From Cycle Guide August 1972
HOOKED
Among the paths to Paradise are miles of beckoning roads. by Benny Alford
"Incredible!" I whispered t o my¬self. But believe it or not, there I was signing the papers and handing the man a check for the red, two wheeled beauty outside. Grinning from ear to ear, red metalflake helmet complete with bubble shield tucked away under my arm, I nonchalantly stumbled out to the bike lot where a vast assortment of machines were parked.
I could hardly believe it was really happening to me. I'd just become the proud owner of a red, 1970 250cc DS613 Yamaha. Me, of all people. Two years ago, I classified all cyclists as thugs, either out on bail or unappre¬hended. Then my son had gotten the mini bike fever.
Christmas morning of '69 found me standing in the yard in 30 degree weather, puffing and sweating like a Georgia mule trying to get the darn thing started. It was a four cycle, 5 hp lawnmower type engine, and when all else failed, I decided to read, the instructions. Brilliant college graduate with degrees hanging on wall forgot to turn gas on! Well after all, I majored in religion and psychology, not mechanics. As pastor of a Baptist church in Salisbury, Maryland, I rarely have the need for engine repair infor¬mation.
The next few months were among the most exasperating and enjoyable my son, Dan, and I have ever spent together. I soon accumulated enough tools and spare parts to open my own mini bike repair shop if desired, but there was no time. It took every spare moment just keeping Dan's bike run¬ning. The notion has struck me now as an afterthought that perhaps the little bike was never meant to haul my 50 pound son, plus my 200 pound torso around at the same time.
A little dirt road beside the church became our race track. We took on all comers and beat most of them. I found myself experimenting with dif¬ferent rear wheel sprockets for a faster top end on the two speed, centrifugal clutch bike. I outfitted the boy in jacket, gloves, helmet, goggles, the works.
I taught my son what little I knew, and after a while I wasn't needed to get the chain back on, clear the air filter, or change the plug. I was no longer deemed necessary. He and the other eight year old mini riders in the neighborhood turned the dirt road into a motocross track; mud holes, hoop¬-de do's and all. I've never seen a kid have so much fun. But somehow I now felt cheated; left out.
The days lethargically went by. The sound of the minis popped and sput¬tered from after school hours until the shadowy twilight of each evening. Every time an engine revved high; I peered through the curtains of the church office to see who was leading. I found myself coming in early from visiting members, to see how the boys were running. It seemed as if some subtle plot had been set in motion, all designed to make a cyclist out of me. I found myself poring over Cycle Guide and other leading mags. I mem¬orized road tests. Every time a cycle passed me on the street, I'd silently run through the specs. "Then Came Bronson" became my favorite TV program. I began to check our deleted financial status (there are very few rich ministers around) in wild, flighty speculation that maybe someday . . . just maybe . . . I'd walk into a cycle shop, plunk down my bankroll, and ride off into the blazing sunset on a thundering Sportster. I could even hear the beautiful, magnificent rum¬ble of that great V twin machine in my mind.
I began to drop by the local bike shops and investigate the merchan¬dise. The fat Honda man should not have laughed so hard, when I sat on that CB 750. Preachers are human, too, almost. But I guess it was fun¬ny, a bald headed, 35 year old min¬ister, backward collar and all, perched atop a mighty Honda Four, eyes dead ahead on an imaginary straightaway. Anyhow, he lost a customer when he laughed at me.
The Yamaha dealer was 16 miles away, but if he laughed he did it so I couldn't see him. I think he almost believed me when I told him I was interested in a bike. At least he didn't roll on the floor, legs kicking, scream¬ing with laughter. That was encour¬aging.
All the bikes were beautiful, a term which when applied to a motorcycle, turns my wife's stomach. I decided to aim for a docile little 80cc bike, so I saved my money. But the 125 AT 1 began to look more gorgeous every day. So I saved some more money. Just when I'd finally made up my mind, Yamaha comes out with a 200cc street bike (for only a few dollars more). So I set my mind on that.
Then last September I just hap¬pened to be in the area, which is a little hard to explain because my nearest church member lives ten miles away from the bike shop, but there before me was "my" bike. Maybe it was the way the crisp September morning sunshine glistened on the chrome and cherry red tank. Maybe it was the brainwashing of those road tests and advertisements. I don't know what it was. But that was my bike sitting there.
It had just been set up out of the crate. Then a horrible thought shot through my excited mind. It'd cost at least a hundred dollars more than I'd planned to spend. But I had to have it. I was compelled to sit astride it and dream.
The dealer came out. "She's a beauty, ain't she?"
I couldn't help but agree, although I don't recall what I said.
"There's a scratch on the gas tank, though. I may have to let this one go for a little less than regular price."
Shakespeare's heart leaped up when he beheld a rainbow in the sky. My heart leaps up when I behold a bike dealer talking about cutting prices.
"How I cleared my throat to keep from choking. "How much you asking?"
"It's a give away at $595.00."
"Sold!" I blurted out in a frenzied tone. I think it shook him just a little.
I put my deposit down and spent the next few days getting the title, tags and insurance for the bike.
It was a snap learning to ride. After several hours of strenuous practice I could ride . . . oh, 30 or 40 yards without dragging either foot. At first the dealer instructed me while I sat on the bike with it up on the center stand. Then he took me for a ride. Then I took him for a ride. That's when I almost made a convert out of him. Imagine what intestinal fortitude it must have taken to remain silent while some idiotic minister sprayed customer’s cars with gravel, near missing the shop's new pickup truck, refusing to stay on the nice grassy lot beside the shop for learners. The first time I choked it down; he got off and vainly ran beside me shouting unheeded instructions. I was too en¬grossed in riding to even pretend to be listening.
My bike was unusual, I found out. It had sixteen positions for the gear shift lever: five forward gears and eleven neutrals, one of them in¬tended. After hopping, skipping, and jumping all over the lot, killing the engine a thousand times in two hours, we'd all had enough. Me, him, the bike, and 600 people who'd gathered to watch. We'd all had enough. I still think someone should have charged admission. No Wild West rodeo ever had as many stunts and daredevil acrobatics.
But that was all a year ago. Now I'm a professional. Well, maybe not really professional. At least Hailwood and Lawill won't have anything to worry about from me for another year or so. But I have learned a lot. Important things. Like: how to ride through a 20 mph zone with fourteen barking dogs chasing me without losing my cool; how not to fall off my tiny 250 Yamaha while being zapped by a BSA Rocket; how not to turn simultaneously green with envy and red with embarrassment after killing my engine while listening to the symphony of Detroit monsters honking at me and watching a Mach III, who had seconds before been beside me, disappear over the hill; how that 10 degree weather is a wee bit too cool to ride in, no matter how hearty the enthusiast; how to push 310 pounds of motorcycle uphill through heavy traffic to the nearest gas station while passing motorists laugh their silly heads off, only to find out later that I had a reserve section in the tank; how not to totally ignore the weatherman when he calls for heavy showers. Lots of useful little items have stored themselves in my cranial cavity (sometimes more cavity than cranial).
But in spite of all this and more, still I ride. There's nothing like it. Nothing in the world. I can't phrase it like Swede Carlson, but it's worth all the shocked and amazed looks I get from my parishioners. It's worth the tension it causes between me and my little five foot, bewildered wife as she watches her usually sane, 200 pound, pot-bellied, balding husband leave a warm cozy den, strap on a red metalflake helmet and go out in 40 degree weather (with rain threatening), fire up his pop-pop-popping two-stroke and head down South Division Street toward the open road.
There's no explaining it. You've got to be there. You've got to feel. it to know what it's all about. That surge of power as I shift through the gears; that exquisite feeling of sailing through that particular curve in good form, a split second faster than last time; that marvelous sensation of perpetual grandeur as I glide effortlessly across the thrilling span of bridge on the Chesapeake Bay on the way to Baltimore or D.C.; the silence-come-alive awareness of nature after stopping on a secluded spot in the dense Pocomoke Forest, in a place never touched by auto tires. Who can explain it? Who needs to? Let those guys who slice and hook little white balls all over green grass, go on thinking they're having fun. But, man, they're missing it all! I'll just keep on riding and hoping others will slough off the stereotyped categories the world is trying to fit us all into and join me. When it comes to motorcycles, I'm hooked.
HOOKED
Among the paths to Paradise are miles of beckoning roads. by Benny Alford
"Incredible!" I whispered t o my¬self. But believe it or not, there I was signing the papers and handing the man a check for the red, two wheeled beauty outside. Grinning from ear to ear, red metalflake helmet complete with bubble shield tucked away under my arm, I nonchalantly stumbled out to the bike lot where a vast assortment of machines were parked.
I could hardly believe it was really happening to me. I'd just become the proud owner of a red, 1970 250cc DS613 Yamaha. Me, of all people. Two years ago, I classified all cyclists as thugs, either out on bail or unappre¬hended. Then my son had gotten the mini bike fever.
Christmas morning of '69 found me standing in the yard in 30 degree weather, puffing and sweating like a Georgia mule trying to get the darn thing started. It was a four cycle, 5 hp lawnmower type engine, and when all else failed, I decided to read, the instructions. Brilliant college graduate with degrees hanging on wall forgot to turn gas on! Well after all, I majored in religion and psychology, not mechanics. As pastor of a Baptist church in Salisbury, Maryland, I rarely have the need for engine repair infor¬mation.
The next few months were among the most exasperating and enjoyable my son, Dan, and I have ever spent together. I soon accumulated enough tools and spare parts to open my own mini bike repair shop if desired, but there was no time. It took every spare moment just keeping Dan's bike run¬ning. The notion has struck me now as an afterthought that perhaps the little bike was never meant to haul my 50 pound son, plus my 200 pound torso around at the same time.
A little dirt road beside the church became our race track. We took on all comers and beat most of them. I found myself experimenting with dif¬ferent rear wheel sprockets for a faster top end on the two speed, centrifugal clutch bike. I outfitted the boy in jacket, gloves, helmet, goggles, the works.
I taught my son what little I knew, and after a while I wasn't needed to get the chain back on, clear the air filter, or change the plug. I was no longer deemed necessary. He and the other eight year old mini riders in the neighborhood turned the dirt road into a motocross track; mud holes, hoop¬-de do's and all. I've never seen a kid have so much fun. But somehow I now felt cheated; left out.
The days lethargically went by. The sound of the minis popped and sput¬tered from after school hours until the shadowy twilight of each evening. Every time an engine revved high; I peered through the curtains of the church office to see who was leading. I found myself coming in early from visiting members, to see how the boys were running. It seemed as if some subtle plot had been set in motion, all designed to make a cyclist out of me. I found myself poring over Cycle Guide and other leading mags. I mem¬orized road tests. Every time a cycle passed me on the street, I'd silently run through the specs. "Then Came Bronson" became my favorite TV program. I began to check our deleted financial status (there are very few rich ministers around) in wild, flighty speculation that maybe someday . . . just maybe . . . I'd walk into a cycle shop, plunk down my bankroll, and ride off into the blazing sunset on a thundering Sportster. I could even hear the beautiful, magnificent rum¬ble of that great V twin machine in my mind.
I began to drop by the local bike shops and investigate the merchan¬dise. The fat Honda man should not have laughed so hard, when I sat on that CB 750. Preachers are human, too, almost. But I guess it was fun¬ny, a bald headed, 35 year old min¬ister, backward collar and all, perched atop a mighty Honda Four, eyes dead ahead on an imaginary straightaway. Anyhow, he lost a customer when he laughed at me.
The Yamaha dealer was 16 miles away, but if he laughed he did it so I couldn't see him. I think he almost believed me when I told him I was interested in a bike. At least he didn't roll on the floor, legs kicking, scream¬ing with laughter. That was encour¬aging.
All the bikes were beautiful, a term which when applied to a motorcycle, turns my wife's stomach. I decided to aim for a docile little 80cc bike, so I saved my money. But the 125 AT 1 began to look more gorgeous every day. So I saved some more money. Just when I'd finally made up my mind, Yamaha comes out with a 200cc street bike (for only a few dollars more). So I set my mind on that.
Then last September I just hap¬pened to be in the area, which is a little hard to explain because my nearest church member lives ten miles away from the bike shop, but there before me was "my" bike. Maybe it was the way the crisp September morning sunshine glistened on the chrome and cherry red tank. Maybe it was the brainwashing of those road tests and advertisements. I don't know what it was. But that was my bike sitting there.
It had just been set up out of the crate. Then a horrible thought shot through my excited mind. It'd cost at least a hundred dollars more than I'd planned to spend. But I had to have it. I was compelled to sit astride it and dream.
The dealer came out. "She's a beauty, ain't she?"
I couldn't help but agree, although I don't recall what I said.
"There's a scratch on the gas tank, though. I may have to let this one go for a little less than regular price."
Shakespeare's heart leaped up when he beheld a rainbow in the sky. My heart leaps up when I behold a bike dealer talking about cutting prices.
"How I cleared my throat to keep from choking. "How much you asking?"
"It's a give away at $595.00."
"Sold!" I blurted out in a frenzied tone. I think it shook him just a little.
I put my deposit down and spent the next few days getting the title, tags and insurance for the bike.
It was a snap learning to ride. After several hours of strenuous practice I could ride . . . oh, 30 or 40 yards without dragging either foot. At first the dealer instructed me while I sat on the bike with it up on the center stand. Then he took me for a ride. Then I took him for a ride. That's when I almost made a convert out of him. Imagine what intestinal fortitude it must have taken to remain silent while some idiotic minister sprayed customer’s cars with gravel, near missing the shop's new pickup truck, refusing to stay on the nice grassy lot beside the shop for learners. The first time I choked it down; he got off and vainly ran beside me shouting unheeded instructions. I was too en¬grossed in riding to even pretend to be listening.
My bike was unusual, I found out. It had sixteen positions for the gear shift lever: five forward gears and eleven neutrals, one of them in¬tended. After hopping, skipping, and jumping all over the lot, killing the engine a thousand times in two hours, we'd all had enough. Me, him, the bike, and 600 people who'd gathered to watch. We'd all had enough. I still think someone should have charged admission. No Wild West rodeo ever had as many stunts and daredevil acrobatics.
But that was all a year ago. Now I'm a professional. Well, maybe not really professional. At least Hailwood and Lawill won't have anything to worry about from me for another year or so. But I have learned a lot. Important things. Like: how to ride through a 20 mph zone with fourteen barking dogs chasing me without losing my cool; how not to fall off my tiny 250 Yamaha while being zapped by a BSA Rocket; how not to turn simultaneously green with envy and red with embarrassment after killing my engine while listening to the symphony of Detroit monsters honking at me and watching a Mach III, who had seconds before been beside me, disappear over the hill; how that 10 degree weather is a wee bit too cool to ride in, no matter how hearty the enthusiast; how to push 310 pounds of motorcycle uphill through heavy traffic to the nearest gas station while passing motorists laugh their silly heads off, only to find out later that I had a reserve section in the tank; how not to totally ignore the weatherman when he calls for heavy showers. Lots of useful little items have stored themselves in my cranial cavity (sometimes more cavity than cranial).
But in spite of all this and more, still I ride. There's nothing like it. Nothing in the world. I can't phrase it like Swede Carlson, but it's worth all the shocked and amazed looks I get from my parishioners. It's worth the tension it causes between me and my little five foot, bewildered wife as she watches her usually sane, 200 pound, pot-bellied, balding husband leave a warm cozy den, strap on a red metalflake helmet and go out in 40 degree weather (with rain threatening), fire up his pop-pop-popping two-stroke and head down South Division Street toward the open road.
There's no explaining it. You've got to be there. You've got to feel. it to know what it's all about. That surge of power as I shift through the gears; that exquisite feeling of sailing through that particular curve in good form, a split second faster than last time; that marvelous sensation of perpetual grandeur as I glide effortlessly across the thrilling span of bridge on the Chesapeake Bay on the way to Baltimore or D.C.; the silence-come-alive awareness of nature after stopping on a secluded spot in the dense Pocomoke Forest, in a place never touched by auto tires. Who can explain it? Who needs to? Let those guys who slice and hook little white balls all over green grass, go on thinking they're having fun. But, man, they're missing it all! I'll just keep on riding and hoping others will slough off the stereotyped categories the world is trying to fit us all into and join me. When it comes to motorcycles, I'm hooked.
