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I'm relatively new to the forum. 'Been a member of the club since I joined at the old Fort Mott, NJ National Meet in 1972.
Some of the reminiscences recounted in here made me remember a time a long time ago; twenty-five years, at least, when I was riding my H-D '37UL, with a friend on his Shovelhead, I think it was, in Louisville, Kentucky, one evening around dinnertime. He led me by his father's home on a suburban street in a part of town that was far from where I frequented. We sat there in front of his house, probably gunning our engines (just a little bit).
My friend had told me that his pa had been a motorcycle patrolman with the Louisville Police Department many years before, and had ridden hand-shift Harleys just like mine, for years.
Then the ol' man came out, walking pretty spryly, but with a cane in one hand for reassurance. He came down the driveway. He was glad enough to see his son, but when his eyes fell on my old Flathead, I saw them momentarily get as wide as dinner plates. He immediately recognized a familiar friend. I climbed off, and we talked a little bit, but I never shut off my bike.
Then I asked him, "When's the last time you drove a Harley like this?"
"Oh, about 1953 or '54, I think."
"Well," I said, " You never forget how to ride a bicycle. Would you like to take it for a little spin?"
"Oh, no... I don't think I remember... I wouldn't want to make a mistake..."
"Come on, it's no showbike." (and it wasn't!) "Come on!"
Then came the clincher: I asked him, "When's the next time someone will ask you to ride an old Harley, just like the ones you used to?"
"Well," he hesitated, "All right."
He handed his cane to his son, who was all smiles by this time, and threw a leg over Ol' Tex and sat down. He had both bars and I let go of it. He looked at this and looked at that, becoming familiar again with something he remembered from long ago. Then he put his left hand on the shifter, in that little "claw" that we make when we're well-familiar with our machines. He picked up his foot, out went the clutch and "snick," it was in gear.
He revved it up just a little bit, felt the clutch carefully as he lowered his toe (he didn't have any idea where this unfamiliar clutch might engage) and he was in motion.
All I saw was his back as he went off down the street. He veered a little. You could tell it wasn't an unintended "wobble," but he was trying out the handling, getting the feel of the bike.
He went up the street, turned it in a circle only a little bigger than the width of a car lane, I swear, and really got it on as he gunned back down our way, shifting up to second, and grinning from ear-to-ear!
All would agree, witnessing the scene, that we were watching an expert rider who had complete control of a thoroughbred mount. He went right past us, still grinning, and out-of-sight around the corner down the street.
His son and I looked at each other, laughing out loud by this time. We made some comments about how the old man seemed to be back in his element, and we hoped he decided to come back before dark! He was gone, out-of-sight and out of our hearing for a good ten minutes.
Pa finally announced his return with the thrum of the exhaust, then he reappeared at the same corner he'd departed around, slowed, and brought the bike to a perfect stop right at my feet, exactly where he'd mounted it, kicked out the jiffy stand and dismounted, and collected his cane from his son. I turned the keyswitch and shut it off.
When everything was quiet, he said, "I hope you don't mind. I thought it was bogging a little and turned in the main jet a click or two."
I hadn't been able to trace the reason for that slight hesitation in the motor for days of trying. Here, he'd fixed it in a few minutes, on the move!
I asked him if he'd like to ride it again.
"No, no, that was fine. Thanks a lot! You've brought back a lot of memories. Thank you." His eyes were shining.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and his son pushed his starter button, and I kicked over Ol' Tex, and we took our leave. The old man stood there in his driveway, leaning on his cane and waving enthusiastically with his other hand.
I never saw him again. I heard from his son that he passed away a few years later, and that the Louisville Police Department Motor Division escorted him to the cemetery in a full police funeral. He'd been a motor patrolman with the Louisville P.D for over twenty years.
Some of the reminiscences recounted in here made me remember a time a long time ago; twenty-five years, at least, when I was riding my H-D '37UL, with a friend on his Shovelhead, I think it was, in Louisville, Kentucky, one evening around dinnertime. He led me by his father's home on a suburban street in a part of town that was far from where I frequented. We sat there in front of his house, probably gunning our engines (just a little bit).
My friend had told me that his pa had been a motorcycle patrolman with the Louisville Police Department many years before, and had ridden hand-shift Harleys just like mine, for years.
Then the ol' man came out, walking pretty spryly, but with a cane in one hand for reassurance. He came down the driveway. He was glad enough to see his son, but when his eyes fell on my old Flathead, I saw them momentarily get as wide as dinner plates. He immediately recognized a familiar friend. I climbed off, and we talked a little bit, but I never shut off my bike.
Then I asked him, "When's the last time you drove a Harley like this?"
"Oh, about 1953 or '54, I think."
"Well," I said, " You never forget how to ride a bicycle. Would you like to take it for a little spin?"
"Oh, no... I don't think I remember... I wouldn't want to make a mistake..."
"Come on, it's no showbike." (and it wasn't!) "Come on!"
Then came the clincher: I asked him, "When's the next time someone will ask you to ride an old Harley, just like the ones you used to?"
"Well," he hesitated, "All right."
He handed his cane to his son, who was all smiles by this time, and threw a leg over Ol' Tex and sat down. He had both bars and I let go of it. He looked at this and looked at that, becoming familiar again with something he remembered from long ago. Then he put his left hand on the shifter, in that little "claw" that we make when we're well-familiar with our machines. He picked up his foot, out went the clutch and "snick," it was in gear.
He revved it up just a little bit, felt the clutch carefully as he lowered his toe (he didn't have any idea where this unfamiliar clutch might engage) and he was in motion.
All I saw was his back as he went off down the street. He veered a little. You could tell it wasn't an unintended "wobble," but he was trying out the handling, getting the feel of the bike.
He went up the street, turned it in a circle only a little bigger than the width of a car lane, I swear, and really got it on as he gunned back down our way, shifting up to second, and grinning from ear-to-ear!
All would agree, witnessing the scene, that we were watching an expert rider who had complete control of a thoroughbred mount. He went right past us, still grinning, and out-of-sight around the corner down the street.
His son and I looked at each other, laughing out loud by this time. We made some comments about how the old man seemed to be back in his element, and we hoped he decided to come back before dark! He was gone, out-of-sight and out of our hearing for a good ten minutes.
Pa finally announced his return with the thrum of the exhaust, then he reappeared at the same corner he'd departed around, slowed, and brought the bike to a perfect stop right at my feet, exactly where he'd mounted it, kicked out the jiffy stand and dismounted, and collected his cane from his son. I turned the keyswitch and shut it off.
When everything was quiet, he said, "I hope you don't mind. I thought it was bogging a little and turned in the main jet a click or two."
I hadn't been able to trace the reason for that slight hesitation in the motor for days of trying. Here, he'd fixed it in a few minutes, on the move!
I asked him if he'd like to ride it again.
"No, no, that was fine. Thanks a lot! You've brought back a lot of memories. Thank you." His eyes were shining.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and his son pushed his starter button, and I kicked over Ol' Tex, and we took our leave. The old man stood there in his driveway, leaning on his cane and waving enthusiastically with his other hand.
I never saw him again. I heard from his son that he passed away a few years later, and that the Louisville Police Department Motor Division escorted him to the cemetery in a full police funeral. He'd been a motor patrolman with the Louisville P.D for over twenty years.
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