If I Tell You, You Won't Believe Me
IF I TELL YOU, YOU WON'T BELIEVE ME
A SAGA OF THE BAD OL' DAYS
GENE BIZALLION
IF YOU have been riding motorcycles for the past five, 10 or 15 years, you might justifiably protest that, from your experience, it is highly unlikely the episodes I relate could occur. And, looking back 15 or even 20 years, you would be reasonably correct.
But go back with me 40 years or more. Not for nostalgic reminiscence of “the good old days,” but to examine, and perhaps understand, an era and a generation that combined to make these almost unbelievable adventures possible. Lest this sound absurd, I’ll describe what were, to me, the lush years of motorcycling-the 1920s.
First, the era.
Motorcycle riding was considered dangerous to the point of being suicidal. But, since the consequences were confined to those who indulged, there was no widespread wringing of hands. The law of averages would insure no great surplus of these crackpots. Police were tolerant, as they were busy enough without chasing every crazy motorcyclist.
Motorcycles of the day were big, noisy, ana, compared to the average car, terrifyingly fast—unsuitable for a sedate ride to work or a pleasant Sunday on the trails. Motorcycling was a swashbuckling adventure.
Then, the generation of that decade.
At age 20, we were considered boys. The 27 to 30 span would be the time to think of marriage-if then. We worked; the majority lived away from home and were subject to little restraint.
We developed a casual disregard for danger, and a robust, if sometimes macabre, sense of humor. This uninhibited attitude frequently led to unpredictable incidents, many of them hilarious. I encountered some incredible situations when plans went awry—which they did about 90 percent of the time.
A first-rate opportunity for devilry presented itself one day when I had no time for thoughtful scheming. Considering the consequences, this was good. If a little impromptu flourish could produce the following results, imagine the backfire of elaborate planning.
After observing a fellow customer at a lunch wagon for two or three years, we had dubbed him “the crusader.” He was “agin” practically everything, especially motorcycles. He not only talked like a crusader, he looked like one. He even walked like one—he marched. You could almost hear “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic.” His tirades, which at first annoyed us, in time became amusing. But there was always the hope that some day, somehow, he would get his comeuppance.
One day, as I was finishing a leisurely lunch, the crusader spoke up. “Listen,” he said, “my car ain’t runnin’ an’ I got this laundry here. Do you think you can leave me off at the apartment—an’ no dang foolishness.”
My impossible dream—to get him on the tandem seat. And here he was—asking for it! With a tremendous effort, I remained on my stool; I even finished my coffee. Then we went out to my machine.
The tandem seat was a separate saddle over the rear mudguard, with footrests and a generous handle for the passenger. But with a bundle of laundry under each arm, the crusader could not reach the handle, so I showed him how to get a good grip with his knees. Even as I watched I couldn’t believe it, but he finally got mounted, all the while warning me against any tomfoolery.
You guessed it. We took off like Moody’s goose into the stream of traffic and played in-an d-out-the-window through two lanes of cars. What I heard from the tandem was unprintable.
On Heller Parkway, we were moving close to 50 mph as we approached the crusader’s street on our left. I had hoped that he would expect me to attempt the corner at that speed-in fact I hauled off a little as if to plunge into the turn. I simply wanted to scare him, so he’d drop the laundry, but the 90 percent average of the unexpected took over.
In a desperate attempt to help me make the impossible turn, the crusader lunged far out to the left. I went straight ahead. This maneuver left him hanging by his knees, with his head inches above the pavement. The swing of weight to the left almost unhorsed us-but not quite. My special set of reflexes, trained by previous circumstances beyond my control, saved us.
I stood on one foot on the right footboard, hooked my left foot behind the saddle, and leaned equally far out to the right. Luckily I was on the throttle side and still had a semblance of control. The crusader hung so far down he couldn’t straighten up, and, so help me, he wouldn’t turn loose of that laundry. The only option was to circle the block in that position, for I could reach neither clutch nor brake. If the stunt had been carefully engineered to obtain maximum public attention, it would never have been so successful, what with him yelling hysterically and me shouting encouragement to hang on.
The best I could do was to keep throttling down and coast to a stop on the grass in front of his apartment. I just let the machine fall over. A quick glance assured me my passenger was uninjured. Fortunately he was so mad he lay where he fell, on his stomach, his laundry still under each arm, and cussed me at the top of his lungs. This gave me time-1 didn’t need much—to get my machine up and started—and laying rubber. Among the spectators converging on us I caught a glimpse of the crusader’s wife. If I had stayed to explain...
In accordance with Fetriche’s Law, if I performed a feat with neatness and dispatch, only the cop who gave me the ticket would know. Let a goof-up ensue, and it would be common knowledge in an hour. In this case, the sister of a fellow rider was among the legion of amused onlookers—and she was a blabbermouth.
Sometimes just a bit of simple “show-off” could beget a situation fraught with possibilities-none of them good. One such time, a rider, whom I knew only by sight, flagged me down at a street corner for a lift to the Indian motorcycle dealer. My rig had no tandem seat at the time, so he swung onto the luggage carrier over the rear mudguard.
The dealer’s store was on our left, on a very busy street. Noticing a group of motorcyclists in front of the shop, I naturally did not go on to make a proper U turn. No-I darted diagonally across, through oncoming traffic, and triumphantly pulled up to the left curb. As I slowed down, my passenger decided to add his own bit of verve to the procedure and shouted, “Don’t stop, I’ll hop off!”
He gave a push back, so I shoved it in low and cranked it on for a grandstand takeoff along the curb. Pandemonium erupted behind me. I heard a chorus of shouts, then, as I accelerated, three sharp reports like a plank slapping the ground. Strangely, a frantically shrieking voice seemed to follow me like a haunting demon.
My machine was handling awkwardly so I stopped about 300 feet farther. Behold—the passenger whom I thought had dismounted at the dealer’s lay just 10 feet behind in the gutter, an expression of stunned disbelief on his face. I racked the motorcycle and lifted him to his feet. He could hardly mumble, and he was skinned, hands, arms, even his nose. His clothes were in tatters, and the front of his shirt was smeared with gutter debris—cigar butts, apple cores, and old tobacco cans. As I helped him stagger back to the store, I noticed that his new leather riding breeches had burst open on all seams, and the front hung like a blacksmith’s apron.
When we arrived at the store, the onlookers were regaling in laughter. After the patient had been delivered to Harvey, the dealer, for first aid, I tried to learn how the catastrophe had struck. Some of the spectators finally pulled themselves together enough to give me an account of the action.
This character had told me not to stop, and then pushed himself back. His feet were barely touching the ground when the crotch of his pants caught on my license plate and taillight-then I had gunned it. Those fortunate few who witnessed the involuntary gymnastics said the victim doubled over backward and, as we accelerated, took three steps, each 50 feet long. The “planks” slapping the ground had been his feet, which then rebounded to his ears. Soon the material could no longer stand the strain and the whole crotch tore out of his pants. He had landed on his feet, then his stomach. Then he slid.
I felt 1 should reproach myself for a little attempt at show-off. For a time 1 disclaimed credit for staging this spectacular whing-ding. When no one believed me, I gave up and basked in the unearned and dubious distinction of having executed another “good one.”
Occasionally I was privileged to be a completely uninvolved witness to some little jewel of miscalculation. Mine was the critical observation of the connoisseur, tinged perhaps, with a bit of professional jealousy.
Take, for example, the adventure of a friend, employed as a “rushabout”-our name for a Western Union messenger. He was astride his new Harley 74, complete with tandem seat. His passenger was about to take two motorcycle rides—his first, and his last. The termination of this tandem rider’s motorcycle activity, however, did not result from physical extinction, for he survived the incident practically unscathed. But there was a message, loud and clear, and he heeded it.
The modern, foreign-made machines are designed so that the weight is centered closer to the rear wheel than on our big Twins. It is quite easy, now, to gun into a wheelie and even stay on the rear wheel for a distance with practiced throttle work. With our heavy outfits, it was necessary to bounce the front fork several times, then catch it on the way up with the throttle to get the front wheel off the ground.
The rushabout had seen this done, but had only a few days experience on a big machine. He should have known better. But I understood his motive; he had an audience, and this bluejay on the tandem to impress.
He got up a good bounce, and poured the coal to it. From then on it was “Katy, bar the door.” The front end went so high the tandem passenger fell back. In his desperation, he grabbed whatever he could reach—the right arm, the throttle hand, of the driver. The front wheel slammed down and they took off, wide open in low gear, the “passenger” with a death grip on the rider’s wrist. The rushabout was dragged across the motorcycle with only his left hand on the handlebar and his right leg hooked behind the saddle.
The uproar was complete—passenger dragging on the ground and screaming, rider bellowing to free his arm, the engine roaring wide open, and the rest of us shouting only to add to the pandemonium. The excitement stirred all the dogs in the neighborhood to bark. Completely out of control, the whole incredible outfit glanced off several parked cars, angled across the street, jumped the curb and swept down the sidewalk in a frenzied clamor that brought residents to their front porches for the full block. The ensemble then darted back across the street, across the other sidewalk and disappeared into a back yard far down the block.
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There, the tumult ceased.
We decided unanimously, and instantaneously, that further details would be more wisely gleaned later, by word of mouth, than by personal investigation at the scene.
To put it bluntly—we blew. For me it wasn’t easy, for at each recollection of the fantastic action, I almost laughed myself off my motorcycle.
If you have arrived at the conviction that all motorcyclists of the ’20s were crackpots—you are wrong. There were a few who were not. Not many—and usually they rode but a short time till they tired of the dirt, the cold, the rain, the cobblestone streets, the graveled roads, the wet streetcar tracks and so on.
The hard core motorcyclists had no logical explanation for riding, livingand often dying on motorcycles. It was not today’s practical reasons for motorcycling that swelled the ranks—only the unrestrained recklessness which led to thrills that brought the gizzard right up in the throat, and possibly the enjoyment of a world apart, untrammeled and unrestricted by the timid.
The era is 40 years past. It is gone-it will not return. So let not the tales of that time be criteria for today, but recollections of that which has gone where the woodbine twineth.
