Stop what you’re doing. Get off the Internet (and for sure, get off Facebook and the other moronic “social media” time wasters). Start planning a trip to Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania. You need to see Bill’s Old Bike Barn. The riding is fabulous in rural Pennsylvania and with Bill’s as a destination, the ride is even better. You can thank me now or you can thank me later, but you will thank me.
Any motorcycle museum that includes in its directions “turn where you see the dinosaurs” should grab your attention. In the case of Bill’s Old Bike Barn, your undivided attention is warranted. To say I was blown away would be an understatement of immense proportions. To cut to the chase, I’ve never seen anything like Bill’s, and I know for damn sure I’ve never met a man like Bill. That’s Bill artistically framed by Milwaukee iron in the photo above, and yeah, I shot that picture. I’m proud of it. It hints at the dimensions of the man and what he’s created out there in Pennsylvania.
During our interview I asked Bill his last name and he told me: Morris, just like the cigarettes. I didn’t get it until later, and then I couldn’t stop laughing. If you don’t get it immediately, you will. Bill has that kind of slingshot wit. I love the guy and his collection. You will, too.
Above all else, Bill is two things: A collector, and a people person. The extent if his collection…well, I can’t describe it. You need to see it. You’ll get just a hint here in the ExNotes series of blogs we’re doing. When you visit the place, you’ll feel like you owe me. When you meet Bill, you’ll know you’ve made a friend. A most interesting friend.
Up above, that’s the building that houses Bill’s collection. You can’t really see it from the highway. You have to look for the dinosaurs (just like the directions say), turn, and then head uphill. You’ll go by the bison, some other cool items, and more. The building looks deceptively small from the outside. Inside…you could spend weeks and not see all of what’s in there.
You can learn about Bill’s Old Bike Barn on his website, but we’re going to give you more here on ExNotes. We’re going to do it over the span of several blogs over the next few weeks, and in an upcoming article in a major moto mag. Ever watched and enjoyed American Pickers? Trust me on this (and trust me on everything else, for that matter): Bill Morris puts American Pickers to shame. You and I have never seen anything like what’s in Bill’s Old Bike Barn.
I’m excited about what I’ve seen and what I’m going to be sharing with you. I’ll do my best to bring it to life in print and in the photos, but it won’t be enough. You really need to visit Bill’s Old Bike Barn.
You’ve read here on the ExNotes blog about good buddy Mike and me having an adventure or two. I’ve known Mike since junior high school, which means he’s pretty old. So am I, now that I think about it. Anyway, Mike and I still talk every week or so (it’s a bicoastal relationship), and he most recently told me about the NY Auto Show. I suggested a guest blog, and what you see here is the result. It’s well done and well photographed. Enjoy, my friends.
After a two-year absence due to the pandemic, the New York International Auto Show returned to the Jacob Javits Convention Center in Midtown Manhattan. The NY Auto Show has been in existence since 1900. I can remember attending the show during the ’60s with my father at the New York Coliseum off Columbus Circle. In 1988 it was moved to the Jacob Javits Center.
The NY Auto Show always featured the latest models of all makes as well as the experimental prototypes designed by the best auto designers in the world. If you wanted to see the latest and greatest, this was the show to attend in the Northeast. A highlight of all the shows has always been the beautiful models on stage with the cars.
Probably the most memorable show, for me, was in 1979 when a close friend of mine decided to sell his 1978 Corvette Indy Pace Car at the show. We had the car transported to the show on a flatbed and after numerous inspections and paperwork we had it on display. Besides the excitement of showing a car at this prestigious event, the most exciting part was having my then girlfriend (and now wife) Carol model the car. Needless to say, the display drew a lot of attention, not because of the car but because of her presence. She wore a black jumpsuit and silver blouse. Great attention, but no sale.
I always attend on the first day of the show and this year was no exception. Upon entering, I was greeted by Ford’s full display. The centerpiece was an original Ford GT and the newest Ford GT.
After going through the various displays (including Mopar, Chevrolet, Nissan, and more), I soon realized the focus was on electric vehicles. Performance was there (with the new Z06 Corvette and convertible), but the primary focus was electric. In my opinion, it was very boring and a waste of my time.
The international marques were also present, including Rolls Royce, Bentley, Lamborghini, Porsche, Volvo, and Alfa Romeo, along with the usual Japanese. The largest displays were by Toyota and Subaru. Mercedes, BMW, Jaguar, Ferrari, and not even Cadillac were present. What a disappointment! I recently ordered a 2022 Cadillac CT5 and was looking forward to a close examination of that car. After walking for miles up and down the center I finally found an information booth where I learned Cadillac was not attending. Unbelievable, but true.
The 2022 NY International Auto Show was a waste of my time. No prototypes, no customs, no major performance cars, along with the inability to see all the cars made and speak with the representatives, this may be last for me. Did I mention, no beautiful models either? Nope, none. The highlight of the day was having a hot dog, pretzel, and a beer.
Awesome, Mike, and thanks very much. You have a way with a keyboard, and we appreciate hearing about the legendary NY Auto Show.
Hey, anybody else out there have a topic you want to cover? Imagine the prestige in telling your amigos you’ve been published. It can happen, and it can happen right here. Let us know!
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I’ve ridden motorcycles through Baja probably 30 times or more over the last 30 years, and it’s unquestionably the best place to ride a motorcycle I’ve ever experienced. Many people are afraid to venture into the peninsula for fear of a breakdown. Hey, it happens, but it’s not the end of the world and it doesn’t happen often. They don’t call it adventure riding because it’s like calling for an Uber.
Not all “breakdowns” result in your motorcycle being nonoperational. Some are just mere annoyances and you truck on. A few breakdowns result in the bike not running, but there are usually ways to get around that. When it happens, you improvise, adapt, and overcome. Here are a few of mine.
Heritage Indeed
The first time I had a motorcycle act up was on my beloved ’92 Harley Softail. It started clanging and banging and bucking and snorting somewhere around Ensenada. I was headed south with my good buddy Paul from New Jersey. It was obvious something wasn’t right and we turned around to head back to the US. The Harley got me home, but I could tell: Something major had happened. The bike was making quite a bit of noise. I had put about 300 miles on it by the time I rode it back from Mexico.
A roller lifter that converted to a solid lifter.
One of the Harley’s roller lifters stopped rolling, and that turned it into a solid lifter. And when that happened, the little wheel that was supposed to rotate along the cam profile started wearing a path through the cam. And when that happened, the metal filings migrated their way to the oil pump. And when that happened….well, you get the idea. My 80-cubic-inch V-Twin Evo motor decided to call it quits after roughly 53,000 miles. It happens I guess. Nothing lasts forever.
Potato, potato, potato.
Here’s where it started to get really interesting. My local Harley dealer wouldn’t touch the bike. See, this was around 2005 or so, and it seems my Harley was over 10 years old. Bet you didn’t know this: Many Harley dealers (maybe most of them) won’t work on a bike over 10 years old. The service manager at my dealer explained this to me and I was dumbfounded. “What about all the history and heritage and nostalgia baloney you guys peddle?” I asked. The answer was a weak smile. “I remember an ad with a baby in Harley T-shirt and the caption When did it start for you?” I said. Another weak smile.
An S&S engine in my ’92 Softail. It let me ride a slow bike fast.
I was getting nowhere fast. I tried calling a couple of other Harley dealers and it was the same story. Over 10 years old, dealers won’t touch it. I was flabbergasted. I tried as hard as I could, but there was no getting around it…the Harley dealer would not work on my engine. It was over 10 years old. That’s that; rules is rules. For a company that based their entire advertising program on longevity and heritage, I thought it was outrageous. A friend suggested I go to an independent shop. “It’s why they exist,” he said. So I did.
So, I went with Plan B. I took the Harley to a local independent shop, and they were more than happy to work on my bike. I could have the Harley engine completely rebuilt (which it needed, because those metal bits had migrated everywhere), or I could have it rebuilt with an S&S motor. I went with the S&S motor (the cost was the same as rebuilding the Harley engine), doubling the horsepower, halving the rear tire life, and cutting my fuel economy from 42 to 33 mpg.
Justin’s Countershaft Sprocket
On the very first CSC Baja trip, I was nervous as hell. The CSC bikes had received a lot of press and the word was out: CSC was importing the real deal, a genuine adventure touring motorcycle for about one sixth of what a GS 1200 BMW sold for in those days. The naysayers and keyboard commandos were out in force, badmouthing the Chinese RX3 in ways that demonstrated unbridled ignorance and no small amount of bias. And here we were, taking 14 or 15 guys (and one gal) who had bought new RX3 motorcycles that had literally arrived in the US just a few days before our departure. There was one thought in my mind as we headed south from Azusa that morning: What was I thinking? If the bikes started falling out on this first trip, it would probably kill the RX3 in America.
Hey, it worked. Adapt, overcome, improvise. The adventure doesn’t start until something goes wrong.
I need not have worried. None of the engines failed. We had a few headlights go out, but that’s not really a breakdown. And then, when we were about halfway down the Baja peninsula, I took a smaller group of riders to see the cave paintings at Sierra San Francisco. That trip involved a 140-mile round trip from Guerrero Negro into the boonies, with maybe 20 miles of that on a very gnarly dirt road. As we were returning, good buddy Justin’s RX3 lost its countershaft sprocket. We found it and Justin did a good enough MacGuyver job securing it to the transmission output shaft to get us back to Guerrero Negro, but finding a replacement was a challenge. We finally paid a machinist at the Mitsubishi salt mining company to make a custom nut, and that got us home.
On every Baja trip after that, I took a spare countershaft sprocket nut, but I never needed any of them after that one incident on Justin’s bike. Good buddy Duane had a similar failure, but that was on a local ride and it was easily rectified.
Jim’s Gearbox
Four or five Baja trips later, after we had ridden all the way down to Mulege and back up to the border, good buddy Jim’s transmission wouldn’t shift.
Good buddy Jim in the Mulege mission.
That’s the only breakdown I ever experienced anywhere on an RX3 that wouldn’t get us home, and that includes multiple multi-bike Baja trips, the multi-bike 5000-mile Western America adventure ride, the multi-bike 6000-mile ride across China, the 3000-mile circumnavigation around the Andes Mountains in Colombia, and quite a few CSC local company rides. One of the guys on that Baja ride lived in the San Diego area and he owned a pickup truck, so he took the bike back up to Azusa for us.
Biting the Bullet
A couple of years ago Joe Gresh and I did a Baja road test with Royal Enfield press bikes. One was the new 650 Interceptor twin (a bike I liked so much I bought one when I got home); the other was a 500 Bullet. The Bullet was a disaster, but it really wasn’t the bike’s fault. The dealer who maintained the press fleet for Royal Enfield (I won’t mention them by name, but they’re in Glendale and they’re known for their Italian bikes) did a half-assed job maintaining the bike. Actually, that’s not fair to people who do half-assed work (and Lord knows there a lot of them). No, the maintenance on this bike was about one-tenth-assed. It was very low on oil, it had almost no gas in it, the chain was loose and rusty, and on and on the writeup could go. The bike kept stalling and missing, and it finally gave up the ghost for good at the Pemex station just north of Guerrero Negro.
Joe Gresh, inflight missile mechanic extraordinaire, getting intimate with the Bullet in Baja. “The Bullet needs me,” he said.
Fortunately for me, Gresh had one of those portable battery thingamabobbers (you know, the deals that are good for about 10 battery jumps) and it allowed us to start the bike. We bought a new battery that didn’t quite fit the bike in Guerrero Negro (big hammers solve a lot of problems), but the entire episode left a bad taste in my mouth for the Bullet and for the Glendale Ducatimeister.
Big hammers fix all kinds of problems.
That bike had other problems as well. The kickstand run switch failed on the ride home, and Gresh did an inflight missile mechanic bypass on it. Then, just before we made it back to my house in So Cal, the rear sprocket stripped. Literally. All the teeth were gone. That was another one I had never experienced before. The Bullet was sort of a fun bike, but this particular one was a disaster. We joked about it. The Bullet needs me, Gresh said.
John’s Silver Wing Leak
Ah this is another motofailure that tried but didn’t stop the show. On one of my earlier Baja forays, Baja John had a Honda Silver Wing. That’s a bike that was also known as the baby Gold Wing (it had all the touring goodies the Gold Wing had). It was only a 500 or a 650 (I can’t remember which) and it had no problem keeping up with the Harleys (but then, it doesn’t take much to keep up with a Harley).
Baja John and the mighty Silver Wing, somewhere well south of the border.
The Silver Wing was a pretty slick motorcycle…it had a transversely-aligned v-twin like a Moto Guzzi and it had plenty of power. Unlike the Guzzi, the Silver Wing was water cooled and that’s where our problem occurred. John’s bike developed a coolant leak. I was a little nervous about that. We were more than halfway down the peninsula and headed further south when the bike started drooling, but John had the right attitude (which was not to worry and simply ignore the problem). The little Silver Wing was like a Timex…it took the licking and kept on ticking, and to my great surprise, it simply stopped leaking after another hundred miles or so. I guess it doesn’t really count as a breakdown.
John’s KLR 650 OPEC Bike
Baja John had another bike, a KLR 650, that developed a fuel petcock leak on another one of our Baja trips. As I recall, it started leaking on the return run somewhere around El Rosario. I get nervous around fuel leaks for the obvious reasons, but John stuck to his policy: Don’t worry, be happy.
Baja John: The man, the legend.
We stayed in a hotel in Ensenada that night. The hotel had an attached enclosed parking structure, which immediately started to smell like the inside of a gas tank. Not that I’ve ever been inside a gas tank, but that parking garage pretty much had the aroma I imagine exists in such places.
John’s luck continued to hold, and we made it home without John becoming a human torch.
The Bottom Line
The bottom line is you basically need four things when headed into Baja:
A tool kit.
A good attitude that includes a sense of adventure.
A well maintained motorcycle.
Maybe some spare parts.
So there you have it. If you’d like to know more about riding in Baja, please visit our Baja page and maybe pickup a copy of Moto Baja.
If you’re headed into Baja, don’t leave home without BajaBound Insurance. They are the best there is. If you are nice, they might even fix you up with a cool BajaBound coffee mug!
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One of the things that always got a laugh when I worked in the motorcycle business were comments you’d hear from looky-loos who you knew weren’t going to buy (but they liked to act as if they were). These folks wanted to wax eloquent and sound like they knew what they were talking about. “If only they would (insert motorcycle feature here), I’d buy one in a heartbeat.” If only, indeed. They never did. My disdain for the above notwithstanding, I thought I’d play. You know: If only they would…and this time I’ll fill in the blanks. And with that as a starting point, here’s my specification for the perfect motorcycle.
1. Tank You Very Much
For me it would have to have a teardrop gas tank that actually is a gas tank (no underseat gas tank silliness on the perfect motorcycle). Something like the Bonneville or maybe the Enfield 650. Guzzi had the right idea, and maybe the new CSC 400 twin is righteous, too. Here a few perfect gas tanks:
Wow.Wow again.Wow selfified.
2. Wire Wheels, Please
I like wire wheels. I know that cast wheels have advantages, but I don’t care. I like spokes. Wire wheels are what my perfect motorcycle needs.
It’s the spokes, folks. Nothing else works for me.Can you picture this ivory classic BMW with cast wheels? Yeah, me neither. Notice the seat height, too. We’ll get to that shortly (pardon that pun).
3. Show Me The Motor!
I know fairings have advantages and I’ve owned a lot of motorcycles with fairings, but you need to be able to see the motor on a motorcycle. There’s something blatantly weird about faired motorcycles when you take the fairings off: They look like washing machines. I want to see the engine and I want to see fins. Lots of fins. And cables and chrome, too. If you want a sterile, all-the-ugly-stuff-hidden vehicle, buy a Prius.
The ancestor of all Facebook posters…get it? The Knucklehead?Fins. Tubes. Polished metal. It all works.Early excess…a Honda straight six CBX. I owned one of these for awhile. It was glorious. In a stroke of marketing genius, Honda didn’t hide the motor.Jay Leno’s 1936 Henderson. He bought it from a 92-year-old who was getting a divorce and needed to raise cash, or at least that’s what he told me.Perfection.
And while we’re talking about motors, let’s move on to the elephant in the perfect motorcycle conversation: Displacement.
4. Displacement: Less is More
114 cubic inches? 2300 cubic centimeters? That’s automobile territory and then some. As you-know-who would say in one of his rare lucid moments: C’mon, man.
BMW? Harley? KTM? Honda?
If you need something to give expression to your masculinity, buy a pickup truck or a Model 29. Or maybe a 458 Win Mag. For me, something up to maybe 650cc is good. Less would be better, provided it can meet all the other things in this dreamsheet spec.
5. The Paint
The paint has to be world class. Harley gets that right. Triumph had it right back in the day. Chome and paint works. So does pinstriping. Thank God that silly flat black fad passed. Nope, I like paint that looks good. Ever seen a jellybean Ducati?
Nobody will ever outstyle the Italians. This one is in the Doffo collection.
6. We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ LCDs or TFTs!
I don’t need to sit behind a NORAD computer display. I like two big analog dials; one for the speedometer and the other for the tach. The ’65 Triumph Bonneville had the right idea; the 750 Honda enlarged both and that was even better. Seeing those two big cans sitting just ahead of the handlebars works for me.
Speed and RPM: Is anything else really necessary?
7. Getting Gassed
I’d like a 250-mile range. I stop more frequently, but I’d like the bike to be able to go that far without the fuel light coming on, which I guess means the range needs to be even more than 250 miles. It drives me nuts when the fuel light starts blinking at just over 100 miles and I know there’s still another 50 miles or so left in the tank.
You meet fun people in Baja Pemex stops.
8. Southern Comfort
A comfortable seat is a must, but truth be told, if you spend all day, day after day on a motorcycle, I’ve never found any that are what I would call comfortable. If a motorcycle seat can just make the “not uncomfortable” threshold, I’m good. And although I almost never take a passenger on my bike, I’d like to have a bike that seats two.
Casual elegance in Xi’an 35 years ago. The right spot at the right time…what photography is all about.
9. Down and Dirty
You know, I don’t need a GS to go offroad. Neither do you. They’re too big, too heavy, and too tall. They look good at a Starbuck’s, but I’m not going to spend $5 for a cup of coffee. I remember back in the day (for me, that would be the 1960s) when we took Hondas and Triumphs and BSAs off road all the time and thought nothing of it. We didn’t call it “adventure” riding, either…we just called it riding. We didn’t need a marketing guy and a decal to make our bikes off road capable. I’ve even gone off road with a Harley Softail, although maybe that was taking things a bit far. I guess what I’m saying is I’d like a bike to be light enough and the seat height to be reasonable, and I’m good to go for any off road requirements that bubble up in my travels.
The FLH-AS in the salt fields of Guerrero Negro, B.C.S. “AS” stands for Adventure Scrambler.
10. Just Say No To Stratospheric Seat Heights
The seat height should not be higher than about 30 inches. An inch or two lower would be even better. I understand that mucho suspension travel is muey macho for some, but a lot of motorcycles have gone crazy. I don’t know anyone with a 37-inch inseam. I don’t know if there are enough basketball players to justify a motorcycle that most of us would need a step ladder to mount.
It’s on the AutoCad screens somewhere in Bavaria, you know.
11. Fat City
Weight should be under 400 pounds. It’s doable, guys. Some of today’s bikes are approaching a thousand pounds. That’s nuts. Under 400 pounds works for me; less would be ever better. If my motorcycle drops, I want to be able to pick it up by myself. The 1966 Triumph Bonneville my Dad rode weighed 363 pounds. If you’ve gotta have the Gold Wing, why not just go for the RV?
Yup.
12. Freeway Capable
We live in the age of the Interstate. Two-lane country roads are nice and they make for good advertising photography, but it’s not the 1950s anymore. Yeah, I try to enjoy back roads, but like everybody else, I get on the freeway when I want to cover big miles. A bike that can cruise comfortably at 75 or 80 mph has to be part of the spec. The funny thing is, you don’t need a monster bike to do that. Gresh and I rode across China on CSC 250cc motorcycles, and about a third of that was freeway driving.
Riding the freeways across the Gobi Desert. Note the two-abreast Chinese car carriers.Gobi Gresh on a Chinese interstate (or should that be interprovince?) highway.
13. What’s In A Name?
I’d be okay with some kind of alphanumeric quasi-military designation or a cool sounding noun, like Bonneville or Electra-Glide or MT06. The weird noun “INT” adorns my Enfield only because the Mumbai boys didn’t want to take on Honda (they should; Royal Enfield had an Interceptor way before Honda did). I’m okay with a Chinese motorcycle, but it would have to have a good name (Cool Boy won’t cut it here). The first RX3s in America had a tank panel emblazoned with Speed (hey, I can’t make this stuff up); I caught some online flak about that. I countered it by telling the keyboard commandos we wanted Methamphetamine, but the font became too small when we tried to fit it on the tank. BSA used to have great names, like Spitfire and Thunderbolt. Those could work. Here are a few others I thought you might like to see.
Nah. That won’t work.Nah, that won’t work, either.Yeah, maybe…The Docker. You could buy matching slacks. You know. Dockers.Like the candy bar. Sweet!Zarang me, Zarang me, they ought to take a rope and hang me…
14. Pipe Up!
A motorcycle has to be visually and aurally balanced. To me, that includes chrome exhaust pipes on both sides of the motorcycle (like you see on that gorgeous Norton in the big photo above, and in the Beezer below). Low pipes or high, either are okay by me. Back in the 1960s Yamaha had the Big Bear (now there’s a great name) with upswept chrome exhausts on either side of the bike and I thought that was perfect. Any of the ’60s British street twins were perfect, especially Triumphs and BSAs. Flat black stamped steel with flanged welds on only one side of the bike (like my KLR 650) are an abomination.
British chrome symmetry. We could learn a thing or two from that era.
And, of course, the ExhaustNote: The perfect motorcycle has to sound like the perfect motorcycle. That means a low rumble, but not something so lopey it sounds like a Harley, and certainly not something that sounds like a sewing machine or (worse yet) a small car. Think mid-60’s Triumph Bonneville. That is a motorcycle that sounds like a motorcycle.
So there you have it. Got comments? Let’s hear them. Post them here on the blog, and you’ll have a friend for life. And do a friend a favor: Click on the ads in this blog!
We watched Lonely Hearts on Netflix a few nights ago, and it was surprisingly good. It would be hard to go wrong, I think, with any film that had John Travolta and the late James Gandolfini in it, but this one was even better than expected.
Lonely Hearts (made in 2006) is based on the true story of serial spree killers Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck. Fernandez was a weasely con man who preyed on lonely women (he found them through their lonely hearts ads). Beck was one of his intended victims, but she saw through his game immediately and, weirdly, they became partners in perpetuating similar crimes, ultimately progressing to several murders to silence their victims, witnesses, and others who crossed their paths (including a police officer). Both Fernandez and Beck died in the electric chair in 1951.
The story was dark and moody, but the movie was well done. It’s worth a watch.
There’s cool, and then there’s really cool. When I was kid back in New Jersey, Richie Haluska was really cool. He lived in New Brunswick and he was my next door neighbor Pauly’s cousin. Richie was a few years older than us and he was always way ahead of the curve when it came to cool. Pauly and I weren’t old enough to drive, but Richie was, and in line with his coolness he showed up at Pauly’s one day driving a 1965 GTO. Alpine blue with a black vinyl top and a black interior, three deuces and a four-speed, and a 389 (remember that last phrase; you’ll hear it again shortly). Did I mention this guy was cool?
I’d never seen anything as beautiful as that GTO. The looks, the wheels, the wide oval redline tires, and, you know, the exhaust notes. I could (and did) look at that car for hours, from every angle, dreaming of one day owning my own GTO. John De Lorean was the guy who pioneered the muscle car concept and Pontiac was the first to drop a big block motor into a mid-size car. Pretty soon all the manufacturers were doing it, but Pontiac was the first and it was the GTO. De Lorean later went on to fame making snowmobiles (the Back to the Future car), but we didn’t know any of that in the mid-1960s. We just knew that the GTO was so cool a rock group sang a song about it. And Richie had a GTO. Like I said, this guy was cool.
One day I was playing hookey (I can’t remember why, but in those days I didn’t need much of a reason) and later in the day I decided I needed to get to school. Richie offered to take me. A ride in GTO! I had never been in one. I think I was maybe 14 years old.
The car was magnificent, but the best was just seconds away. We reached the road to my school and after making that sharp right, Richie put his foot in it. Up to that point I had not felt a muscle car as the Lord intended muscle cars to be felt, but that character flaw disappeared in an instant. Pushed into the seat and hearing the deep ExhaustNotes growl, seeing that big hood scoop loom large, I remember what I thought: I have got to get me one of these!
The other day Susie and I were in Costco. They had a bunch of die cast metal car models, and they were blowing them out for just $14.95. They were all awesome, but the one that instantly arrested my attention was the 1965 GTO. It’s as if the Maisto maestros had Richie in mind when they created it. It was exactly like Richie’s. Alpine blue. Black interior. Black vinyl roof. White pinstripes. It was perfect. And it’s mine now.
Richie has gone on to his reward (he passed a year or two ago). I hadn’t seen Richie since I was a teenager. But I remember Richie and I remember that ride to school like it was yesterday. That’s Richie and his wife Dina in the photo above, and the photo captures his personality perfectly. He was a cool guy.
Rest in peace, Richie.
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When I was a kid growing up in New Jersey (a very rural New Jersey in those days), it was a local challenge to take off your shoes and socks and walk across the dam at the Old Mill. The Old Mill is one of those cool places that attracts kids (even old ones, like me). Remote, interesting, a hint of times past, and plenty of ways to get in trouble. There had been a water-powered mill there decades ago (a common approach to factory power in our early history); now, only the dam and the lake it formed remains. We called the area the Old Mill.
The upper arrow points to the Old Mill dam. The lower arrow points to an island (the scene of the goose attack, as will be explained below). The lake formed by the dam stretches upstream for a good distance.The Old Mill dam. We used to wade across the top when we were kids. I wouldn’t attempt it today.
Those were fun times. The Old Mill was a little over a mile from my house and the big adventure when we were kids was to ride our Schwinns there (I wish I still had that bike). Walking across the top in your bare feet was the double dare. The water was about 4 inches deep as it rushed over the top, the dam was coated with algae, and it was slick. And 4 inches of rushing water carried a lot of power. Taking that challenge marked you as a kid of substance (it was sort of a kid’s Combat Infantryman’s Badge). Pauly, Zeb, Verny, my cousin Bobby, me…those were grand times, riding our bikes and pretending they were motorcycles, coasting down Riva Avenue to the Old Mill, and looking for new ways to get into trouble. My Schwinn had chrome fenders and I used to imagine it was a BSA 650 Lightning. Fun times. It’s hard to believe it was 60 years ago.
So, I need to go tangential for a second to give some context to this Old Mill story. When we were kids, my Dad had one cardinal rule I probably heard the day I was born and at least weekly thereafter. It was simple: Never mess with firecrackers. Dad lost two fingers when he was a kid fooling around with firecrackers cutting them up to pour the contents into a pipe to make a bigger firecracker. You know the nutty things kids do. If kids did that today they would be called terrorists. In those days it was just kids doing what kids do. But the results were not good…there was a spontaneous ignition and when it was over, my Dad had two fewer fingers. Hence, the constant Dad drumbeat: Don’t mess with firecrackers.
Well, you might guess where this story is going. I couldn’t wait to mess with firecrackers. My cousin Bobby was 6 years younger than me back then (he still is) and we were thick as thieves when we were kids. One day Bobby, my friend Verny, and I rode our bikes to the Old Mill. Verny had a bunch of firecrackers in his saddlebag. Wow. The forbidden fruit. He even bought matches. Boy oh boy, we were having fun…lighting the things and throwing them out over the water. Bam! Bang! Pow! It was like being in a Batman TV show. Awesome fun. I was playing with firecrackers. It was better than running with scissors.
Boys will be boys, and Bobby was the youngest. It wasn’t too long before Verny and I were lighting the things and throwing them at Bobby. We were all laughing and having a good time. Even Bobby. He thought it was fun, too. Right up until the time one of the firecrackers landed in his collar behind his neck. To this day, I can still see it in slow motion…the little inch-and-a-half Black Cat tumbling through the air, its fuse sparkling, and then lodging in Bobby’s collar. And then…BOOM!
All laughter stopped at that point. Bobby froze, not making a sound after the detonation. The firecracker literally blew all the hair off the back of his head, which suddenly looked like an orangutan’s butt…bright red and bald. Bobby came through it okay. Me, not so much. I knew what would happen when my Dad saw this. It was a death sentence. Verny knew, too. Everybody knew about my Dad and firecrackers. Wow, were we ever in trouble.
Being Jersey boys, we came up with a plan. Maybe if we gave Bobby a haircut, it wouldn’t look so bad. Yeah, that’s the ticket. A quick trim and no one would notice. Ah, if only stupidity were money…I’d be the richest man in the world. We rode our bikes over to Verny’s house, found a couple of scissors, and went to work. After a few minutes, we realized what a sorry state we were in. Instead of just looking like a kid who had all the hair blown off the back of his head, Bobby now looked like…well, a kid who had all the hair blown off the back of his head and a really bad haircut. We were cooked.
All three of us rode to Bobby’s house, where my Uncle Herman (my Dad’s brother) took everything in with a single look. Herman had been there when Dad lost his fingers (which, when I think about it, would have been about 90 years ago now). Uncle Herman knew what the outcome would be if my father ever found out what we had done…I wouldn’t have made it to adulthood, and you wouldn’t be reading this blog. So he did me a whale of a favor…he and Bobby stayed away from our house until Bobby’s hair grew back. Uncle Herman, you’ve been gone for more than half a century now, but trust me on this…I’m still grateful!
Susie and I were in New Jersey a couple of weeks ago and we did what we always do when we’re back there: We visited the Old Mill. The leaves were turning colors and it was spectacular. Visiting the place always brings back memories…especially the ones above.
The Old Mill lake, as recently captured by my Nikon.
The Old Mill was built by the Davidson family (a nearby road is called Davidson’s Mill Road). I have no idea what they milled and I couldn’t find anything about it on the Internet. There was a another mill a few miles downstream that processed snuff (a major industry in this area a hundred years ago), so maybe it was a snuff. Whatever. The mill is long gone, but the dam remains and the area is a county park today.
As I was snapping photos, I noticed a blue-gray speck in front of the little island near the dam (there’s an Uncle Herman story about that island, too, and I’ll get to it in a second). I zoomed in, and it was a blue heron. I’d seen them here before. I wished I could have gotten closer, but my 120mm lens and Nikon’s vibration reduction technology did the trick for me.
A blue heron looking for lunch at the Old Mill.
Once when I was a kid, I rowed my little aluminum boat here all the way from my house. The creek behind my place (Lawrence Brook) flowed to the Old Mill and beyond. Uncle Herman, Bobby, my cousin Marsha, and I were having a good time as I rowed toward that island when we suddenly heard a god-awful hissing. A goose was flying straight at us, low over the water, with what appeared to be a 10-foot wingspan (it probably wasn’t that big, but the overall effect was one of sheer terror and if that goose was trying to intimidate us, it succeeded). The goose had a nest on that island, and we were where the goose didn’t want us.
When I visited the Old Mill earlier this year, the water snakes were out in full force and I photographed a large one below the dam. You can read more about that in the blog I did a few months ago. There are a lot of cool critters in these waters, including frogs, several species of turtles, pickerel, sunfish, and snakes. Good times for kids. It was a good place to grow up.
A very large water snake sunning itself in New Jersey.
On this most recent visit, we were in New Jersey just as the leaves were turning colors. This last photo is one I stitched together in PhotoShop. A click will enlarge it, and then click on it again to see it full size.
If you had asked me a week ago what the Rubber Chicken Ride is about I would have replied, “I have no clue, Bubba.” Held annually in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico the 2021 Rubber Chicken Ride resisted any defining characteristics and after three days participating I still have no clue what it was about.
There’s an entry fee, $50, that goes to the New Mexico Off Highway Vehicle Association, (NMOHVA). I guess it’s a like a fundraiser except a motorcycle ride breaks out while passing the collection plate.
I met up with the near legendary dirt-riding group, The Carrizozo Mud Chuckers at the Truth or Consequences Travel Lodge motel. The Travel Lodge is one of the few remaining old school types where the room doors open out directly onto the parking lot. I like this layout as you can hang out as a group tinkering with the bikes. It fosters community spirit and you can lock your bike to the uprights supporting the overhang. At the motel we met six other Rubber Chicken Riders none of who had any idea what was going on and all pushing 70 years old. That’s like 3 years older than the Chuckers.
This year’s Chicken was stripped to the bare bones due to Covid. No group dinners, no Show Us Your Scars competition, no organizing at all: just show up and ride. Part of the confusion was due to my not bothering to download the GPX files from the Rubber Chicken thread on ADVrider, which I knew nothing about until I was at the event. I probably couldn’t have figured out how to migrate the files to my GPS anyway. It annoys me that those old codgers can download files into their displays and I’m still using paper maps. I think of my GPS is kind of a last resort deal; I use it when I’m not sure how to get home.
That first day we tried to find the Rubber Chicken sign up area at Healing Waters Plaza, a place no one in Truth or Consequences seems to have heard of. Everyone we asked sent us to a different Healing Waters but they were hot springs, not the sign up staging area. The town was named Hot Springs in the past and has quite a few still around. Luckily, my Garmin knew about the palm-lined plaza and after riding past it several times we were able to find the pocket park along with a couple other Rubber Chicken Riders. Oddly, there was no water in sight.
The other riders we met at Healing Waters were as clueless as we were so we sat around and talked bikes for a while then the Chuckers and I decided to ride out to nearby Elephant Butte Dam to check out the scenery. After the dam tour we hit up the local Denny’s. You know how they say landing and take off are the most dangerous parts of flying, that’s how it is for me getting on or off the tall Husky 510. The Husky’s kickstand is so designed that once you’re on the bike you can’t tip it over far enough to retract the stand. This means I have to get on or off the bike with the kickstand up. Not a problem on a normal motorcycle, with the Husky it takes Baryshnikov-level flexibility to toss a leg over the high seat and rear luggage stores. I’m no Baryshnikov.
I got half way off the bike but my boot hung for a life-altering moment, still on one leg the bike started to topple over the far side. I pulled the bike back towards me but pulled a little too much. With my stubby, grounded-leg near the centerline of the wheel track the bike toppled over onto the near side taking me out in the process. In the Denny’s parking lot. In front of everyone.
Back at the Travel Lodge we grilled the other riders. They resisted at first but stopped struggling as soon as they were evenly browned on both sides. The way it was supposed to work is you download route files and load them in your GPS before arriving, then at the plaza meet up with like-minded riders and off you go, a merry band of riders. It’s a great way to meet new riding buddies. There’s no NMOHVA sanctioned rides. This is the loosest possible group ride you can imagine. One of the riders had an old, Rubber Chicken event T-shirt. In a testimony to how damaged things have become since Covid all we got this year was a tiny NMOHVA sticker with a rubber chicken on it.
The second day there was a sign up table at the Healing Waters Plaza. Maybe 15 riders had gathered and we had a good gabfest with the boys and one girl. By now we pretty much had the event figured out so the Chuckers and I headed out to Chloride, an occupied-ghost town for one of the routes: the Chloride canyon loop. We didn’t have GPX files but the Chuckers had paper maps.
At the end of the road in Chloride the road turns hard left and becomes unpaved. It’s sort of rough and rocky being a dry streambed at the bottom of a steep canyon. After about a mile of this abuse we stopped to reassess our riding skills and time left in the day. For a route that 6 guys on dirt bikes had done just a day before there were no tire tracks except the ones we were making. I dreaded turning on the Garmin because I’ve never read the owner’s manual, it always leads to a bunch of button pushing and frustration instead of riding. The Garmin said the road went for 5.6 more miles then dead-ended.
We started doubting our direction. Maybe we are on the wrong route, those 70 year-old guys couldn’t have gone this way. None of us liked the idea of riding this rocky trail 5 miles and then turning around and riding it back. We chose an alternate route. Seeing as there were no official routes anyway we felt we could take liberties with the Rubber Chicken.
Our alternate route was a long, 60-mile stretch of fairly easy dirt bookended between 80 miles of pavement on either side. The route seemed to go on forever. We went over the continental divide twice, once on paved Highway 59, once on Dirt Road 150. The later it got the faster we went. Highway 152 was a marvelous twisty road that we could use as much of the side-tread of our knobbies as we dared. We arrived back at the Travel Lodge at 7 pm; 9 hours of riding over widely varying terrain made for excellent sleeping.
On the third day of the Rubber Chicken Ride, a Sunday, the other riders at the Travel Lodge had loaded up their bikes and gone home. The Mud Chuckers and I decided to leave the Rio Grande Valley and work our way one valley east to Tularosa Valley, our home turf. In retrospect, we didn’t get much for our $50 but it got us away from our usual dirt-riding spots and it supported the NMOHVA so it was money well spent. While I was telling this story to my wife, CT, it must have sounded like I was complaining. Maybe I did bitch a little. She said that volunteer organizations always need help and that maybe next year we should print a few maps, plan a Rubber Chicken route and set up a ride instead of waiting for others to do the hard work for us. That sounded an awful lot like a gauntlet being thrown down to me.
This blog started out as a snarky collaboration between dos Joes (Gresh and me) as a followup to the recent blog on 9 reasons why you should ride a Chinese motorcycle. One of the reasons we always hear about why you shouldn’t ride a Chinese motorcycle is that you can buy a used Sportster for what a new China bike costs, as if somewhere there is actually someone trying to make that decision. You know, a troubled soul asking himself: Should I buy a used Sportster, or a new Chinese motorcycle? We’ve got a bunch of witty one liners (at least we think they are witty) and I’ll get to them in a second. But before I do (and before all you macho Milwaukee muchachos get your chonies in a knot), you should know that I actually would like to have a used Sportster. Three, in fact.
The first is a 1977 or 1978 Harley Cafe Racer, one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. When these were first offered by Harley they retailed for about $3K. I was a young engineer at General Dynamics in Fort Worth, Texas, and I wanted one. But I couldn’t justify spending $3k on a motorcycle. I was single; I don’t know who I think I needed to justify it to. I should have bought one.
The next is the 1983 Harley XR1000, which we did a Dream Bikes piece on a couple of years ago. Man, I’d like to have one of those. The XR1000 was a stunning motorcycle. I’d call it visually arresting.
And the last one is a mid-60’s XLCH, preferably in blue or maybe red, like you see in the big photo up top of a restored bike. These sold for something like $1700 when they were new; I could have bought the one you see above for around $4,600 maybe three years ago. On the other hand, I saw a fully restored blue ’65 Sportster at the Long Beach International Motorcycle Show just before the pandemic hit and that one had a $20K price tag.
The used Sportsters listed above are the rock stars. There are also the not-so-exotic/not-so-collectable Sportsters. These are the ones that cost less than most new bikes but more than most used bikes. It’s a sweet spot, and to hear the folks who hate China bikes tell it, any used Sportster is a hell of deal. All righty, then…in keeping with the tongue-in-cheek nature of everything we write, here are our reasons why you should buy a used Sportster.
When you buy a used Sportster, you’ll spend less than you would on some new Chinese bikes (which, after all, is what started this blog).
When you buy a used Sportster, you’ll be helping the guy selling it get a Big Twin or a new Sportster.
When you buy a used Sportster, a lot of people on Facebook will think you’re smarter than the guys on ExNotes who keep bragging about Chinese motorcycles.
When you buy a used Sportster, you can hang out at Harley dealerships (the ones that are still open, that is).
When you buy a used Sportster, you won’t have to buy a vibrating chair (you’ll already have one).
When you buy a used Sportster, folks who don’t know anything about motorcycles will think you’re cool because you ride a Harley.
When you buy a used Sportster, you can gain weight big time and your Harley friends won’t call you fat because you’ll still be thinner than they are.
When you buy a used Sportster, you won’t have to ever shift into 6th gear.
When you buy a used Sportster, you won’t ever have to worry about not being able to find your 10mm socket.
When you buy a used Sportster, you won’t have to oil your chain (if you have a newer used one).
When you buy a used Sportster, it’s not likely you’ll ever get a speeding ticket.
When you buy a used Sportster, if you ride in flip flops and shorts no one will ever lecture you about ATGATT. In fact, they probably don’t even know what ATGATT means.
When you buy a used Sportster, you can wear Harley T-shirts. For a T-shirt company, Harley makes a nice motorcycle.
When you buy a used Sportster, you can watch Then Came Bronson reruns and not feel silly.
When you buy a used Sportster, if you just don’t feel like riding everyone will understand.
When you buy a used Sportster, you will help cut down the used Sportster inventory. The scarcity helps Janus sell more of their motorcycles because the 1200cc Sportster and the 250cc Janus are almost the same motorcycle performance wise.
When you buy a used Sportster, it allows you to say “I paid less than that for my used Sportster” when the cashier at McDonalds rings up your Happy Meal.
When you buy a used Sportster, if it’s old enough it will have a kick start. Kick starters are cool. Or, you could get a kick starter on a brand new TT 250, but hey, this is all about why you should buy a used Sportster.
So there you have it: 18 reasons why you should buy a used Sportster. If you have more reasons, we’d love to hear from you. Leave your comments here on the blog. We know a guy named Richard who always leaves his comments on Facebook, but don’t you do that (in other words, don’t be a Dick). Leave your comments here on ExNotes, like the cool kids do.
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One day many years ago, when I was around 12 or 13 years old, I took my metallic blue Honda Mini Trail on the road. My older buddy, Russ Adamson, who was legal on a Honda CL100, was with me on the street adventure. My Mini Trail didn’t have a tag, I didn’t have a license or any business on the pavement, but that didn’t stop us. I just wanted to ride, to be free without being hassled by The Man, like Peter Fonda said in those biker movies from the late 60s/early 70s era. Unfortunately, The Man had other ideas. I made it all the way to Milam Dairy road in the town of Medley, about 10 miles from home, when I was pulled over for obvious reasons.
The cop was a real stickler for details. He arrested me and called a tow truck to haul away the mini bike. I sat in the back of the patrol car looking out the window as he took me to the cop shop. Russ checked out ok so he was allowed to ride back home. At the cop shop the other cops looked at my cop like he was crazy. “You’re arresting him?” My guy held firm to his principals. I was booked, finger printed and was going to be put in a jail cell when one of the cops said, “You can’t put him in a cell, just let him sit here behind my desk.” I didn’t know exactly where I was, South Miami I think. We had driven a long way to the station. I called my house but nobody was home so I sat there wondering what prison food would taste like.
The situation was so unusual I didn’t know I should be scared. Other cops were stopping by and talking with me, trying to keep me in good spirits. I had quite a few spectators. I was a real celebrity collar. Some cops would just look at me and shake their heads in disbelief. One of the cops told me, “We’ll see you back here in a few years on a big Harley,” and then laughed at his joke.
Russ had gone to my house and told my mother what happened but he wasn’t sure who arrested me. Miami in the area I was pinched had several overlapping police departments. There is Metro Dade, Medley Police, Sheriffs and a few others. My mom started calling the various forces patrolling the city.
“Your mother is coming down to get you,” the desk cop told me. Mom came in the police station as angry as I ever saw her. I figured I was done for: no more mini bike. Astonishingly she was not angry with me. She read the riot act to any and all cops within earshot. Turns out I was like 30 miles from home. In lieu of bail, Mom had to show her voter’s ID card to spring me and all the way home she was mad as hell. But not with me.
Events were getting out of hand. My mother called Charles Whitehead, a writer for the local Miami paper and he wrote a humorous column titled, Dangerous Joe Rides Again. In it he joked about the police arresting and fingerprinting a little kid. Whitehead claimed that a desperate crime spree was stopped by the brave actions of the police. Remember, this was before kids routinely shot up schoolyards. I think Whitehead was pining for a gauzy, Norman Rockwell, soda fountain type of police encounter. The upshot was Whitehead felt the cop should have tossed the mini bike in the trunk of his patrol car and taken me home. Which would have been worse for me by far. By arresting me the cop took all the attention away from my stupid actions and took it on himself.
With my mom and dad by my side I had my day in traffic court. After a long day of waiting we were the very last case on the docket. I was charged with driving without a license and having an unregistered vehicle on the highway. Neither of which you normally get arrested for. Since I had no license I couldn’t lose it or get points against it. I plead no contest. I don’t remember the fine but it was like $100 I think. That was a lot of money. I never did manage to pay them back.
This old story came to mind when I rode the untagged RD350 down to the La Luz post office to sign for a package of new rubber carb tops from India. India makes a lot of parts for RD350’s. I haven’t switched over the title so the RD is still in the previous owner’s name. I haven’t registered it for a tag because I’m still working on it and to get a tag you have to buy insurance. The title was safely at home so I had no proof the bike was even mine. It was as if I hadn’t learned a thing from that arrest so long ago.
Like that Honda Mini Trail, the urge to ride the RD350 defies common sense. I think that’s the appeal of vintage motorcycles: they make you feel like a kid again. I just want to be free, to go where I want without being hassled by The Man, you know? The bike still needs a lot of work but I think I’ll focus on getting it legal next. It’s obvious I lack the willpower to stay off the thing. Dangerous Joe indeed.
