouts of the mini bike, or the cute young lady, please forward your information to this website.  All information will be kept confidential and a substantial reward will be offered.  Remember though that substantial is a relative term!

In the early 1970’s, my father built a house in a new sub-division on land from an old dairy farm in Fairfield County, Connecticut.  While we were definitely not an affluent family at that time, due to my old man’s “business dealings” we were upwardly mobile and it was decided that we should live in a new house in the suburbs.  Better schools, better address and besides, when my father decided we were going to do something, that was that!

In retrospect, I was glad to move.  We were living in another town that was busing kids to an inner city school system (Remember integration?) and I had already learned that if I was going to survive public school, I’d better learn how to throw a punch.   Those were not the kinder and gentler times of today, report bullies and all of that.  If you ratted on a bully in those days, you would get your ass kicked!  Better to learn how to fight back.  Anyway, I survived to tell the tale.  So, the move for me was completely positive and as I discussed in the previous post,  I discovered motorcycles.  Woohoo!

Now, the land that used to be the old dairy farm consisted of a bunch of acres of land, a portion of which was supposed to have been turned into some sort of country / swim / golf club for residents of the suburb and on that spot of land was a pond.  Installed to help with run off and flood prevention for all of the new houses going in.  The club never got off the ground (Thank God!) but that particular tract of land sat undeveloped for quite a few years.

For me, and a lot of other kids from the neighborhood, most of whom I still know today, the pond was an oasis. 

For me, and a lot of other kids from the neighborhood, most of whom I still know today, the pond was an oasis.  A place that we could go to get away from the turmoil of life, parents, school.  Many summer days were spent riding dirt bikes, campouts at night, girls, etc… it was a great time in my life!  It was a time when the world was new, we had no responsibilities and wanted to experience everything the world had to offer.  I can remember going out on my SL70, coming back home to gas up and riding again until it was to dark to see.  I went back to the pond a couple of years ago, to re-connect, but progress had inserted itself and there were many McMansions by then.  Hey, the pond was now waterfront property, if only they knew it’s history. But back to the story…….

Among many, one of the significant motorcycles in my life was a practically new Honda MT250 enduro, better known today as a dual sport.  This model was a turning point for Honda in that it was one of their first two strokes.  I spent a lot of time on this bike (as did a lot of my friends) out at the pond.

My father had a close friend that he kind of looked out for in an older brother sort of way.  Nobody ever used the term “mentor” back then but they shared a lot of the same interests, guns, cars, motorcycles, stuff like that and I guess he was a mentor to this fellow.

I first saw and rode the bike about a week before it arrived in our driveway.

Whenever this guy would get a little tight on cash, my father would help him out by buying personal items off of him.  Hunting rifles, a really nice 1969 Corvette 350 / 350 horse, and a relatively new Honda MT250.  I first saw and rode the bike about a week before it arrived in our driveway.  My dad and I were visiting this guy and looking back, my dad was probably there to bail out his buddy.  A week later, I arrived home after running errands with my mother and there was the Honda.  Sitting in our driveway.  All right, a new motorcycle!

At first, my dad rode the bike on the street and I can remember riding passenger on the bike with him at the bars.  My dad hated two strokes though and didn’t ride the bike for long.  He came from an era when two strokes were strictly utilitarian, Whizzers, BSA Bantams and bikes like that.  I, on the other hand, loved two strokes, still do.  (RD 350 / 400’s TZ Yamahas, Kawasaki H1 / H2’s.)  After a while, I assumed the Honda and stripped off all of the lights, turn signals, big boxy tail light, anything street related.  Now I had a proper dirt bike to ride out at the pond.

After observing his riding style on a couple of occasions, my buddy said “hey look, this guy’s a turkey”.  Instantly, he became known as The Turkey Man.

As time passed, word of the pond got out to the local dirt biking community and “outsiders” would show up.  Hey this was OUR POND!  I mean, I actually had permission to ride there from the owner who was one of my dad’s business partners and also our family dentist.  This was our territory.  Anyway, one of the guys that began to show up on a semi-regular basis was an older guy on a Kawasaki 350 Bighorn.  I say that he was older because at the time to us,  being fourteen or fifteen, anybody over eighteen seemed old.  (Except for my eighteen year old girlfriend, but that’s another story.)  After observing his riding style on a couple of occasions, my buddy said “hey look, this guy’s a turkey”.  Instantly, he became known as The Turkey Man.

Up until that point, I hadn’t yet participated in an organized motorcycle race.  I knew I was going to be a motorcycle racer, felt that was my calling but it hadn’t happened for real yet.  So one afternoon when we were all hanging out at the pond, The Turkey Man showed up and I asked him if he wanted to race.  He said he was up for it so we ironed out the details.  It would be a three lap race, determined where the start / finish line would be and formalized the course.  I seem to remember that we even did a warm up lap and I showed him the exact trails we’d use.

I was psyched, this was it, an actual motorcycle race.  Before the race, I had a little pre-race meeting with one of my buddies.  He would signal me to show me which lap I was on, how far ahead I was (yeah right) and of course, the checkered flag.  After all, this was a real race, we needed to do it right.

We lined up on the start / finish line, just me and The Turkey Man, I was going to spank him.  Then my buddy signaled us off and the race was on excpet that The Turkey Man was in the lead.  This wasn’t part of my plan.  I chased him for two laps, riding that MT250 faster than I ever had before.  Flat tracking around the dirt corners, braking late, stuffing the front wheel into  the berm and hoping it would hook up. All of this finally paid off because as we were about to enter the last turn of the last lap, I caught The Turkey Man and passed him.  Just thinking about it all those years ago is getting me revved up.  It was perfect, I set him up in a tight first gear corner that I took in second gear, came up the inside, the bike drifted over into his line and I think we actually banged handlebars.  I’m sure I scared the shit out of The Turkey Man.  He had to be thinking who the hell is this kid that’s trying to run me into the woods.

I’ll never forget seeing my friends jumping up and down when I came out of the woods and crossed the start / finish line ahead of the man himself.  Great memories!

After the checkered flag, I did a cool down lap and The Turkey Man quietly rode off.

After the checkered flag, I did a cool down lap and The Turkey Man quietly rode off.  I don’t think we ever saw him again.  Wonder where he is today?

I continued to ride the MT250 for at least another year or so but that was long before I learned about simple maintenance, when you’re a kid it’s more fun to ride than it is to wrench.  The Honda began to feel “clapped out” and when a friend from the neighborhood wanted to buy the bike, my dad said sell it to him.  Then it was gone, never to be ridden by me again.

Sometimes, when I’m daydreaming, trying get through a crappy day, I think about that day at the pond and I instantly have a little secret smile. 

Sometimes, when I’m daydreaming, trying get through a crappy day, I think about that day at the pond and I instantly have a little secret smile.  Remember, the older I get, the faster I was!

I suppose a bit of an introduction is in order to help establish some sort of theme for  this site.  After all, why would anyone want to waste their time reading this drivel?  But hey, that’s for you to decide.  Let’s see, where to begin….

Why motorcycles?  Who the hell knows,  but I suppose everyone latches on to an image of something in their formative years that shapes and defines their lives and overtime, defines their sense of identity.  For me that was motorcycles!

Where it all began, it’s 1973 and life is good!

Having been born in the 1960’s and come of age in the ’70’s, I was lucky enough to be aware of motorcycling from the decline of one great era to the transition of another great era.  As a little kid, I was exposed to the culture by my dad and when I think back, there are distinct memories of going to the dealership with him to take delivery of his brand new ’68 BSA 650 Lightning, going to the Laconia Road Race National around 1970 (it’s when I saw my first AMA road race and first set of boobies, I was instantly hooked!) and hanging out with his buddies who at the time were into hot rod Vincents, serious H2 Kawasakis and drag racing Sportsters.  Not to mention some pretty cool hot rods, but that’s another chapter.  I remember the hippies and all the craziness in the early seventies, but to me, the hard core motorcycle guys were much cooler.  Guys like Gary Nixon, Dick Mann, Joe Leonard and later Kenny Roberts were focused on one thing, going as fast as they could on a motorcycle.  That’s it for me!

I permanently became infected by the bug when a friend let me ride his Honda CT70 and I remember feeling that I had to have my own bike.  A new 1972 Honda SL70 soon followed, then Honda Elsinores and early ’70’s motocross, road racing with AAMRR in the early eighties (At a time when most of the country’s truly fast guys were from the Northeast.), fell in love with TZ Yamahas, fast road riding, sport touring and it continues to this day.  Over the years, I have tried my hand at motocross, hare scrambles, enduro, drag racing, flat track and road racing.  Today, I still love to compete on the vintage road race circuit and plan on doing so until I’m too old and decrepit.  We’ll See!

Who’s Gus?  Gus is me, well actually my middle name is Gus, named after my father’s father.  A Swede from the old country.  Gus is also my alter ego, he’s the curmudgeonly old motorcycle guy that I remember from visiting the old school motorcycle shops as a teenager trying to get a job in the business.  Gus probably has a flat top crew cut, a faded tattoo on his forearm that says Harley “74”, chomps on an old stogie and doesn’t want to waste time talking to a young punk that isn’t going to spend money in his shop. He’s a guy I remember from shops like Fenell’s Triumph, J.R. Ransom Harley-Davidson, Hamm’s Moto Guzzi, Hall’s Cycle Ranch, Ghost Motorcycles or Romeo’s BSA. Shops that managed to hang on until the early 1980’s then took their last gasp!  To me, those shops were a link to a different time.  A time when if you chose to ride a motorcycle as your only form of transportation you were a bit of a tough guy.  A time when if you wore a black leather Bates jacket, you were instantly pegged as a juvenile delinquent.  Maybe it’s just nostalgia, but it seems to me that riding back then was just a little more dangerous, a little more anti-social, a little more of a commitment.  I’m pretty sure that’s part of what attracted me to motorcycling back then.

If you’re like me, there’s a little bit of Gus in you too!

So, What’s it all mean Gus?  “Don’t Mean Doodley Squat”