Tag: Motorcycle

CHiPs!

In the 1960s and 70s, you couldn’t turn on a TV and flip through the channels without encountering a cop show.   Hawaii Five O, Kojak, and more.  TV series had shifted from westerns to police drama, and TV was what many of us did in the evening.  Basically, we watched what the entertainment industry brainwashed us into watching.   It’s no small wonder a lot of guys my age wanted to be cops when they grew up.  Rick Rosner (a TV producer and one of the certifiably-smartest guys on the planet…Google him and you’ll see) was also an LA County Reserve Sheriff’s deputy.  One night while on duty during a coffee break (a donut may have been involved), he saw two CHP motor officers roll by.  That’s how and where the idea for CHiPs was born:  Motorcycles.  Southern California.  Police.  All the right pieces fell into place.

I had just returned from a year overseas (where I enjoyed nonstop good times during a 13-month party, courtesy of Uncle Sam) when CHiPs first aired in 1977.  It was hokey…the music, the scenes, the premise of nearly every episode, but it was motorcycles, and I never missed an episode.  The series ran for five or six years, and it featured two main characters:  Ponch Poncharello (played by Eric Estrada) and Jon (played by Larry Wilcox).  Their sergeant, Joe Getraer (played by Robert Pine) was also a regular on the show.

Guys like Gresh and me know that running a Z-1 Kawasaki through soft sand, up and down stairs, and other motoshenanigans doesn’t make a lot of sense (EDIT:  Maybe I’m wrong about this…see the video at the end of this blog).  But we’re mere mortals.  Ponch and Jon made the big Kawis behave in every episode.  It was all part of the story, and it was all set in and around Los Angeles.  That’s one of the reasons, I think, many of my early experiences in So Cal were like deja vu all over again when I moved here.  I’d seen all these places in CHiPs before I left Texas and came to California: Angeles Crest Highway, Malibu, downtown LA, the Pacific Coast Highway…the locations and the motorcycle scenes were burned into my brain.

Susie was putzing around on Facebook the other day when she found a local community bulletin board that said the CHiPs stars would be here for autographs and photos.  Did I want to go?  Hell, yeah!

Larry Wilcox, aka Jon Baker, signing a photo for me. He seemed like a genuine nice guy. In real life, Wilcox was a Marine in Vietnam who served in an artillery unit.  Wilcox is a year or two older than me.

The CHiPs show had a motor sergeant (Sergeant Joe Getraer) who was played by Robert Pine.  Pine was there as well, and he was happy to pose for a photograph.  Mr. Pine is 80 years old now.

Sergeant Joe Getraer, played by Robert Pine, who had a full time job keeping Ponch and Jon in line. Pine, like Estrada and Wilcox, had a welcoming personality. It was a fun day.

Erik Estrada was a central character in the show, the one who was always in some kind of trouble with Sergeant Getraer.  Ponch (his nickname, as in Ponch Poncharello) and Jon no doubt influenced a lot of guys to apply for jobs in the real California Highway Patrol.  The real California Highway Patrol had a real motor officer and a real CHP BMW at this event, along with a couple of patrol cars.

Susie and Erik Estrada.  All three of the CHiPs stars allowed everyone to take as many photos as they wanted.  There’s nothing pretentious about these guys.

There were a lot of things I enjoyed about this event.  We had to wait in line to get up to the table for autographs, but the wait wasn’t too bad and the event wasn’t rushed at all.  The weather was nice and it was a fun way to spend a Saturday morning.  Pine, Wilcox, and Estrada chatted with everybody, and Mr. Estrada walked the length of the line several times apologizing for the wait and telling us they were going as fast as they could.  There were a few people in line who were disabled, and Ponch helped them maneuver up to the picture-posing area (he was very friendly).  All three of the TV CHiPs seemed to have the same personalities as the characters they played 50 years ago, with Estrada being the most mischievous (and, where the ladies were involved, the most flirtatious).

I asked Estrada if he still rode and what kind of motorcycle he had.  It was a topic he wanted to talk about.  “Ponch” told me he sold his Harley Softail 20 years ago, and that he now owned one of the six Kawasaki police motors used on the show.  “The Teamsters gave it to me,” he said.  I thought that was pretty cool.

The other stars in the show were southern California, the California Highway Patrol, and the Kawasaki Police 1000 motorcycle.  I imagine CHiPs did a lot for CHP recruitment, and the Kawasaki police motorcycles did a lot for Kawasaki (in both the police and civilian markets).  It was a brilliant bit of product placement before product placement became a thing, and it led to a nearly complete bifurcation of the police motorcycle market.  Departments east of the Mississippi River stuck with Harley-Davidson, and departments west of the Mississippi went with Kawasaki (although that has changed in recent years).  If you are wondering how I know that, I did a fair amount of research for The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles when I wrote it 20 years ago.

The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles is back in print and you can purchase a copy for a low, low $9.95.

Whoa…check this out…it just happened yesterday right here in LA.  Who’d a thought?  The CHP on full dress Harleys chasing down a guy on a Kawasaki KLR 650, and staying with him on the freeways, splitting lanes, on surface streets, and off road.  These are CHiPs legends being created as this blog was being written!

Whatever the two CHP officers’ names are, you can bet they’re being called Ponch and Jon now!

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No More, No Motus

The shocking news is that they lasted 10 years. Motus Motorcycles announced they were shutting down and I mean right now. Which is a shame because I liked the looks of their sport tourer and it apparently had a great engine. Legendary moto-journalist Jack Lewis said he liked the bike and that’s good enough for me. The Motus sold for around 30,000 dollars. That undercut some other American-made motorcycles in the rarified cruiser category but was still a hefty chunk of change for a sport tourer.

The mighty Motus is no more.

I saw Motus at Daytona long time ago, before the production motorcycles were available. There were a couple of good-natured models standing around the bike. Closer to the ground and less aloof than the Ducati models, the girls wore short black skirts and belly-exposing, Motus logoed crop-top T-shirts. I joked around with them and they let me pose for for a photograph with one on each arm. The girls really didn’t know anything about the Motus but they were packing in the crowds. I thought it was damn good marketing.

Good natured and good looking, Joe Gresh is.

I never got to ride a Motus. I never asked the company for a loaner. They were getting plenty of coverage in the moto-press and I am not very ambitious. The V-four engine attracts a lot of attention because of its small size and torque. Loosely based on a Scat style engine, I predict a bright future selling the Motus engine as a stand-alone unit.

Old British sports car owners, guys tired of being run over in 4-cylinder Jeeps, perhaps racers in a spec-engine mini, sprint-car series are all potential customers for a reorganized Motus. Call the new company Motus Power Systems and sell bolt-in kits to repower various lightweight 4-wheelers.

Could taller, more aloof models have saved Motus? Hard to say. My advice to Motus is to forget about motorcycles. There are so many fantastic bikes available we don’t need another. The entire United States motorcycle industry would fit inside the tackle box of the recreational fishing industry. Motorcycles are such a tiny fraction, a statistical rounding error really, of the greater automotive economy that it’s not worth Motus’ trouble.

Hell, if you sold every motorcycle rider in America a Motus you’d still need to borrow money from me to get Uber fare home. The money simply isn’t there. So start work on the Jeep/Motus repower kit, boys. I’ll be first in line to mooch a test fitting in Brumby the YJ. I’ll even let you guys hire models to pose next to the old Jeep.

Pit Noir

The Start, preceded by a lot of action. I helped.

It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”

“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.

“Torrance?  Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”

“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”

It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.

I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.

At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.

Pit row, Daytona.

“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.

Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.

Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.

“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”

Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”

“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”

“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”

We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.

By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.

The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”

The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”

The mechanic looks up again, “What?”

I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”

He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.

The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.

“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”

I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.

“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.

“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.

“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.

“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”

“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.

“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.

“What?” He stops sliding the leg.

“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.

“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.

“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”

The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”

“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.

“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.

“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.

“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.

“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”

Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.

There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”

“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.

The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.