FALLING FOR -- NOT OFF-- MOTORCYCLES

It was 1967, a hot summer day at Ogunquit Beach, Maine. The waves were down, and we who wanted oh so much to be like the blond-haired surfers of fabled California were standing around the parking lot drooling over the muscle cars that the "cool guys" had.

A red, chrome ladden, Chevy Camaro convertible ripped its tires blowing tire smoke all around. The gorgeous bikini girl in the passenger seat squealed with laughter and waved at us younger boys as she and her handsome Don Juan shotputed away toward town. We "youngers,' most of us aged 15, retched with jealousy and the early hints of lust.

I too was 15. Not old enough to drive and certainly too young to even dream of such a macho machine as a Red Camaro with white vinyl bucket seats. Oh man how I wanted to be 18 and "rich" like those guys with the Mustangs and the 409's. The latter were the real dream machines. The Pontiac 409 was to 1967 what the V-10 Turbo Tuareg is to today. "A Man's Machine."

All summer I had worked washing dishes at a dump called "My Sister'N I." The two ladies who owned the place were hard workers and great cooks. But they were tough on the dishwashers. I think I lasted the longest at just over a month. They fired me when I refused to wash dishes during a killer Nor'easter that had lightning crashing all around. I mean, really, the lights had already blown, the restaurant had closed, and the lightning had just hit a tree outside the kitchen, and I told them I didn't want to have my hands in the water basin. They said, "Go home slacker and don't come back." I didn't go back. I went surfing as soon as the storm passed.

My surf board was a used "Ernie Tanaka" board. I had ordered it from a personal ad in the back of "Surfer Magazine." I didn't know who Ernie Tanaka was but I knew that I wanted a surf board as cheap as possible, so I ordered it for $49 plus shipping. Damnned if the shipping wasn't another $49. Pretty much took my entire June earnings to that point. But I was so proud: now I had my own surf board.

All my friends had really nice new boards. But I had one now too, and my name on the beach instantly became "Ernie."

(For years afterwards my brother, Mark, called me Ernie. He never actually saw me surf until late that Summer. He was in the Army and we were praying that he wouldn't go to Vietnam. But he showed up at Ogunquit one late August afternoon and asked everywhere for me. No one knew who I was, until he described my appearance. Suddenly everyone on the beach said to him, "On man, you mean Ernie. He's the guy out there real far out waitin' for a wave.")

My brother Mark was an amazing man, and I promise to write about his bizarre and too-short life another time. Right now, I think of him and I cry, because he loved me, my sisters, and my mother, more than I can muster to tell. He was stolen from us by that greatest of all thieves, Cancer. His story is incredible, larger than life, and I promise to tell it in bits and pieces in this Weblog.

It wasn't my brother who made me fall for motorcycles, it was that summer of 1967. I will admit, however, that it was my brother who later in life shared the love of motorycling with me to the point that I talk with him on every ride I take today. Every ride, whether just to the office or to a distant place.

You see, Mark and I crossed North America on bikes, lived together and rode bikes through heat and snow, carried eachother to the hospital when we'd have cycling mishaps, and tinkered together on our bikes through many a long New Hampshire winter. "Hand me the torque wrench," he'd say, "I'll set this mother just right for you." (He loved to call spark plugs, nuts, timing sets, you name it, it was a "mother.") Years later Mark died in my arms. He didn't cry, he just whispered, "You have to take care of Mom now."

In '67, nonetheless, I rode my first motorcyle in that parking lot on a hot July day in Ogunquit, Maine. The Camaro and its babe had "departed the house." A similaraly bright red 409 screeched a donut at the far end of the lot. We youngers felt impotent.

I think there were 6 or 7 of us, just standing there in our surf jams (long bathing trunks of floral patterns), looking at our bare feet now burning on the hot tar.

"Shit," Jackie K. said, "I could do three donuts if I had that car." Tommy joined in, "yeah man, you could do that even if you were stoned." Everyone agreed, cause Jackie was the cool kid in the group. I could not be the cool kid for several reasons. First, they all called me Ernie, which wasn't my name, and which didn't fit me at all. My name was Kim, a name my parents chose in honor of Rudyard Kipling's great Jungle Stories. Ernie didn't fit me, and Kim was a name that always made the girls laugh. "Isn't that a girl's name?" they ubiquitously inquired. I was doomed at 15 it seemed.

And then.................

All of a sudden, Tod W. rode into the lot on a shimmering, gleeming, sleek, sensuous, humming, and glider-like motorcycle. It wasn't a big bike. It was nevertheless the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a Honda 90. Today they would call it a scooter, but back then it was just like the Beach Boys sang about: "Go Honda Go."!

Tod pulled right up to our group. "How's the surf. dudes?" All of us instantly gave him the thumbs down sign. (Back then we actually believed that everything important could be communicated by hand signs. I guess today we all believe that everything important can be communicated by Weblogs.)

Everyone talked of surf and parties with Tod, but I just stared at his bike: brilliant bright red with a clean white fairing around the front. Tod was in sandals, no helmet, just the epitome of the "free man." I wanted to be Tod.

Tod wasn't 18, he was only 16. Tod wasn't rich like those guys with the 409's. He did make good money cleaning his parents' pools up at the Ogunquit Motel though. I had even helped him a few times.

My mother had always told me to help people when they need help. (I promise to write about my mother too, for she was not only the most Renaissance woman I have ever known, she loved that I enjoyed motorcycling though she was terrified of the machines.)

Todd saw the spark in my eye for his new machine. "You wanna try it Ernie?" he asked. I stammered out a weak, "Oh man do I." Without fanfare, without instruction, without hesitation, Todd stepped off his steed, and holding it by the handlebars with one hand, said, "Take her for a ride buddy." My heart stopped, but only for a second. I lifted my left leg and mounted the seat.

Looking back on that day I do believe that I felt as if I was mounting a Brahma Bull. Yet it was just a Honda 90, a little plastic toy of a motorcycle. An automatic transmission. A variable automatic clutch. A total dry weight of probably 125 pounds, max. But I felt as if on a Harley Hog.

I had no clue of how to ride a motorcycle at that moment. All I knew was that a cool guy had gunned a Camaro and he got a hot girl. A cool guy had gunned a 409 and he got a hot girl. So I gunned the Honda 90, and launched that little rocket into a huge wheelie that ended only (thereby saving my life) when I crashed the front wheel atop the hood of a brand new Ford parked about 20 feet in front of my starting spot.

"Holy shit," screamed Todd. "Holy shit," screamed the others. "Holy shit," said I. I quickly jumped off the bike, lifted it's front end off of the Mustang, and turned to Todd. "I think I destroyed the Mustang," I confessed.

"Get lost fast," ordered Todd who instantly jumped on the Honda and sped away. The rest of us ran in all directions I recall. In fact, I don't think Ernie went back to the beach at all that week . He found another dish washing job, this time at The Viking Ice Cream Parlor.

That was the ride, nonetheless, that made me fall for motorcycles. Then and there I decided that I wanted a motorcycle. Then and there I knew that I could master the art of riding. Then and there began what has turned out to be a lifelong (I'm now 53 and still motorcycling whenever I can) love affair with the two-wheeled machines called motorcycles.

I've crossed all of Europe on a Triumph 650, all of North American on a BMW R75/5 ('73 1/2 model for those in the know), and owned all sorts of other bikes for on-road and off-road pleasure. I now adore riding a 2004 BMW R1200 Montauk. Every motorcycle I have ridden has brought me peace, joy, and a feeling of being alive, one with the universe, a feeling that I find in no other endevour or activity. Skiing is close, but skiing limits one to the slopes of the particular mountain at hand. Motorcycling limits one to no more than the next day's ride and whatever is around the next corner.

There are those that ride motorcyles for thrills; there are those that ride motorcycles because that is what they can afford; and there are those who ride motorcycles because it is the closest one can get to their ultimate goal: the goal of truly Being Here in the Now.

Most of my friends today don't know about Ernie. They don't know about the Mustang whose hood I dented. Some know me as a successful professinal. Some know me as a loving husband and father of 2 wonderful sons, now grown and in college. Some know me as an Ocean Man, due to my other great passion, the sea.

On land, however, just give me a bike, a credit card for gas and lodging, and a map. The adventure can never end. Tolkein said "The Road Goes Ever On." He was right.