Love Story

A Story of Chains, Oil, and Power

Not just another love story …

This is an intense love story, one that has lasted a lifetime. It began in Saratoga Springs, NY, during the summer of 1973. She was young, beautiful, and full of life. Her name was Suzi.

Though this was Saratoga Springs in the summer, no, this isn’t about race horses and Suzi wasn’t a racehorse. Seriously, look at the photo.

This particular day, I left my apartment and went out to my car, a 1970 Toyota Corolla. It was beautifully rebuilt, missing just one thing … air conditioning. As I approached, I noticed I’d left the windows up because of the threat of rain. Inside, the car would feel like walking into a furnace.

Opening the car door, the heat radiated from inside this mobile, Japanese-built oven on wheels. I got in, and sat sweltering in that Toyota, contemplating the future of our relationship.

Let’s consider … this car wasn’t a “chick magnet” like my old van had been. It was a Toyota. There were no dingle balls or the ever-popular green shag carpet. Nor was there a kick-ass stereo system. Most importantly, there wasn’t air conditioning either.

This was definitely not my old ’65 Ford van. I was suddenly feeling melancholy.

It was a simple compact car meant to get me from Point A to Point B. Sitting there sweltering I decided going to Point B was going to be a life-changer today. It was.

Reaching Point B, I parked and the overcast sky turned dark, thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, and the sky opened up, a deluge of rain pouring down. If this was a warning from the gods, I refused to heed it.

I sprinted inside Point B. As I ran, I wondered (I always do this) if running in the rain caused one to get wetter faster. I had read once it does. I have never been convinced of the truthfulness of that.

“Nice day for ducks,” I said. The manager laughed from behind the counter and asked if he could help me.

“You bet! Wanna make a trade?” I asked. Glancing out the window of his shop and seeing the Toyota, he looked intrigued. “For that?” he asked.

We chatted a bit, and then he showed me a 1972 380 Suzuki motorcycle. Too small, I reasoned as I considered owning an even cooler chick magnet.

Sitting on a larger motorcycle, I sold myself. “This one,” I said. We shook hands, did the paperwork, and I was the owner of a new 1972 Suzuki Titan 500. This was my new love. I called her Suzi.

It was still pouring out. I payed little attention to the weather at this point.

The manager wheeled the bike out the back door to an alley behind the shop, gassed it up, checked everything over, and then showed me where all the controls were. Then, they forced me to lie to them.

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?”

“Of course”, I emphatically lied.

I was sweating profusely, but not from the humidity. Flashing through my mind was one question, “What the fuck are you doing?” I didn’t have an answer. This was odd because I’m not usually speechless when talking to myself.

“Well, it’s too late now,” I thought to myself.

There I was, sitting on this motorcycle in the pouring rain, and I was only just beginning to understand the differences between riding a motorcycle and driving a car … the weather was a big one.

The other difference I hadn’t considered was, turning the key doesn’t start the bike. The motorcycle had to be kick-started. This, too, was new to me.

But I got it started, pulled in the clutch with my left hand and tried to remember which foot to use to shift. Got it! CLANK! The bike shifted into 1st gear.

The sky was black, lightning flashed, and crashing thunder was roiling through the hills. A warning from the gods above?

“Of course!” I had answered when asked if I had ridden motorcycles. Of course, I had never in my life ridden a motorcycle. I was screwed. They all watched me from the back alley now. I had to get out of there.

As I slowly let the clutch out, I twisted the throttle and gave the bike a bit of gas, suddenly lurched forward, and stalled the engine. “Give it more gas”, he said.

I was not thinking of nice things to say at this point.

Sitting there in the rain in that alley, I kick-started the bike again, twisting the throttle, causing the engine to roar. I could feel the pouring rain against my skin. My boots were filling with water, I thought.

But there I was, gliding slowly down the alley in first gear. “Holy crap! This isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s easy!” I mistakenly thought to myself.

Little did I know that reality was about to slap me back into the present from what was becoming a bad dream.

Grinning as I reached the end of the alley, I waved back that all was good, and they went inside. Good. It was still thundering, lightning and pouring out.

Picture this if you can. I’m sitting there, motor running, clutch pulled in, and I’m in first gear. Now what? I looked up and down the street. I couldn’t see a damn thing in the rain. This sucked and again that day, I was second guessing my sanity.

The rain beat down on my helmet like a snare drum. It was then I noticed another enormous difference between a car and a motorcycle. I wore a helmet with a visor. Motorcycle helmets don’t have wipers. Cars don’t require helmets and do have wipers.

Looking up and down the street I knew I was putting off the inevitable … and still no cars thank god. Still no wipers either. I could barely see but, life must go on.

I flipped on the turn signal and released the clutch. The bike jerked forward. I lurched backward. I forgot the throttle again. Newton’s Law of Relativity … for every action, there will be an equal and opposite reaction. This had become a genuine learning experience.

Possibly if I had owned a motorcycle in high school as I had wanted, I would’ve understood Newton and been much better at math. Possibly.

I had stalled the bike again. Newton never discussed this part. Feeling confident from my ride in 1st gear down the alley to the street, I kick-started the bike, this time like a pro, and again slowly let the clutch out. Could I ride the two blocks home in 1st gear? Maybe.

There’s this little trick to riding motorcycles. The motorcycle has to be moving fast enough forward to enable the rider to lean in the direction of the turn, without falling over, of course. Giving the bike gas, I tried to turn the wheel. I couldn’t.

What the hell! I was headed straight for the far side curb and someone’s yard. I panicked and gave it more gas.

Lurching forward, I forgot to lean and jumped the curb. I found myself in the previously mentioned “someone’s front yard”.

The bike and I were laying on the grass. The homeowner was sitting on the front porch in a rocker, watching. I waved, and they waved. I think they were laughing, but I couldn’t tell. It was raining too hard to see clearly.

The sky was black. Thunder and lightning challenged the senses. So did the inability to see where I was going with the damned helmet. Thus began my lifelong hatred of helmets.

Picking the bike up (yes, there’s a trick to this and no, I did not know the trick) in the rain, I walked the bike out to the street, waved goodbye to the homeowner, and aimed it in the direction I wanted to go.

All I had to do was go straight for two blocks to my apartment, make one left turn into the parking lot, and then I could go inside and throw up. I was entirely humiliated, soaking wet, and happy as a pig in shit.

That’s how I bought my first motorcycle. For the next few weeks, I rode it in my parking lot at first, then around town, and finally into the countryside. I got much better at riding. So much better that I figured I should probably get a license.

Riding the bike to the DMV, I took and passed the written exam, and then came the road test out back. The cop who would test me told me to get the bike.

Going around to the front, I got on and rode around back to the cop and the course. I pulled up to him and he asked me for my permit. “What permit?”

He just stared at me. “How’d you get the bike here?” he demanded.

This might be a bad sign.

“I rode it, of course!” I responded. Thinking to myself, “this guy must be an idiot”, I felt I was missing something here. I was.

Still staring at me, he said, “That’s against the law. You don’t have a license! How could you ride it here? You are supposed to trailer the bike here.”

“How am I supposed to do that? That doesn’t make sense. I don’t own another vehicle and I don’t own a trailer.” I said.

He just stood there, still staring at me in complete silence. A man of few words. His staring at me in silence was making me nervous.

This seriously made all the sense in the world to me. We were not on the same wavelength, obviously.

He continued staring in complete silence. I think he was actually speechless. Shaking his head, his mouth opened, and he asked, “Can you pass the test?”

“Hell yeah! Of course, I can pass the test!” I responded with a smile.

“Go take the test. You had better pass the test or you’ll have to figure a way to get the bike home.”

“What??” Bummer. Damn. “That’s not cool,” I thought.

Ten minutes later, I had my license. I’ve been riding motorcycles for 50 years now.

How this changed my life is another story.