My First Motorcycle...

The motorcycles stood in orderly chrome lines before the plate glass widows at the dealership. I stood on the sidewalk outside, without a clue as to the one I wanted. They all looked sort of the same, like the hookers in the Reeperbahn (the famous St.Pauli District in Hamburg). Just like those ladies, who either sat in storefronts or walked the quaint street, each of these was a beauty with a unique allure all their own. And just like those ladies, it was easy to imagine myself on all of them. There was a sense of heat in my groin, where all the money I had in the world was burning a hole in my pocket.

(Above) The locked barricade to the Reeperbahn (red light district of Hamburg) warns against the entry of males under eighteen or any women. Spring-loaded doors (concealed by advertising) are to the right and left of the locked center portal (for use by emergency vehicles). Photo by Wikipedia.

It is possible to draw any number of parallels between the time I purchased my first motorcycle and my first evening on the Reeperbahn, especially the part where I had no idea what I was doing. In both cases, I was looking for the ride and the thrill of my life. And in both situations I would end up spending a lot more money than I had initially planned. I could have asked my friends for some assistance in setting up the transactions, or I could have read what literature there was on both at the time.

But I did neither.

That is not my style. For better or worse, I generally just jump into something with high expectations and an abject resignation to limp through the consequences. There was one big difference though: I was 19 when I stood outside the motorcycle dealer on Kennedy Boulevard in Union City. The year was 1975. The Reeperbahn would wait until I was 26.

I had only had one ride on the back of a bike before before. A friend from high school -- Ricky Matz -- could ride a motorcycle like an Apache can ride a horse. His family dabbled in bikes and had Moto Guzzis, Ducatis, and Hondas in their stable. I rode the pillion while Ricky put a stately Moto Guzzi through some rather sedate paces one day in rural Pennsylvania, and I found it kind of fun. That was it. There was no sudden electrical connection between my soul and the bike, no call from the road, and no sense of flight at four feet above the ground. I didn’t lay in bed that night imagining that the Moto Guzzi was mine.

The absence of the cosmic connection may have been because I was ridding bitch. But the seed to ride had been planted nevertheless, and the final push came from a most unusual source.

My father.

He was a fireman with a sense of adventure. A rescue captain first and then a battalion chief in Jersey City, New Jersey’s second largest city (a place that knew how to burn), my dad choose careers that had an edge to them. He came to the fire department fresh from WWII combat as viewed from the tail gunner’s seat in a B-17, after managing to live through 36 missions. I used to love rummaging through my dad’s dresser, but this had to be done when he wasn’t around. He kept a broken pistol there, a box of pictures from Egypt (WWII), a Nazi bayonette, and a torn flag with a swastika on it. Nevertheless, the day came when I got caught, examining the contents of a small box, the sort of thing a ring might have come in. But there was no ring, just a jagged stone. When I asked my dad what it was, he replied, “Flack.”

My prized possession that used to belong to my dad is a classic fireman’s helmet, known as the “New Yorker” style with the eagle on the front of it. It is white, designating a chief in Jersey City, and has a hole burned through it. (These helmets were made of heavy duty leather.) I had to wonder what kind of shit my father had gotten into someplace where it was hot enough to burn through more than a quarter inch of leather.)

(Above) Traditional "New Yorker" style fireman's helmet, shown with yellow ear and neck protector extended. Neither of my father's two helmets had the clear plastic visors. Photo from the internet.

There were three things my dad always wanted: a sailboat, an airplane, and a motorcycle. He got four kids instead, and put three of them through private schools. Had my father known me prior to my birth, I would have been the load shot into the sink. His pet name for me was “Shitbird,” inspired by the fact that I had inherited all of the shortcomings of two ancient bloodlines, and none of the virtues. Years later, my dad would confess he thought I’d rewrite our family motto to be, “They said it couldn’t be done... So we said, ‘Okay, the hell with it.’”

There were many evenings when still living at home with my folks, I’d get in around midnight, to find my dad sitting in a dimly lit kitchen, sipping incredibly cheap Scotch (Fleischmanns), or drinking Yuban instant coffee. (I used to think he was in training to be a hostage.) We’d sit and talk, sometimes for two or three hours. One night, the conversation turned to motorcycles. My dad was of the impression that I should buy one of the city’s old Harley Davidson trikes, as they were being taken out of service. He thought a Harley trike would be a great thing for camping, for the open road, for a young guy whose borders were the horizon.

Quite frankly, I thought the aging black and white trikes were perfect for old geezers who wanted to sell melting ice cream out of the back to kids in the park. I had once watched a Jersey City traffic cop attempt to jump start one of these machines by rolling it down a hill. The engine remained as dead as Kelsey’s nuts. (Because I was a fireman’s kid, I offered to give him a push start with the rear bumper of my Volkswagen Beetle. The engine remained DOA after pushing the trike three blocks.)

My dad’s trike talk of the open road meant nothing to me. I’d had a VW Beetle since I was 17, and used it to go camping in the Adirondacks, drinking in New York City, and cruising for the passion peach since day one. Having a car opened roads and brassieres previously beyond reach. But the Beetle lacked panache, verve, and style. It required me to develop these characteristics. Then the old man happened to mention he’d watched a bunch of guys ride their bikes through Journal Square one day with the most extraordinary women attached to them, buffered by sleeping bags and all kinds of stuff lashed to the sissy bars and frames. He said these guys appeared to be out for the kind of good time known only to Vikings.

(Above) Journal Square, the epicenter of Jersey City, NJ — the Paris of the New World. Photo from Wikipedia.

Now I was getting my share of the ladies, but I had had to really work at it. And my dry spells had a tendency to last for six months. The thought occurred to me that having a motorcycle might provide crucial back-up in the romance department with the kind of women whose priorities in life matched my own. (At the time, these were cruising around, drinking and getting laid, with the emphasis on the last one.)

Such was the seed that lead to my interest in motorcycles.

Actually, it was more like a grain of sand under the shell of the oyster. I suddenly became conscious of motorcycles parked on the street, passing by in a fusillade of straight pipe thunder, and leaning through the curves -- -- with red hot patooties (a lá Meatloaf) clinging to the riders in a manner that suggested intimacy rubbed raw and made more intense by the elements. These bikes fell into four categories: Harley’s, Triumphs, Nortons, and Beeza’s (BSA). The Harleys were by far the most popular. But the others had a classic upright style that were more appealing to me. (I had once seen a BMW, but the rider appeared to be constipated and garbed like a character out of a Sherlock Holmes story.) Yet I couldn’t help but notice that the riders of all of these bikes had grease-stained hands. Even at the tender age of 19, it was widely recognized that I had absolutely no mechanical aptitude. I would need a machine that was as close to maintenance-free as the technology in 1975 allowed. This meant going "Japanese."

(Above) The standard gypsy caravan. Think twice about buying a motorcycle from a place that has one or more of these parked out back. Photo from the internet.

One month after having this conversation with my father, I sold the VW, and found myself looking through the plate glass window of a Honda/Kawasaki/Yamaha dealership in Union City, NJ, where the motorcycles stood in orderly chrome lines. A need for transportation was now adding itself to my mating urges. From the street, I could see some of the price tags on these bikes which seemed rather reasonable. I decided to step inside and present myself to the proprietor as the average guy on the street with $1600 in his pocket. At the time, I was unaware that there were certain rules to life, especially when it came to motorcycles, which cannot be questioned nor broken.

Rule #1:
Do not buy a motorcycle from a man who looks like he is the King of the Gypsies.

“Fabulous Sam” stood in the center of his dealership, with a closely cropped beard and mustache, an earring in one ear (long before this was fashionable), and a gravelly voice reminiscent of Wolfman Jack. He looked exactly like a Gypsy king. I looked around, half expecting to see fortune tellers and violin players wearing bandanas. The dealership could have been in a tent, surrounded by gaily painted wagons.

He welcomed me like I was a dumb cousin from the country who had just inherited a lot of money. In fact, he’d probably sized me up standing outside, counted the cash while it was still in my pocket, and cut another notch in his Gypsy king belt, all before I had walked in the door.

“I waited all day for you,” he said, with a little bow, sporting the kind of grin known only to alligators and lawyers. “My name is “Fabulous Sam. What can I do for you?” (I kid you not. That was his real name.)

He had my absolute trust and confidence in 30 seconds. I explained that I wanted a motorcycle but that I had a couple of questions. The first was, “What is the difference between a two-stroke and a four-stroke engine?” (This is the absolute truth. I went into a dealer and asked this question, thereby proclaiming that I was dumbest asshole on the face of the earth. )

Sam smiled again, paused for effect, and fucked me like a grand master. Having asked that question, I gave him no choice but to screw me in the most savage manner possible. There was nothing personal about it. He was a dealer and I was a dope.

“Some men prefer blondes, and some men prefer brunettes. There really isn’t much difference,” he explained. “What do you like?”

“Blondes.”

“Well let me show you a little blonde right here that you are going to love,” said Sam.

And with that, he showed me a Kawasaki H-2, a 750 known as the “Widow-maker.” Sam explained that this model had a whopping 71 horsepower and was the fastest production motorcycle of the year. I remember looking down at the speedometer and seeing that it went to 160 miles per hour. That was faster than any Corvette.

“Will it go that fast?” I asked.

“That’s up to you to find out,” said Sam, in the throes of orgasm.

I sat on the bike and was surprised at how easily it moved around. Both of my feet set squarely on the ground and the machine balanced easily between my legs. The gentle reader may need to be reminded that all of my prior two-wheeled experience was at the helm of French-built 10-speed bicycles, with the kind of seats that paralleled prison romance for comfort. And it was there I learned about the second truism of life:

Rule #2:
All motorcycle seats feel comfortable in the showroom. All of them. Even if you have been riding for 40 years.

Sam offered to show me a 1975 Honda 750 4-stroke that cost more money and didn’t go quite as fast. He equated it to a brunette. As it was, a brunette had just dumped me so I took the blonde. That was the fastest $1600 I had ever spent in my life. I’d had it for a total of an hour and a half. It took "Fabulous Sam" less than 18 minutes to cull one of the last but most notorious two-stroke street bikes from his inventory.

(Above) The legendary 1975 Kawasaki H2 "Widow-Maker." Photo from the internet.

Sam was far from through with me yet, however. He explained the need for a good helmet, asking if I wanted to go the whole deluxe route and get one in a shade that complimented my bike. Come to think of it, he didn’t really ask this but more or less insinuated that a man of my discerning taste could only go the deluxe route. The H2 was green (but not for long), and Sam showed me a metallic-green helmet, with a vertical black racing stripe. He threw in a flexible, snap-on face shield.

Rule #3:
A metallic green helmet with a black vertical racing stripe will only be worn by a douche... And a stupid douche at that.

Sam sold me two.

It is with chagrin that I admit to the gentle reader that the first time I had heard this motorcycle running was after I had signed all the paperwork. My anticipation of the snarling roar of the three cylinder engine faded to abrupt disappointment, which could easily be read on my face. The damn thing sounded like an outboard motor. And it smoked like a campfire.

“Listen to that brute power,” shouted Sam, trying to be heard over a sound that closely resembled a lawn mower that had been kicked in the balls. “Nobody’ll ever catch you.”

I was amazed at how easily the machine fired with the kicker. (You could even get it to fire up by just kicking one cylinder!) Stories were common at the time of Harley riders getting thrown over the handlebars by their kick starters. That would not be the case with this bike. And while this is a small thing, the choke lever was on the handlebars, not hidden among the cylinder heads. The two-stroke engine demanded oil in the gas, but this was automatically injected and required no mixing. A porthole in the right side-cover gave a visual status of the oil tank.

Sam motioned to a guy in the shop who jumped on the machine, and gestured for me to mount the pillion. This was easy for me to do as I weighed all of 165 pounds. He took me to one of the greatest expanses of open asphalt in Hudson County, New Jersey at the time — the parking lot of the Shop Rite on 32nd Street and Kennedy Boulevard in North Bergen. It was there I received all of 20 or 30 minutes instruction on the operation of a motorcycle. This guy confirmed I could walk the bike. Shift gears. Turn it in first and second gear. Find neutral. And stop. I offered to run him back to the shop. He paled at my offer, smiled, and claimed he needed to stretch his legs. He then wished me luck, and waved.

With that, I rode out onto Kennedy Boulevard (one of the busiest thoroughfares in Hudson County, on the fastest street bike then available, at 5:30pm on a weekday afternoon, in Lincoln Tunnel traffic to and from Manhattan, which was one mile away). The bike was registered and insured, even though I had no endorsement nor permit to ride a motorcycle. Protected by the utter stupidity of youth, I didn’t give a shit either. And you know what happened on the way home? You guessed it...

Nothing.

I didn’t even stall the bike. Having ridden long distance bicycle (up to 120 miles per day) in congested city and highway traffic, I had no fear of riding out among the cars, trucks, and buses. The helmet was an unusual sensation, but not an unpleasant one. I was amazed at how easily the bike stopped, in a smooth positive braking action (on pavement as dry as snake skin). The brakes on that machine, a disk on the front and a drum on the back, seemed like power brakes compared to the center-pull binders on the stupid bicycle. And the Kawasaki felt a lot more stable than the bicycle too. Now here’s an important factor: When I discuss rush hour/Lincoln Tunnel traffic on Kennedy Boulevard, I am deliberately leading the reader to imagine a rampant Sausage Monster of solid steel cages, slamming around at high speeds, creating the perfect environment to consume a dilettante on a new bike.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

If I got that bike into third gear on the 40-block ride to my dad’s house, it was for 30 feet. Rush hour traffic in that part of Union City or North Bergen crawls. With a traffic light on each corner, I got plenty of practice with the clutch and the brakes. It may have saved my life. The total distance traveled on that first ride may have been 2.5 miles, and it probably took 20 minutes to cover it.

My mom was still at work when I pulled up, but the Chief was home. He came out to the curb fighting envy, amazement, and horror. “Out of all the suggestions I have ever given you,” he said, “I can’t believe this is the one you took me up on. And I distinctly remember saying you should get a Harley trike. Does this look like a Harley trike to you?"

It would be two years of constant riding before I dropped that bike for the first time. And that was prompted by some old bastard at an intersection, who crawled through a stop sign to squirm into stalled traffic. But that’s another story.

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Author's Note:

Let me make this perfectly clear... Any new rider needs professional instruction. There is no substitute for good training and proper education (classroom discussion) regarding the basics of sound motorcycle operation. Curbside consensus and conventional wisdom have no place in motorcycle training. And while you can occasionally find some good information online (such as Musings of an Intrepid Commuter, written by certified riding instructor Dan Bateman), the internet is a source of some of the most outrageously stupid bullshit you’ll ever find regarding motorcycle operation.

God looks after Irishmen, drunks, and writers. I rode trouble-free for two years. Then I crashed three times, getting hit by cars twice. (It was never my fault and I was never ticketed, but that is poor consolation when you are sliding on your ass in the road.) Looking back, I survived my first motorcycle by pure luck. I should have been killed 50 times over. I never did learn to turn correctly (during that period) and that particular bike was a total bitch for blowing through turns. It had the suspension of overcooked broccoli, the cornering ability of an ocean liner, and the unpredictable nature of a snake with PMS.

In a rare revelation of the truth, I never took that Kawasaki over 90 miles per hour — even on the slab. And that may have saved my life too. I have pushed both of my K75s (1986 and 1995) a lot harder than I ever rode that H2. This is because I know a lot more about riding now and because the K75 has ten times the sophistication and handling capabilities of that old Kawasaki.

© Copyright Jack Riepe 2010

AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)

AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)

AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)