Let's roll way back to the beginning. My first ride at 15 years old was a Honda 55 Super cob. It was black with chrome panels on the integrated-to-frame tank. As I remember, the sheetmetal and the frame was one in the same.
Most of the single-cylinder 50cc Hondas of that era looked like Vespa Scooters. I went for the extra CCs and the more classic motorcycle look.
My old man was a hard-as-nails oil field worker. He ran walkin' boss over Hydro-Test, an oil well testing company. He hated bikers, long hairs, hoodlums, thugs, and punks. He had cast-iron rules like, "When welding, no matter how bad you burn yourself, never stop until your bead's complete."
Regarding motorcycles, his edict was, "I hate those bastards. They're not worth the powder to blow them to hell. But if you want one I won't stand in your way. Just don't ask me for shit. You want it, you get a job and buy it, cover the tags and insurance. Ah, but I'll let you park it in the garage."
I worked in a machine shop breaking precision-cutting tools. Almost got fired my first day behind a mill. That was 1964, when I was still a junior in high school.
I remember the first foggy morning ride along the Long Beach, California, Marine Stadium, a straight stretch where I caught more than one ticket. I twisted the throttle and peeled past 30 mph over the speed limit. For the first time, I was flying. My eyes watered. The rush was beyond bitchin'. My old tanker jacket flapped in the cool morning and I was a street fighter cutting through a cloudy maze.
By the end of the week, I collected my first vehicle infraction, my first girl, and that sonuvabitch wasn't fast enough.
I started hittin' hole-in-the-wall bike shops for performance advice. We ditched the air cleaner, rebuilt the carb, modified the exhaust, but it was still too stock. I changed the stock bars for a more rowdy pair. Then I experimented with metalflake on the tank with glitter and surfboard resin. From 15 feet away, it was wild. If you touched it, it was coarser than 60-grit sandpaper.
I rode it everywhere until women became a touchy-feely priority - my weakness. Then I bought a '46 Nash, a giant sedan.
No matter what I did, that bike didn't cut it, and I started lookin' around.
A big burly, long-haired biker moved in down the narrow alley from my folk's house.
I could hear that Panhead peel over the bridges a mile away, like a locomotive in a town without a train. It was brilliant turquoise metalflake from the vinyl seats to the molded neck.
Those were violent times. Bikers were outcasts and loners. I loved it and needed a Harley. I graduated from high school by a paper-thin feeler gauge margin. Then I immediately joined the Navy and escaped my folks. As soon as boot camp was completed in San Diego and I headed off to electronics school in San Francisco on Treasure Island, I stared looking for a Harley.
On the brink of being shipped to Vietnam in '68, I wandered into Long Beach H-D and fell in love with a new '69 XLCH. No matter how the manager tried to convince me that the fat tank, saddlebags, and electric start XLH would benefit me, I went for the birch-brown metallic-painted traditional Sportster tank, kickstart, and clean magneto-fired, aluminum-rimmed racer.
I was set to rock with a handful of burning cash for a down payment when I strolled into Bank of American and was turned down for a loan. I was about to ship out to our South East Asia war zone and the loan officer said," Sonny, I can't loan you money. You're a service man and we don't handle motorcycle loans."
I pulled my savings account, my folks chewed out the manager and pulled their accounts. We never went back. I'll tell ya about a Sportster experience or two next issue.Ride Forever,Bandit