The Antique Motorcyclist Forum

[RWasson]

Here is my suggestion for a new forum in which we can exchange posts which are about our motorcycling adventures/exploits/ scrapes/incidents/journeys.

However, unlike other forums where we can tell tales about last Spring's meet in Anytown, or this Summer's Poker Run you almost won, the Antique Motorcyclist Forum has its own 35-year rule.

No, the tales are not recent events about repairing or restoring bikes older than '68 (or is it '69 yet?) models. Instead, let's spin yarns about our riding adventures we enjoyed/survived which occurred more than 35 years ago. While some of you younger members will have to relate (probably truthful) experiences of your parents, etc., those of us who have been riding more than 35 years (the Antique Bikers) will regale you with formerly-true personal stories which have been growing within the depths of our subconsciousnesses for decades, until they have reached mammoth false proportions. (Except my tales, of course, which never suffer from exaggeritis)

My first test post of this idea is an audience participation one.

My first collision with an automobile while riding a motorcycle came one warm South Texas afternoon in December of 1964, as I was slowly cruising the local campus, trying to look cool on my brand-new Honda. An uninsured illegal immigrant in a 1950-something Ford sedan ran a stop sign right in front of me, and my helmetless self tumbled across the old Ford's hood, into a still heap on the pavement on the other side.

I was knocked-out for a few minutes, but no broken bones or serious scrapes. (This was right outside the Fire Station, and uniformed firefighters jogged over to perform first aid.) The bike suffered worse than I did. The impact twisted the front fork assembly so far to the right that it could not be pushed the rest of the way to my house (2 or 3 blocks), much less ridden home.

My dad who had co-signed the bank loan for the bike was not amused by having to shell out the repair costs to straighten the forks and repair the road rash on the new machine.

Here is the quiz: Guess the cost of repairs to put me back on the road. (Hint: the fork assembly was completely replaced with a new one) (Don't ask which model Honda it was, lest you look up an older parts book somewhere, but it was large enough for me to take my younger brother riding pillion to carry the drycleaning/pizza/groceries back home, yet small enough to capture puzzled stares at such antics .

Closest guess to the repair costs posted by Noon on 10/30 will win something silly, as soon as I can think of what it will be. And don't just reply to this post. Unblock that entrance to Motorcycle Memory Lane and tell us about one of your exploits from the Sixties or before. I can't wait to see what you dredge-up.
Roy

[k.perry]

Feel The Burn

RW, For the sake of introspect only,... would there be any word that you would like to change? I wonder if there was any stray idea that bubbled up later that you wanted to weave in? The 1440 idea is lame-o, RW. You supported it though in another post and so do maybe a few others, but from who..whom.. does this dictum derive? Who is the great Oz? Certainly not just the webguy (best site on the web, hands down). Kam' on!! Ooo-ya's teasin'...huh?...Ooo-ya's...teasing...(Joey Bud-da-fuco? Yo!!...Mary Jo!!..How's that hole in the side of your head healing???).
It's not right you guyz. The 1440 minute rule is a "literary helmet law" that we can all do wid' out. Now...do we deserve to know exactly who made this rule, or do's weese's not?? Who ya's teasin'??...Oo-ya's teasing here? I bet not one of the people "for" the 1440 rule rides a Big Twin, and if they'se do.....well boy howdy.......it darn tootin' isn't a Knuckle or... (up to and including) a '59 Pan.

[RWasson]

Anti-1440 Irony Misunderstood

K.P.:

My message ostensibly supporting the 1440 rule was a lame effort to use the literary device of "irony." That is defined as "a light sarcasm that adopts a mode of speech the intended implication of which is the opposite of the literal sense of the words." See Websters Third New International Dictionary at 1195 (1993). By posting the supposedly pro-1440 message, but then amending it like crazy to make some of the sentences mean 180 degrees opposite that which they originally said, I was demonstrating the likelihood that dumbasses like me would see the need to completely reverse their position on a point, but would not be able to do it.

Thank you for pointing out that my approach went over/under some peoples' heads.

Here is a more direct approach: 1440=bad idea.

Roy, the Nightrider

[Hrdly-Dangrs]

SEE MY NEW POST ABOUT 1440 MINUTE DELETE!... Hrdly-Dangrs

[k.perry]

All right Roy....sorry to have shot you in the elbow...my machines been in pieces since June, down in ma' gay-rahge..I got the jitters was all...I've been shooting at anything that moves. Sorry man. Wrap a towel around it....Ah yeah...youse bleeding bad Roy...but it just winged you.
Where da new post Hrdly? Where da post?

[RWasson]

1440 Minute Rule

Hardly:

Where is this "new post" you mention? I've looked everywhere.

[k.perry]

Ride over to "Parking Lot Chatter" > "1440 Delete*** S..."

[RWasson]

Antique Motorcyclist Tells All

C'mon old bikers, tell some tales from 35+ years ago. The statute of limitations has expired and all the witnesses are dead anyway.

Here's one: I must have been the first teenager around to show up at the police department and announce I wanted to get a motorcycle-only license (which were available at age 14 in Texas). The cops had no pylons or marked course to give me a driving test, so the officer decided to send me out on the roads with him following to watch how I rode. He would toot the horn to signal me to turn right or left (1 honk or 2). I got the license, but lost 5 points for, of all things, riding too slowly.

December 4, 1964: Where were you and what were you riding?

Roy

[koanes]

In 1964 the motorcycle of my dreams was still in my dreams. I was eight years old. It would be two years before I was able to purchase a machine with two wheels and a motor. A school chum that was a couple of years older than I had an Allstate moped for sale for 35.00. It was well used and didn't run, but it was love at first sight. Even though I had saved up enough money from my lawnmowing enterprise, my father decided I was too young to own a motorcycle and told me in no uncertain terms that I could not have it. In my first open act of defiance I bought it and pushed it home. At ten years old I was pretty sure I was all done with spankings. Couldn't of been more wrong about that one. Dad pushed it in the corner of the garage and told me not to touch it. Next day, act of defiance number two, I drug it out, cleaned out the carb, wire brushed the spark plug, stole some two stoke mix from Dads boat and got it running. Dad come home that night and caught me riding it. He just shook his head and walked in the house, wouldn't even talk to me. A few days later, after noticing I had used up all his duct tape trying to keep my inner tube from coming out the worn through spot in the rear tire, he handed me a brand new tire and told me hurry up and get it mounted, he wanted to take the bike for a ride! A couple of spins around the block and he was hooked. He bought his own soon after and has ridden ever since. My father is in his middle seventies now and still manages to put a few thousand miles a year on his 1984FLH. And it all started with that little moped. Kyle

[k.perry]

Yes, teach your parents well. A rule we can all live by.

[RWasson]

Keep the Tales Coming

Kudos to Kyle for his tale of discovering motorcycles at age 10. Let's hear from some other Antique Motorcyclist members: tell us a tidbit about riding 35 years ago or more.

Roy, the original Nightrider

[petri]

Henderson Super X (Part 1)

This is a very amusing story I just read in a book written by Andy
Granatelli of STP and Novi fame. It's about his first motorcycle, an old
Henderson Super X, and his first ride on it.

From:
They Call Me Mister 500
by Anthony (Andy) Granatelli
Bantam edition April 1970
Copyright 1969, 1970 by Anthony Granatelli
pp 43-49

This event takes place about 1940 which makes Andy around 17 years old
at the time. Wouldn't I love to have that old Henderson today.

Howard Petri


Me and My Old Henderson Super X

Oh, boy. Just what I needed. Golly. Gosh-all-fishooks. Hot
ziggedty. A real live motorcycle!
I stood there looking at it. I looked at it, and the motorcycle looked
back at me. At first, I had been tempted to turn it down, but you know
how it is with men and motorcycles. Every man knows deep inside, in his
secret soul, that he can ride one better than anyone else. A motorcycle
is a living, breathing challenge to a man's manhood. A motorcycle has
charisma and a whole lot of stage-presence. It can be one of the most
dangerous vehicles ever built.
I had just finished a complete overhaul of a friend's car. I use
the term "friend" rather loosely. Because he came around and told me he
didn't have the money to pay for it.
"But I got this great 'cycle" he said. "It's a real, absolute
animal. How about you take it for the money I owe you?"
"No. Absolutely not. No way. Just go ahead and sell the motorcycle
and give me the money instead."
"Well, will you just look at it once?"
So he wheeled the thing around and it was maybe the saddest
motorcycle in all Chicago. Maybe all the Midwest states. It was sort of
dull red, all worn and shabby. It had dents all over it; the thing
looked like it had lost a race with the Feather River Canyon Flyer. Most
of all, it looked like it needed me.
Oh boy. "What is it? I asked.
"It's a real genuine Henderson Super X. It's a racing 'cycle, a 1928 or
a 1932, I think. I'm not sure."
"And you want me to take it instead of the dough you owe me?"
"Would you?"
I was a goner. I walked around it and looked at it some more. "Oh, all
right," I said.
The guy warned me about a few things. Little things. For example:
it was a little bit hard to start. But it ran real good, he said. And
then, well, it was just a little bit hard to stop. And it wouldn't idle well
unless you kept "rapping" the engine. And, uh, one more little item. It
had this sort of tendency to leap into first gear unless you held the
clutch in with your left foot. Otherwise it was perfect.
I couldn't wait to ride it. In fact I was ready to ride the thing
all over Chicago. And I was going to fix it up all nice again: maybe a
touch of fresh paint here and there and a little daub of chrome. And I'd
have to work on the clutch, and get it to idle better and a few hundred
other little things. So I revved it up.
I found out what my "friend" had meant. It would suddenly jump into
first gear from neutral when one was least expecting it, and it made for
a real, old-time head snapper. It was my first experience with a
wheelie, where you ride on the rear wheel-just the rear wheel. There was
something else he hadn't mentioned: it was certain death to make a sharp
left turn and take your foot off the clutch and hold it out as a
stabilizer. Understand now, taking your left foot off the clutch to hold
it out on sharp turns is a natural, instinctive thing to do. But when
you slow for a turn, you also instinctively goose or "rap" the engine a
little bit to keep it from dying. And that's when the 'cycle would
instinctively shake itself into first gear. Vroom!
But what else was there to do? I soloed immediately. I threw one
leg over Old Paint, cranked it up and took off down Fullerton Avenue,
not far from where John Dillenger was killed. And that ought to give you
an idea of how the ride went from that point.
At the intersection I braced the thing, declutched and kept
"zapping" the engine to keep it from dying on the spot. It was a
powerful 'cycle and it revved beautifully, with that great, throaty,
irritable cough. Ka-Zap! Ka-Zap! And that's when the guy in the hot rod
alongside of me looked over.
I nodded pleasantly at him. And he zapped his engine a few times
just to show me there was some power under there. And he nodded
pleasantly at me.
"Hoo-boy," I thought. "He wants to drag".
But I knew I couldn't. No way. And then the light changed. And the
hot-rodder slammed it into gear and sat there for that fantastic split
second, all hunched over, his tires screaming and giving off a burst of
faint, bluish smoke. Then the tires bit in, and he was gone. And you
know how that is.
It is like catnip to me, that's how it is. I had not had a great
deal of experience dragging, but I couldn't resist it. It drew me on;
the sound of it filled me up inside.
"Okay old Henderson X, or whatever your name is," I muttered to the
'cycle. "Here we go."
So I zapped it hard into first gear and pulled my legs up. We shot
off, suddenly going like a bat. My head snapped back and my eyes began
to water. Wow! Then I flashed past the hot-rodder like he was going to a
church social, and I was aimed like a motorized bullet for the other end
of town. And about the time I figured I had the thing under control,
running about 70 mph, I glanced down and saw the streetcar track.
Now, I have nothing against streetcar tracks. But we were on a
cobblestone street, and the tracks were set down between a tight row of
cobblestones, sunk perhaps five inches below the road surface. And the
motorcycle tire were slim enough to fit into that groove. All of which
was dandy, understand. Providing I didn't want to make a turn ever again
and providing I could keep my balance and providing I could get the
'cycle slowed down to a reasonable speed. Let's face it: it was
hopeless. Especially since this was my first ride on a motorbike.
It was clear right from the start that the Henderson X was going to
run comfortably at 70. I backed off the throttle, and it still kept
running at 70, a kind of dull blur tearing down Fullerton. And I
half-stood in the seat and snapped the front wheel smartly to get the
thing up and out of the streetcar track. Then everything went wild.
The 'cycle threw me with a lazy front snap., and I came up and over
the handlebars in a half-gainer with a full roll-which is a move they
have in Olympic diving or gymnastics. I saw the skyline swing around in
front of me and then-slam! I landed on all fours-knees and hands- on the
cobblestones. And I was now doing better than 70 mph all by myself. But
there were a couple more surprises in store.
Surprise: it didn't hurt. I was astounded. That is, I was astounded
until I realized why it didn't hurt. I was sliding along so fast that
just the surfaces of my knees and palms were touching, and it was like
flashing over water at an incredible speed. But then I began to slow
down-everybody has to slow down sometime in life-and roll crazily,
bouncing all around, arms out then arms in, sometimes rolled up like a
ball and sometimes spread out like a sky diver. I was picking up bits of
chewing-gum wrappings in my hair along the way, collecting dust-and with
every roll I could hear little bones breaking here and there. And
finally I skidded to a full stop and lay there, sprawled out on my back
with my legs sort of twisted around.
I raised my head to see if maybe I was still alive and........here
came my Henderson X, rolling over and over behind me. Before I could
even raise an arm weakly to try to stop it, the thing ran right over me.
Not with the wheels-it was not using the wheels at the time-but
end-over-end, with the frame. It bounced to a stop a few yards away.

[petri]

Henderson Super X (Part 2)

It took quite a while to get up. Everything I had-bones, teeth, eyeballs, all my equipment and plumbing, fingers and toes-hurt. I was leaking blood from several cuts, and my clothes were hanging in tatters. Beneath the tattered parts, my skin had been scraped nicely raw. I lurched over to old Henderson X and grabbed a handlebar and dragged it over to the curb. I didn't want the thing to suddenly get up and run down someone else without warning. And I kind of staggered around dizzily, trying to figure out where I was. Or at least what round it was. And somewhere, from inside my rattled head, I finally got the idea that I had better call for a police ambulance. Weaving unsteadily, I stood there on the sidewalk and finally found my pockets. Ah, there they were. And I painfully put my hands in them, hunting for a nickel.
Not one. I tried all the other pockets, the ones that were not ripped away. No money. Then I remembered through the fog: I hadn't had a cent on me when I left. I had spent my last quarter to buy gas for old Monster over there. And I looked around and I saw I was standing in front of a café. So I staggered over and pushed in through the door. My lips were now starting to swell dangerously, and my eyes were getting puffed up.
"Listen," I said to the cashier, "I've been in this accident outside, and..."
"Eek!" she said. Or something like that. I can't remember.
So I staggered over to a customer. "Been in a terrible accident," I mumbled. "Gotta have a nickel to call for an ambulance..."
He was indignant. "Go away," he shouted
So I tried the waitress. "Gotta have a nickel," I said. "Gotta get to the hospital, get sewed up, and..."
"You're dripping blood all over my clean floor," she said. "Get outta here, willya?"
By now the shock was starting to wear off, and the anger was starting to set in. I drew myself up, all tattered and bleeding dignity. "All right," I muttered. "That's the way you're going to be, I'll drive myself home and phone from there. I won't need a nickel from home you guys."
I was so punchy I didn't figure out that if I was going to ride I might as well ride on to the hospital. Not me, head for home, that's old Andy.
So I picked up the Henderson X again and cranked it into life. We roared away on Fullerton, little flecks of blood flying back in the wind. I kept blinking through my swelling eyes to see better, and I kept away from the street car track. I was weaving a bit. In fact it looked like I was in a slalom race. It also looked like I had lost the slalom race.
The old red paint on the 'cycle was now red-on-red from the blood. But I came wheeling around the corner and I got our street all right. Home at last! Home is where the heart is. Whoopee! And the I prepared to swing around in a U-turn so that I could pull the bike up in front of the house. The brakes were a bit trembly, but I got it slowed down, very professionally, I thought. And then I took my foot off the clutch and stuck it out for the left turn.
I told you about that part remember? Ah ha. All I needed was two left feet.
I got the bike leaning into the turn at about a 45-degree angle,my foot out to brace it, and-sure enough-it jumped back into first gear, just as I jazzed the throttle to keep it running. Zap!
The 'cycle gave a terrible, splitting roar and lurched forward in a new burst of speed. It hit the curb a terrible whack and got airborne. It flew across the sidewalk.
And at this point I must tell you that a lot of old time Chicago tenement houses had a little, teensy patch of lawn in front about this big. And they had little iron stakes at each corner, and a fancy chain stretched between the stakes.
Great. The motorcycle slammed down astraddle that chain, ripping up the stakes. And it kept going. I had both hands locked in this sort of circus-act death grip on the handlebars, and I looked about briefly and saw a stairway going down to the basement-front apartment. Dead ahead. I closed my eyes again. Tight.
Old Henderson X charged down the stairs-there were five of them-and slammed it's front wheel into the door. Pow!
The hinges ripped away, the door fell spang into the house, the motorcycle landed on top of the door and I landed on top of the motorcycle. It had been hitting about 6000 rpm's, understand, and it wasn't through yet.
The Monster kept right on charging into the house, howling and spitting and roaring. And finally, about four feet from the dining table, the chain from the front lawn ran out. It slammed us to a stop. Crunch! I lay there sprawled on top of the bike, a bit giddy, and looked up. I'll never forget it.
There was the family sitting around the table, at dinner.
They were frozen into place, like a tableau of terror, forks half-raised to their lips, eyes wide, mouths open. Swedish family. They were having dumplings, I remember. And now they had a motorcycle and it's bloody rider in the middle of the living room. We looked at each other for a long, long time. Nobody moved. Not a muscle. Forks were still poised. We were all statuary. I could hear coffee bubbling in the pot in the kitchen. The dumplings smelled so good. And finally the father slowly-ever so slowly-eased his fork back down to his plate. He took a deep breath.
"Yumpin' Yesus!" he said.
The family gathered around and lifted me off the floor gently, then pried the Henderson X out of my grasp and started to patch me up. It took a lot of washing and daubs of iodine and bandages. But they got me fixed up.
The dumplings, by the way, were marvelous, my first experience with Swedish cooking.

Naturally, I gave up motorcycling, right? Wrong. Not just at that moment. I did a little work on the thing and began driving it to work everyday. Carefully. Not dragging with anyone. The picture of dignity on a Henderson X. And each day I would park it against a lamp post and chain it down. Not that I thought that anyone was going to steal the thing, but perhaps it would get some crazy idea in it's head and run away.
But there was one more thing. At night, when I would get ready to ride it home, the 'cycle was still hot. I couldn't figure it out. It had been sitting alone all day, engine off, and still it's block was hot to the touch. It seemed to be living a life of it's own. I began to think that maybe it ran off and wandered around the neighborhood. Then I found the secret.
It was Joe. Naturally. He had a key made for the padlock, and he was sneaking over during the day and riding the thing around, then rechaining it up just before I went to pick it up.
That Joe. He had this thing for motorcycles, too.

[RWasson]

Howard's Got the Idea!

Wonderful story, Howard. You've got the idea. Now let's hear some other stories of motorcycling more than 35 years ago!

Roy, the Original Nightrider