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!