Tag: New Jersey

The Matawan Creek Man-Eater

By Joe Berk

Jaws.  Nearly everyone has seen that movie.  Many of us read Jaws, the book that preceded the movie.  It’s been said that Peter Benchley based it on Moby Dick, another novel about a big white fish and a man obsessed with killing it.  But people in the know…well, they know that Jaws had a different source of inspiration.   It was the Matawan Creek maneater, a Great White shark that swam 11 miles upstream, in fresh water, and ate a bunch of people in and around Matawan, New Jersey.  It all happened in 1916.

The New Jersey beachside resorts were having a tough year in 1916.  It started on July 1 when Charles Vansant, a 28-year-old man from Philadelphia, went for a swim in the Atlantic Ocean along the Beach Haven, New Jersey shoreline.  Vansant took his dog in the water with him. The dog suddenly disappeared, and then Vansant was attacked.  Other swimmers heard Vansant screaming and went to his aid.  A gigantic Great White shark followed them as they desperately pulled Vansant to shore.  Vansant bled to death a short while later.

Fast forward five days to Spring Lake (another New Jersey resort), and 27-year-old Chris Bruder was attacked while swimming in the Atlantic.  Lifeguards in a boat pulled him from the water, but Bruder bled to death before they reached the shore.

Shoot up the Jersey coast another 30 miles to Matawan.   A few days after Bruder died, Thomas Cattrell (a retired fishing boat captain) was walking home and while crossing a bridge over freshwater Matawan Creek (which flowed into the Atlantic), Cattrell saw a large shark in the water below.   He warned swimmers, but no one took him seriously (Matawan Creek was, after all, a freshwater creek).  The next day, on July 12, 11-year-old Lester Stillwell went for a Matawan Creek dip; he became the shark’s next victim.  Two of Stillwell’s friends swimming with him watched as he was pulled under and the water turned red.  The boys ran into town for help, 24-year old Stanley Fischer accompanied them back to the creek, and he entered the water to search for Stillwell.   It was Fischer’s bad luck that the shark was still eating Stillwell.  Fischer tried to free Stillwell from the shark; the shark had a better idea and took a few bites out of Fischer.  Fischer died a few hours later in a local hospital.

After attacking Fischer, the shark left the area and headed back toward the Atlantic Ocean.   While swimming toward the ocean and still in freshwater Matawan Creek, the shark attacked 12-year old Joseph Dunn.   Dunn survived, minus a leg.  Dunn was the shark’s fifth victim.

If you’ve ever watched even a single episode of The Sopranos, you know you don’t mess with people from New Jersey.  The Jersey coastal communities went into high gear, and after harvesting hundreds of sharks, they found the one responsible for the attacks.   It was an 8½-foot Great White, and when the Joisey boys cut it open, various parts of the aforementioned people (and one dog) spilled out.  The Matawan Creek (and surrounding community) attacks are believed to be Peter Benchley’s inspiration for Jaws.

So…about that photo at the top of this blog.  The bridge is a Jersey Central railroad bridge that crosses Matawan Creek only 100 yards away from where Fischer and Stillwell were attacked.  Amazingly, the open-mouthed shark painting was accomplished in under 35 minutes, in complete darkness, by an artist who goes by the name Tattoo Bob.  I don’t know his last name or even if Tattoo Bob is his real name; he wishes to remain anonymous for obvious reasons.

All of this hit home for me.  I’ve been in Matawan many times, and it’s not that far from where I grew up.  When I was a kid, we used to swim in the freshwater creeks in New Jersey (they all ultimately flow into the Atlantic).  A big day was to go down the shore and swim in the ocean.   Jaws didn’t get published until 1975 (I read it when I was in the Army in Korea, when the novel was first published).   It’s a good thing, I guess, that I didn’t know any of the above about Matawan Creek back in my youth. If I had, there would have been no way I’d enter the water, and even today, I won’t swim in the ocean.  I’ll stick with much safer things, like jumping out of an airplane or riding a motorcycle.

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Jerry and the Jersey Devil

I’d heard of the Pine Barrens when I was a youngster in New Jersey but I’d never been there, which was weird because the northern edge of the Pines starts only about 40 miles from where I grew up and geographically the Pine Barrens cover about a quarter of the state. New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the US, but you wouldn’t know it in the Pine Barrens. Pine trees and sand, lots of dirt roads, and not much else except ghost stories and New Jersey’s own mythological Jersey Devil (more on that in a bit).  The region is mostly pine trees, but there are just enough other trees that our last-weekend-in-October ride caught the leaves’ autumn color change. That, the incredible weather, and saddle time on Jerry Dowgin’s vintage Honda Scrambler made it a perfect day.

Kicking back in the Pine Barrens town of Chatsworth.  Check out the leaves changing colors in the background.
A 305cc Honda Scrambler, the Jersey Devil, and Lucille’s Country Diner.  Life is good in the Pines.
Jerry Dowgin at speed in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He’s been riding the same motorcycle for five decades. Jerry paid $10 for his Honda Scrambler.  I offered to give him what he paid for it, which drew only a smile.

There were other things that made the day great.  For starters, that has to include riding with Jerry Dowgin, former South Brunswick High School football hero, vintage motorcycle aficionado, and son of the late Captain Ralph Dowgin.  SBHS is my alma mater (Go Vikings!), and the Dowgin name is legendary in New Jersey.  I didn’t personally know Jerry when I was in high school (he was four years ahead of me), but I knew of his football exploits and I knew of his State Trooper Dad. Captain Dowgin commanded Troop D of the NJ State Police, and thanks to a photograph provided by lifelong good buddy Mike (another SBHS alum), Trooper Dowgin graces the cover of The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles.  Take a look at this photo of Jerry, and the Police Motors cover:

In the New Jersey Pine Barrens with former football star Jerry Dowgin and his awesome Honda Scrambler.  I only run with the cool kids.
Jerry’s father, Trooper Ralph Dowgin of the New Jersey State Police. This photo was taken in 1936.  The one above it was taken 4 days ago.
Trooper Dowgin’s original leather motorcycle helmet.  Jerry showed it to me.

My ride for our glorious putt through the New Jersey Pine Barrens was Jerry’s 1966 CL77 Honda Scrambler. Jerry has owned the Scrambler for five decades.  Jerry’s name for the Scrambler is Hot Silver, but I’m going to call it the Jersey Devil.  The bike is not a piece of Concours driveway jewelry; like good buddy Gobi Gresh’s motorcycles, Jerry’s Jersey Devil is a vintage rider. And ride we did.

Honda offered three 305cc motorcycles in the mid-1960s: The Dream, the Super Hawk, and the Scrambler. All were 305cc, single overhead cam, air-cooled twins with four-speed transmissions. The CA77 Dream was a pressed steel, large fendered, single carb motorcycle with leading link front suspension. Like its sister Super Hawk, the Dream had kick and electric starting; the electric starter was unusual in those days.  The Dream was marketed as a touring model, although touring was different then. Honda’s CB77 Super Hawk was a more sporting proposition, with lower bars, a tubular steel frame and telescopic forks, twin shoe drum brakes (exotic at the time), twin carbs, a tachometer, and rear shocks adjustable for preload. The engine was a stressed frame component and there was no frame downtube. Like the Dream, the Super Hawk had electric and kick starting. It’s been said that the Super Hawk could touch 100 mph, although I never saw that (my Dad owned a 1965 Honda Super Hawk I could sometimes ride in the fields behind our house).

The Scrambler fuel tank. Honda hit a home run with the Scrambler’s styling.
Everything on this motorcycle is well proportioned. The ergnomics fit me perfectly.
The cool kids removed the Scrambler’s bulbous two-into-one muffler and replaced it with Snuff-R-Nots. Jerry is one of the cool kids.

The third model in Honda’s mid-‘60s strategic triad was the CL77 Scrambler, and in my opinion, it was the coolest of the three. It had Honda’s bulletproof 305cc engine with twin carbs, and unlike the Super Hawk engine, it was tuned for more torque.  The Scrambler didn’t have electric starting like the other two Hondas (it was kick start only, a nod to the Scrambler’s offroad nature). The Scrambler had a downtube frame, no tach (but a large and accurate headlight-mounted speedo), a steering damper, and a fuel tank that looks like God intended fuel tanks to look (with a classic teardrop profile and no ugly flange running down the center). The bars were wide with a cross brace.  With its kick start only engine, the magnificent exhaust headers, and Honda’s “we got it right” fuel tank, the Scrambler looked more like a Triumph desert sled than any other Honda.  In my book, that made it far more desirable. I always wanted a Scrambler.

The Scrambler’s speedo. The switch on the left is for the headlight; the amber light is a neutral indicator. The speedometer is accurate; we rode through a highway sign that showed your speed and it matched the speedometer indication.
The Scrambler’s front fork damper.
The Scrambler’s tool storage compartment.
Jerry’s wife Karin made the toolkit pouch. Jerry’s toolkit includes the original Honda tools and a few extras.
A single overhead camshaft, two valves per cylinder, and threaded locknut valve adjustment. Honda’s casting quality was superb for the time.

Jerry and I had great conversations on our ride through the Pine Barrens.  We talked motorcycles, the times, the old times, folks we knew back in the day, and more.  Other riders chatted us up.  The Scrambler was a natural conversation starter.  Every few minutes someone would approach and ask about Jerry’s Scrambler.  Was it original?  Was it for sale?  What year was it?  I had a little fun piping up before Jerry could answer, telling people it was mine and I’d let it go for $800 if they had the cash.  I can still start rumors in New Jersey, you know.

The Scrambler’s rear suspension has three preload adjustment positions.
Relatively sophisticated for the time on a mass-produced motorcycle: Twin shoe brakes.
The Scrambler’s rear brake was similarly equipped.
Gresh and I are both members!

The 305cc Honda twins of the mid-1960s were light years ahead of their British competitors and Harley-Davidson.  British twin and Harley riders made snide comments about “Jap crap” back in the day (ignorance is bliss, and they were happy guys), but at least one Britbike kingpin knew the score and saw what was coming.  Edward Turner, designer of the Triumph twin and head of Triumph Motorcycles, visited Honda in Japan and was shocked at how advanced Japanese engineering and manufacturing were compared to what passed for modern management in England.   No one listened to Turner.  The Honda 750 Four often gets credit for killing the British motorcycle industry, but the handwriting was already on the wall with the advent of bikes like Honda’s Dream, the Super Hawk, and the Scrambler.  I believe we’re living through the same thing right now with motorcycles from China.   Or maybe I just put that in to elicit a few more comments on this blog.  You tell me.

I’m always curious about how others starting riding, so I asked Jerry if he inherited his interest in motorcycles from his motor officer Dad.  The answer was a firm no.  “Pop wasn’t interested in motorcycles; he saw too many young Troopers get killed on motorcycles when he was a State Trooper.”    Jerry’s introduction into the two-wheel world was more happenstance than hereditary.  He was working with his brother and his brother-in-law installing a heating system in a farmhouse when they encountered the Scrambler.  Jerry bought his 1966 Scrambler in 1972 for the princely sum of $10.  Yes, you read that right: $10. The Scrambler wasn’t running, but the deal he made with his brother was that Jerry would do the work if his brother would pay for the parts (and in 1972, the parts bill came to $125 from Cooper’s Cycle Ranch, one of the early and best known East Coast Honda and Triumph dealers).  Getting the Scrambler sorted took some doing, as the engine was frozen, it needed a top end overhaul, it had compression issues, and getting the timing right was a challenge.  But Jerry prevailed, and the bike has been a Pine Barrens staple for five decades now.

Jerry shared with me that he plans to leave his Honda Scrambler to his son and grandson.  I think that’s a magnificent gesture.

Jerry on his Scrambler at the end of a great day on the road.
Jerry and his Scrambler were featured on the cover of the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club’s magazine about 4 years ago.

Our ride in the Pine Barrens was most enjoyable.  It’s amazing how little traffic there is in the Pines, an unusual situation for me.  As a son of New Jersey, riding with no traffic in the nation’s most densely populated state was a new experience.  But there’s a lot of land down there in the Pine Barrens (the area was a featured spot for dumping bodies on The Sopranos, and that probably wasn’t just a figment of some screenwriter’s imagination).  Riding into the Pines (where we saw few other motorcycles and almost no cars), we made our first stop in Chatsworth.  Chatsworth is an old Pine Barrens wide spot in the road with only a few buildings and a roadside eatery with no seating.   You buy a soda and a dog (of either the hot or brat variety), find a seat on one of the roadside benches, and chat with other riders. It was different and much more fun than what I remembered New Jersey riding to be, but I had never ridden the Pines before.  The locals told me it’s always been like this.

From Chatsworth, it was on to Lucille’s Country Diner, a popular Pine Barrens roadhouse more like a California motorcycle stop than a New Jersey diner.  Lucille’s is known for its pies, and (trust me on this) they’re awesome.  We parked under a carved, presumably life-sized Jersey Devil statue.   I’d heard of the Jersey Devil when I was a kid (it’s a New Jersey thing; think of it as a cross between Bigfoot and Lucifer and you’ll understand).  We didn’t see the Jersey Devil lurking out there in the pine trees on this ride, but who knows?  Maybe he saw us.  As a New Jersey native, I know this: Anything’s possible in the Garden State.

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Movie Review: The Many Saints of Newark

The Many Saints of Newark is a movie that spoke to me on many levels.  I’m from New Jersey, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos probably four times or more, I’m a James Gandolfini fan, I grew up in New Jersey when the Newark race riots occurred (which figured prominently in The Many Saints of Newark), and there are scenes in and around Bahr’s Landing, arguably the best seafood restaurant in the world.  Ah, where to begin.

Michael and James Gandolfini, both playing Tony Soprano. James Gandolfini went to Rutgers, as did I and many of my friends in New Jersey.

For starters, the movie is the story of Tony Soprano as a kid and then a teenager.  The Many Saints of Newark is a prequel.  The young Tony Soprano is played by none other than Michael Gandolfini, James Gandolfini’s real son.  Michael Gandolfini’s looks and his mannerisms make him completely believable as a younger version of the mob boss.  I can’t imagine the pressure on this young man as an actor to play the role well.  My compliments and thanks to you, Mr. Gandolfini.  You succeeded and your father would be proud.

Tony’s mother, Livia Soprano.
Corrado Soprano, aka Uncle Jun, then and now.
Silvio Dante. In the Sopranos, Steven Van Zandt played Silvio.
Big Pussy, who turned turned FBI informant and was later whacked by Tony Soprano.
Pauly Walnuts. In real life, the guy who played Pauly had been a real mobster.
Bahr’s Seafood Landing in Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey. I had dinner there just last month. In my opinion, it’s the best seafood restaurant on the planet.

Most of the characters in The Sopranos are shown in their earlier years in The Many Saints of Newark, including Silvio Dante, Pauly Walnuts, Tony’s mother, Tony’s sister Janice, Big Pussy, and others.   Whoever did the casting on this movie did a very good job; the actors in each role were completely believable as younger versions of themselves.  They were superb.  The actors must have spent considerable time studying The Sopranos.  Their accents, their mannerisms, their speech patterns, their expressions, even the way they walked brought back memories of The Sopranos series.  It was an incredible set of performances.

In addition to the actors shown above, the late Ray Liotta actually played two roles, but I don’t want to spoil the movie for you.  He was good in both.

You can watch The Many Saints of Newark on Netflix for $7.99 or you can get it on Amazon, and trust me, it will be money well spent.  I give The Many Saints of Newark two thumbs up only because I don’t have more thumbs.  When the movie ended, it closed with the theme music from The Sopranos (emphasizing its place as a prequel), and that was a nice touch.

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Evel Knievel and East Windsor

It was the summer of 1966, I was a skinny little 15-year-old kid, my Dad owned a new Triumph Bonneville, and I was in hog heaven.  We were going to the motorcycle races.  A big night out in those days was the East Windsor Speedway, a half-mile dirt track oval where they raced everything.  Stock cars, two-strokes, and the big bikes.  Not just locals, either.  Harley’s Bart Markel (National No. 1), Triumph’s Gary Nixon (National No. 9), and more.  It was the 4th of July weekend and it was 55 years ago.  I remember it like it was last week.

East Windsor Speedway put on quite a show.  Dad and I rode there on the Bonneville.   I fancied myself a motorcycle guy and it just didn’t get any better than the half-mile dirt oval at East Windsor.  The fun started right in the parking lot with hundreds of fans’ motorcycles.  Fins and twins (everything was an air-cooled twin in those days), carbs, chrome, custom paint, custom seats, and more.  It was all England and America and a little bit of Japan:  Triumph, BSA, Honda, Harley, Suzuki, Yamaha…you get the idea.  Italy and Ducati were yet to be discovered, only weirdos rode BMWs (remember those strange sideways kick starters?), and weirdos definitely didn’t go to the races.  A new Bonneville was $1320 and a Honda Super Hawk (electric start, no less) was only about $600.  It all seemed so attainable.

The East Windsor Speedway’s stands, abandoned and overgrown several years ago, are no more.
The infield, now covered with tract homes.

The East Windsor Speedway is long gone now, shut down by noise complaints from the encroaching ‘burbs and then plowed over for more cookie cutter homes.  It’s a pity, really.

East Windsor always put on quite a show, but that 4th of July evening was a six sigma outlier on the right side of the bell curve.  Stock car racing was first, then the 250cc class (love that smell!), then the big boys (including Nixon and Markel), then the main event (Evel Knievel!)…and it was all washed down with a 4th of July fireworks display that was as good as I had ever seen.  That warm New Jersey night out started before the sun went down and finished around midnight. I think the cost to get in was something like $2.50.

Evel Knievel was the highlight for me and I think for everyone else, too.  Evel was just starting to get famous, and here he was in person.  White leathers and a cape trimmed in red and blue on the 4th of July.  (Gresh and I always wanted capes, but we had to wait 50 years and go to China to get ours.)  A Harley V-twin, with monstrous ramps set up on the infield (one for liftoff and one for landing), with a couple of Greyhounds in between (buses, that is…not the dogs).

The Evel show…multiple passes and then he was up in the air.

The crowd fell silent as Evel revved the 750 Harley and then accelerated.  But it wasn’t up the ramp.  Nope, Evel (ever the showman) accelerated alongside the ramps and the buses when we all expected him to jump. Faked us out, he did. Then he looped around to start again.  Ah, I get it, we all thought.  That was just to gage his acceleration before hitting the ramps for real.  The anticipation built.  Thousands held their breath as Evel accelerated again, but he faked us out with another run alongside the ramps.  Okay, all part of the show.  A third time….maybe this would be it…but no, it was yet another tease.  Back to the start point, more revving, and by now we were wise to the ways of Evel.  We all thought it would be another feint.  But nope, this was the real deal…up the ramp rapidly and suddenly there he was:  Airborne Evel, sailing up and over the buses, suspended high in the evening air, and then back down on the landing ramp.  He hit the brakes hard, struggling to stop before running out of room, the Harley’s rear end sashaying around like an exotic dancer in a room full of big tippers.

The crowd went nuts.  A seismic cheer drowned out the mighty Milwaukee sound machine.  We had seen Evel, the man and the motorcycle.  Airborne and in person, flying over the buses that would have you leave the driving to them.  It was awesome.

It all happened 55 years ago.  Evel, my Dad, and the East Windsor Speedway have gone on to their reward and I’m officially a geezer drawing Social Security.  But that evening?  It will live in my memory forever.

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The apple doesn’t fall far…

Years ago I wrote a book about police and military motorcycles, and while I was writing it, good buddy Mike found a photograph in the New Brunswick Police Department archives of Ralph Dowgin, a New Jersey State Trooper.  The photo is awesome, and Paladin Press (my publisher) instantly knew it would be the cover:

The Trooper on the cover of my book was Ralph Dowgin, who later rose to high rank in the New Jersey State Police.  Coincidentally, the Dowgin family lived one town over from us in New Jersey when I was a kid.   My Dad knew Ralph Dowgin and spoke of him in reverential tones, so when Mike found the Dowgin photo it was extra special to me.

Yesterday, while on Facebook, another photo popped up that had my immediate and complete attention.  Check this out, and then let me tell you the story behind it:

You might be thinking:  Okay, it’s a picture of a guy on a vintage Honda Scrambler, but what’s your point?

Let me tell you:  The man on that Honda Scrambler is Gerry Dowgin.  The photo on the top of this blog has Ralph Dowgin on the cover of my book, and the photo below it has Gerry Dowgin on the cover of Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Magazine.   Gerry is Ralph Dowgin’s son!

Gerry is about four years older than me, so we didn’t know each other growing up, but he knew my cousin Sandy and we knew a lot of the same people in central Jersey.  I just wrapped up a nice telephone conversation with Gerry.  He invited me to ride with him when I’m back in New Jersey, and I invited him to ride with me when he’s out in California.  What a small world we live in!

Good times, folks, and I’m really looking forward to meeting Gerry in person!

The Atlantic Highlands…

New Jersey may not be a place you would ordinarily think of for a motorcycle ride, but I grew up back there and I’m here to tell you that you can have a good time on a motorcycle in the Garden State.   One of the rides I particularly like is along the Jersey shore from Pt. Pleasant to the Atlantic Highlands.  Once you’re in Pt. Pleasant, aim your front wheel north and do your best to hug the coastline.  It’s Highway 36 for much of that run (it’s called a highway, but it’s really a nice non-highway ride all the way up).   Your destination might be (as mine usually is) the Atlantic Highlands, Sandy Hook, and the Gateway National Recreation Area.

I have several recent photos from this area (I was there this past June), and rather than a long narrative, I thought I might simply share the captioned photos…

The view from Mt. Mitchill in the Atlantic Highlands, the highest point on the US east coast south of Maine. That’s the Manhattan skyline at the far horizon. The land across the bay is the actual “Sandy Hook.”
The 9/11 memorial atop Mt. Mitchill. The eagle is carrying an actual piece of I-beam from the Twin Towers. Everyone who lives around here knew people who died on that day.
Names of just a few who died in the Towers on the base of the 9/11 monument.
Another view of Sandy Hook Bay from Mt. Mitchell.
Sandy Hook Light, the oldest operating lighthouse in America. It was built in 1764, 12 years before American independence.
A Nike Ajax along Hartshorne Road, the entrance to the Gateway National Recreation Area, on the way into Fort Hancock.
The Nike Hercules air defense missile, directly across the street from the Nike Ajax shown above. These were a later missile, and they could be configured to carry a nuclear warhead.
Before Fort Hancock provided air defense for New York City, it used coastal artillery to protect the region from seaborne invaders. Some of these guns go back to the early 1800s.
Battery Potter, with steam-powered retractable hidden cannons. Sandy Hook was an early Army proving ground, and the advanced coastal artillery pieces hidden underground behind these walls were tested here. Boom boom!
Two young ladies checking out a hidden mortar base on Fort Hancock. The photo ops here are amazing.
An old Army building on Fort Hancock. Ah, the stories these places could tell…

And there you have it.   I like visiting New Jersey, and I never miss an opportunity to ride the Jersey shore.   I’m thinking it might make sense to keep a motorcycle back there.

Hmmmm…

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Tales from the Trail

Or maybe the title of this one should be:  Go West, Young Man!  That’s what Ernie did, and that’s what I did, too.

My good buddy Ernie and I go back.  Way back. As in kindergarten back.   Hell, that was 62 years ago.  That’s how long I’ve known Ernie.  Elementary school, junior high school, high school, and beyond.  Whoooeee!

Ernie and yours truly in elementary school.

Anyway, we’re coming up on our 50th year high school reunion back in the Garden State, and Ernie has been posting stories (along with a few other folks) about what’s gone on his life over the last five decades.  Ernie’s stuff is good, and it sure hit home for me.  I asked Ernie if I could run one of his stories here on the blog, and he agreed.  You’ll like this…I know I sure did.

Fast forward 5 years, and it was 1969, and that meant high school graduation. Two boys from the Garden State. We both had a lot of hair back then. Ernie still does.

And those photos above?   They are, as you probably guessed, from our school yearbooks.  Yep, I still have them.

Ernie, over to you, my friend…

*************************************

Thanks, everybody, and especially you, Joe. I enjoy your tales on the trail. I have a few tales that you might enjoy, too.

In 1979 when our daughter Stephanie was born, we made one of our good friends Jim her Godfather. Jim was really cool. He and his brother were on a road trip with Jim’s wife Bonnie, and I was lucky enough to have met them and made friends with them, when I decided to get out of NJ and try my hand at the West.

I had been to Salt lake City about a half year before with two of my buddies. We had a few weeks where the 35-man shop was a bit slow due to the economy, so the three of us did a scouting expedition points West. We left in late October, and as luck would have it, we hit a bad snow storm in Pennsylvania.

After we made it through that, we pushed on across Ohio, Indiana and into Illinois. It was around midnight and as it has happened before to me since then, I-80 had construction and we made a wrong turn and were headed straight into the windy city. It was hell getting back on track and on 80 west again. We wasted a good hour. The highway around the area is a lot like the famed city. It blows, too.

Well, on we went. it was dark out when we were in western Nebraska and entering Wyoming. We stopped in a bar and my friend Paul, all he could talk about was Coors beer all the way from NJ, so we needed this break and to our delight guess what they had on tap. Well, it was pitcher time. All we heard was Paul’s mouth flapping happy about that ice-cold Coors.

When we got back on the road, and into Wyoming as luck would have it, a herd of mule deer were about to run out in front of us, but our headlights persuaded them not to. A while later we saw our first Western state’s snow. We stopped at a rest area and spent a good half hour throwing snowballs at one another. Finally, we rolled into Utah, and the sign said Port of Entry. The hell with the port, we wanted more Coors. Then we experienced our first big downhill run. Parley’s Canyon. 14 miles downhill at a 6% grade, winding through the Rockies.

We saw our first major “run-away truck lane.” If I was a semi, I would want to run away too. Then we saw a big opening and soon…ta dah…the Salt Lake Valley loomed in front of us. We intersected with I-15 and off to our left we spotted Dryer’s Harley Davidson. We decided that was going to be our first stop. Good thing too, because right next to it was a tavern. Well I can go on and on about this trip because we had some great experiences throughout Utah, which we circled, and some cool adventures on the way home with 25 cases of Coors beer. And we got stuck in a snowbank in Kansas, and a state trooper helped get us out. And, as luck again would have it, the exit we took led us to the hotel that they used in that movie Paper Moon. We stayed there. Yahoo!

So that scouting trip was the deciding factor that Chris and I were going to move to Salt Lake City. Months later my Dad and I took off in my Dodge van and drove across country to Salt Lake. I got the biggest kick out of my Dad, all the way across he was wide awake and thrilled at all the sights he saw. He stayed with me a few days till I found a good place to camp to look for an apartment. It was sad. It was the first and only time I saw my Dad tear up.

I camped out at the KOA on I-80. That’s where I met Jim, Bonnie, and Tom. They were on a bike road trip, and the cool thing about it was both Jim and Tom worked at the Harley-Davidson factory in Milwaukee. They both worked in engines and transmissions. Later Jim became a factory test rider. His job each night was to log in 250 miles on the test bikes (what a job, what a job!). They even sent him to Harley’s test track in Texas to race their bikes. We were at the big car show back in February and Harley had a big van there with all their new models. I entered a contest and got to talking to one of their staff. It turned out he knew Jim and Tom well. Jim still works there.

I went back to NJ to pick up my 1974 74 cubic inch dresser from my parents’ house. On the way out of NJ, I was pulled over by a state trooper who noticed my bike in the back of my van. I had shoulder length hair then and a beard and all, and I looked the part, I guess. Well ha, ha, ha. I whipped out my registration and bill of sale and foiled that trooper’s ideas.

I did lots and lots of riding while living in Utah with and without Chris. So, back to the main objective of the story, Joe. When our daughter was born we invited Jim and Bonnie to Stephanie’s christening. A few days later (this is now in Gresham, Oregon) I wanted to escort Jim and Bonnie out of town. It ended up I drove all the way to the California border with them, via the mountain pass at Eugene to Highway 101. Here is the part you may find fascinating, Joe. The Harley I had at the time was a stock 1965 Electra Glide. The problem was the front brake was out all the way down. The real issue was, the rear brake went out just when I started home from leaving Jim and Bonnie. I drove that bike up 101, through the hairy mountain pass and around that damn grooved circle they used to have in Eugene (you know how it makes your front tire wobble, Joe), then the 120 miles up I-5 in heavy traffic on the I-205 (which at the time was not completed) and on back roads to Gresham. It was challenging as hell, but a real thrill ride.

The other story is one of my best friends named John, who was a factory-sponsored, award-winning motorcycle racer for Harley-Davidson. He once rode a Harley from Seattle all the way to Portland on old highway 99 with tons of stop lights and through many small towns without a clutch, and never stopped or stalled the bike. He also hill climbed the widow maker between Salt Lake and Provo canyons, and get this, he took his Harley up to the top of Beacon Rock on Highway 14 (you know where it is, Joe), and he almost made it to the very top of Mt. Hood. The sun melted the snow and prevented him from making the last few yards.

Joe, this man was a legend. He built my 1947 Knucklehead from a basket case. The man knew every nut and bolt on just about anything that rolled sailed or flew. I was privileged to have known him.

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Good stuff, Ernie, and thanks for allowing me to share it with our friends over here on the ExhaustNotes blog.  We’re looking forward to seeing you next summer, Dude…we have a lot of catching up to do!

And for our great blog followers, you may be wondering how well the last 50 years have treated us.

Well, wonder no more, my friends…

Life is good.  With lifelong friends like Ernie, it’s even better!

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Destination: New Hope, Pennsylvania!

New Hope, Pennsylvania, from the iron bridge over the Delaware River. George Washington crossed the Delaware just a few miles from here.

Motorcycle Classics published my latest Destinations piece, this time on New Hope, Pennsylvania.  New Hope is a great destination in an historic place, and it’s a ride I used to do regularly back in the early ’70s on my CB750 Honda.  Good times, those were.   I recently made the trek again to write the story for MC, and the ride to New Hope through New Jersey’s rolling farmlands is as good as it ever was.  It’s a good read, and Motorcycle Classics is a great magazine.

I’ve been writing for Motorcycle Classics for 10 years now, and if you’d like to see the complete collection, here you go!  Joe Gresh, who is a much better writer than me, has been similarly widely published in Motorcyclist and other magazines, and if you would like to visit the grotto of great Gresh literature, here it is!