B–Wild--
On the showroom floor of a small motorcycle shop where Main Street transitions into Fairview, a five year old girl was hoisted onto the seat of a Triumph dirt bike. She leaned her body over the gas tank as she had seen her father do. Gripping the handlebars, her hand twisted the right grip to full throttle. …braap…braap…braap… Sprays of spit misted her lips as she raced the stationary motorcycle around an imagined track. A few feet away, ex-racers and hangers-on congregated around the desk of their tobacco-pipe smoking chief. Pipe and cigarette smoke mingled overhead as they drank coffee and bragged of past glories. Their words floated up into the blue haze and beyond, fortifying the rafters of Buzz Chaney’s shop.
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Alvin “Buzz” Chaney in front of his shop in Boise, Idaho. (c.1950) |
My father was one of those ex-racers, the little girl, was me. Most of my days before first grade were spent like this. First, a short stack of hotcakes dripping with maple syrup at the Sav-On Cafe on 16th. I ate my pancakes while my father smoked Winstons and drank black coffee. He swapped stories with the other cigarette smoking cronies over endless refills of cups of coffee, before moving their assembly a few blocks up Main Street to Buzz’s shop.
After the 1953 movie
The Wild One, sales of Harleys boosted,
even though its rebel gang leader, Marlon Brando,
rode a 1950
Triumph.
Inspired by Brando, James Dean,
A Rebel Without a Cause, (1955)
also rode a
Triumph.
People outside of the cycle culture mistakenly assume
these rebels rode the more popular machines produced by Harley Davidson.
Rejecting mainstream culture, my father's choice for a speed demon companion
was also the Triumph.
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| Paul Bancroft |
It was 7:30 on a warm fall morning as her father kick-started the black Triumph motorcycle. He twisted the throttle feeding fuel to the cold engine causing it to shudder before it roared to life. He shifted his body forward on the black leather seat built for one to make room for his passenger. Wearing a black helmet with chin-strap, the girl hoisted her leg over the seat. Sitting close to her father, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hooked her fingers through his belt loops, purchasing the best no-slip grip. No “sissy-bar” to prevent her from sliding off the back if her father decided to exorcize his old demons. Taking Warm Springs may have been quicker but he took the back roads that wound away from their house towards the tall steps of Boise High. More stops along this route meant more starting-gun accelerations. More turns and curves meant more opportunities to lean the bike close to the road like a racer leaning into the last turn before the home stretch. Tuck in the tips of your toes and go where the bike goes. The loud exhaust of the bike was their only conversation on the ten minute ride. He brought the bike to a halt in front of the high school, never lingering long enough to warrant killing the motor. She hoisted herself off of the back, unfastened the chin strap of the helmet and handed it to her father, who secured it onto his head. As she climbed the seventeen steps leading to the front doors of Boise High, she heard her father pull away. Once out of sight of the school, he opened up the throttle of his black demon. She swore she could hear that Triumph rumbling all the way to Buzz Chaney’s shop.
***
The racetrack at the Owyhee Motorcycle Club smelled of oily dust. The exhaust fumes of two-stroke motorcycle engines was both toxic and intoxicating. Sitting on a blanket on a hill near the oiled flat track they ate hot dogs from a food truck, wrapped in foil to keep them warm. The ex racer had become a spectator.
***
On the way back from the Senior Skip party at Anderson Dam she wrapped her arms around the waist of her leather-clad boyfriend. His two-wheeled machine rumbled along the highway at 55 miles per hour as they made their way back to Boise. The wind whipped her long hair into the air, across her cheeks, unruly and free. The bike whined as its rider’s right hand twisted the throttle demanding more speed. The bike tried to comply and when it had nothing more to give, he leaned over the gas tank as she had seen her father do creating a wind-force that nearly knocked her off of the back. Instinctively she leaned forward, too. She hugged the speed demon who was in control of their out of control trip down I-84. Before tightly shutting her eyes she saw the red needle of the speedometer buried beyond its limit of 110. She survived but the relationship did not.
***
My husband had been raised riding motorcycles, dirt and street. When we were first dating, I trusted him. He had an inner speed demon but never with me on the bike with him. We bought a Harley in 2014 with plans of riding Route 66. After our first ride together on the Harley, I realized I no longer wanted to be a passenger on the back of a motorcycle.
***
I took advantage of Harley Davidsons’ learn to ride in two days of instruction. Especially since it was free to Veterans. When signing up for my slotted weekend of instruction, I noticed a very large framed poster on the wall behind the counter. I was looking at a life-size picture of Buzz Chaney looking ever so cool, resting on his Norton motorcycle. (Norton was once part of the same conglomerate as Triumph.) I shared this with the HD associated who could not have been less interested or impressed by the history adorning their Harley-centric wall. What was interesting is that within a year, the poster had been removed. I guess someone eventually noticed their mistake.
***
My first day as a Harley rider, I bent my leg to swing my foot over the gas tank to miss hitting the “sissy-bar" on the back of the seat. Instead of kickstarting it like my father, I turned the key and pushed the button that brought the bike to life. I learned about safety and how to pick up a bike if you happened to lay it down. Which I did, but my toes and knees were protected by the bumpers fitted on the bike. I learned that the bike went in the direction its rider's head and eyes looked. Another woman in the class fixated on a tree outside of our practice track causing her to jump the curb and lay the bike down. She did not return for the second day of instruction. My second day as a Harley rider was also my last. I completed their two-day course of instruction, but did not pass. Two days is not enough time for a person who had never ridden a street bike alone to develop the skill needed to ride. I also learned that it just wasn't for me but I felt proud for trying something new.
Besides, the rose-colored childhood memory of riding on the back of my dad's Triumph, could never be recreated on a push-button Harley fitted for the newbie slide and not the bare bones beast of a ride guided by the demons of an ex-flat-track racer and the feeling that, somehow, we were both invincible.
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