Bittersweet, Broken Hearted Savior

The phone rings. I look at the alarm clock. Two AM. I know who it is. She’ll have her story. She’ll need my help. Again.

After a short conversation, I’m up, I’m dressed. Hot coffee poured into my traveling cup. I start up my Toyota FJ and soon I’m cruising down the serpentine road next to Boulder Creek. From Nederland to Boulder to DIA. She’s sleeping on the floor, waiting for me to be her savior … again.

It’s April, but the twisting road can still be treacherous. Fields are white in snowy spring, and I can't remember the last time that I've seen her. The highway is still cold and wet, and I can't forget the way I had to leave her. And every passing day, she flickers and she fades.

My thoughts go back to the beginning. Many times I’d spend the night in her small apartment. We both went to CU. I was learning engineering while she studied dance. I would rise early in the morning. Her eyes are closed. She can't see me watching. A little light looks through her bedroom window. She dances and I dream, she's not so far as she seems.

I remembered all the times we drove up Boulder Canyon to Nederland, Peak-To-Peak Highway, Estes Park. These were our favorite places. We’d find a bright meadow and watch the sunset. She’d run across the grass and I’d watch her hair blowing in the breeze, but now only in my dreams. What was I thinking? Love, love. Now she seems so far away.

Later, after graduation, we moved to the city. That was the start of the drifting apart. I worked in the city. We lived together. But it was different than my dream. Now when the morning light fills the room, I rise and she pretends she’s sleeping so we don’t have to talk. This is what we wanted: love, love.

We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t tell each other all the little things that we needed. We would work our way around each other rather than speak. We’d tremble and we’d bleed. It was bitter sweet. Sweet, yet bitter; more bitter than sweet. One day she left.

And I'll love her yet, though she has done me wrong. I'll bring her back, though she has been long gone. I'll always be her broken hearted savior.

We had drifted apart. She moved to L.A. to follow her dreams. At first there were phone calls. Letters. But soon nothing. I worked for a while before starting my own company. I was busy all the time and just lost track of her. Eventually I sold my little company for a few million and moved up to Nederland.

I bought a farm and still do some work on the computer net. Yet I think of her every day. She’s come back before. It always seems the same. I pick her up at the airport. We go out for breakfast. Some times she comes back to the farm with me. We spend some time talking about our dreams. She might stay a week or two, but she always drifts away. A little talk. I'd hold her hand. Sometimes I'd give her some money. But then she'd leave. Love, love.

Maybe it’s back to New York, some times back to L.A. It’s always the same. She’ll tell me her story. How every heavy night takes out the little life that's left within her. Every man she gives her love, he takes it, and leaves her with a dinner.

Our love was once a flame, now I'm just a forgotten name. Am I the only one to blame for having loved her? And I'll love her yet, though she has done me wrong. And I'll bring her back, though she has been long gone. And I'll always be her broken hearted savior.

The sun starts to rise as I leave the Canyon and the city of Boulder behind for the turnpike and DIA. It will be the same this time. Yet I love her. It's bittersweet, more sweet than bitter, more bitter than sweet. I have no choice. It’s a bitter sweet surrender. Is someone to help her when she falls from the heavens? Yes. It will always be me. I arrive at DIA. Park in the near lot. She said by door 204. Yes there she is.

Her eyes are closed. She’s sleeping. Is she dreaming of brighter meadows, melting sunsets, her hair blowing in the breeze? She dances and I dream, she's not so far as she seems. She can't see me watching. And I'm thinking love, love. I’ll always be her broken hearted savior.

How I Met Your Mother

It was Friday, August 15, 1969. I had four days off from the USS Vulcan. I loved those long weekends that allowed me to take a distant ride north or south or even west. This time I was headed north. My usual riding buddy, Woody, had duty that weekend, so I was solo. I set my sites on upstate New York. I’d ridden further on other occasions, clear up to Laconia, NH in June for bike week and races. For those that think Sturgis is the be-all, end-all, you just haven’t seen the East Coast bike scene. Starting way back in June 1916, when a few hundred motorcyclists gathered at Weirs Beach in Laconia to today’s official AMA races in Loudon, New England was a bike Mecca.

The trip to Woodstock, NY, actually Bethel, was shorter, a little over 400 miles. I heard there was a big outdoor concert going on and it started that morning. I would miss the first day, but it should be fun to spend the remaining weekend grooving to what promised to be an excellent scene.

I packed for typical bike camping. Besides some food and clothes and other necessities, I had a tarp that would turn the bike into a mini tent or lean to. That plus some blankets and a sleeping bag were all piled on the back of the bike and secured with bungie cords to the sissy bar. I was ready to roll. I thought I could make it in about 10 hours with just a few stops for fuel for me and the bike, and leaving at 8 AM, I hoped to be there before nightfall.

I headed north across the Bay Bridge Tunnel and followed US 13 to Philly where I picked up some four lanes through Allentown and further north. I ended up running into some heavy traffic on the thruway, and at one point the traffic just stopped. Fortunately I could keep going on the shoulder and ended up arriving at the festival around 9 PM.

By then there was no admission. It was a free concert. I rode around abandoned cars and onto the grounds, although I was way back from the stage along the trees near the rear of a fenced field. Still the sound system was good, and I was able to park my bike and settle in for some listening pleasure.

Tim Hardin was performing when I got there. About midnight, when Ravi Shankar came on stage, a gentle rain began to fall. Not that I could see Ravi from where I was, but I heard. I quickly attached the tarp to handle bars and sissy bar and settled out of the rain resting against the still warm motor. I had a little wine I had brought to take off the chill and soon heard Arlo Guthrie proclaim the famous, “The New York State Thruway’s closed, man!” It continued to rain throughout the night as people kept arriving. My little area quickly filled in with music enthusiasts.

I was dry under my tarp, although the ground was turning very muddy. I ended up falling asleep to the soprano voice of Joan Baez some time around 2:00 AM, my leather jacket serving as a pillow. I awoke to an ocean of people navigating a sea of mud. Fortunately, my little campsite remained dry — relatively dry.

I had slept right through whoever was the opening act on the second day. The ride, and the late night, and the wine required more than 40 z’s to digest. I remember waking up to Country Joe. At that point I figured the bike and stuff was safe as my neighbors all seemed pretty mellow. In fact the whole crowd, who somewhat resembled drowned rats, seemed very mellow. The music in the background and general vibe was cool and inviting.

Some folks were throwing frisbees and there was a giant beach ball being batted around in the slight valley between my vantage point and the stage. There was a girl dancing to the music and blowing bubbles from one of those kid’s toys. It was a festival atmosphere and there was a herbalist smoke raising over the gathering crowd. Lots of laughter and applause, singing along and dancing.

I walked down near the stage and saw Country Joe and Santana. Wow, the Santana set was awesome. At that point I was getting hungry and headed back to the bike. I had brought two loaves of bread and a jar of peanut butter. That’s survival rations for those not in the know.

When I got back to the bike, there were some new people around. A small group in a VW bus and also a couple of good looking gals laying on top of their sleeping bags. They both were wearing shorts and one had tied her shirt to expose her bare midriff. I started a conversation with my award winning line, “Hey, want a peanut butter sandwich?”

To my surprise, they said yes. Then they said, “Would you like a cold beer?” Would I! (Peg leg, peg leg — old joke!!) Seems they had a small cooler with cool ones.

We introduced ourselves. You all know me — the author. The ladies were Linda Lincoln and Cindy Smith. They were from Fall River, Massachusetts. They had all kinds of goodies in that ice chest including potato salad from the local A&P.

Soon the group from the VW van had joined us and they had watermelon. The concert served as a nice background to our conversation as we all got to know each other while enjoying the strangest picnic lunch ever served.

We talked and enjoyed the sun that had come out to dry up the rain, and I really enjoyed talking to Linda (the one with the bare midriff). We didn’t really pay much attention to the music until evening approached. We were then treated to Canned Heat and Mountain, a couple of very good sets. That was followed by the Grateful Dead, and we migrated back toward the stage expecting some good jam time. Sadly they didn’t give their best performance. Technical glitches and other problems were taking their toll on the performers and audience alike.

RAIN!! I mentioned the mud. It was everywhere. I had a towel and there was some water down by the potties, so I just wiped it off with the wet towel. The girls had flip-flops and I had engineer boots, so we slogged through the stuff ok, and it wasn’t that bad.

Mountain was followed by Creedence and Sylvester Stewart (Sly) and the Family Stone. By then it was after midnight — way, way after midnight. Although there were two more great acts following, we all retired to our respective beds, and I quickly fell asleep the second night. I woke early the next day to The Who and the Jefferson Airplane. It seems the rain and other complications had made the whole concert schedule so late that the last evening acts were actually the next morning. Yet there were many bleary eyed aficionados grooving to the great music at some ungodly hour of the morning.

By then the girls were awake and looking for breakfast. They were both wearing swim suit tops with shorts. Probably a good costume for the weather and environment. We ended up with more peanut butter sandwiches — and a warm beer. At that point I would have loved a cup of coffee. Some people wandered by passing out doughnuts.

Linda and her friend walked down to where there was some fresh water and got cleaned up from the night before. When they got back, we talked for another couple of hours before wandering down toward the music. Joe Cocker was on stage and he was the best performer I saw so far, although I did sleep through The Who. After Joe we wandered back to our little camp. The VW bunch had been on a beer and food run, and they were again happy to share their goods with all of us. I gave them the last of the peanut butter and a loaf of bread, which they appreciated because the local grocery store was all out of bread. I also gave them a 20 to help with their expenses since they had so generous with us.

The concert scene had become a sea of mud, and we pretty much gave up keeping clean. It was a warm summer day and it was time for some exploring.

Linda and I took a walk down the road and looked at all the cars parked everywhere. I wish I’d had a camera to take some pictures of the giant gaggle of cars parked every which way one could park. Some were on the side of the road, and some were in the road. No one seemed to care.

We eventually got to town and stopped at a park with a fountain. Linda took off her shoes and sat on the edge of the fountain with her feet in the water. There was a drinking fountain nearby, and I slacked my thirst heavily. This was before bottled water, and there was little of anything left in the tiny town of Bethel at this point of the half million visitors. It was nice to walk on the grass at the park and on the sidewalks. There was a bench under the trees in the park where we spent some time just talking.

We talked the whole way into town and back about our plans. I told her that, once I got out of the Navy, I was moving to Colorado. The amazing coincidence is that Linda said her dad was thinking of moving her family to Colorado too. We laughed that we could meet up again once we both got to Colorado (although I’m sure we both thought we’d never meet again.)

When we got back to the concert, we grabbed a couple of blankets and headed back to the stage. Ten Years After was on with Alvin Lee. Apparently appearing at Woodstock launched the already experienced blues band to great popularity here in the US.

They were followed by the Band and Johnny Winter. Now that’s a contrast. Then came Blood, Sweat, and Tears, one of my favorite bands. Finally, around 3 AM, Crosby, Stills, and Nash appeared starting an acoustic set with Suite Judy Blue Eyes. I don’t think they had even cut a record yet. It was the first time I had heard them. I was blown away.

But it was late again, so we wandered back to our little camp where I ended up crashing rather quickly, hardly getting to say good night to Linda. I awoke on Monday morning. Jimi Hendrix had just taken the stage. I looked around for Linda and her friend, but they must have left earlier that morning. I too needed to head for home since I had a long 10 or 12 hour ride ahead of me. As I packed up and started my Triumph, Jimi Hendrix was just starting Foxy Lady. I thought to myself: “exactly!” I threaded my way through the awakening crowd, a bit numb and shellshocked by three days of music and camaraderie.

On the ride back south to Norfolk, that lady I’d just met was very much on my mind. As the miles rolled under my tires, my thoughts replayed those three special days of special company. Most heavy on my mind was my memories of Linda and the way we had connected.

Nothing happened but conversation. We hadn’t even kissed. But I replayed every word, every sentence, every comment made during that short time together. We may not have kissed, but I did hold her hand on several of our walks, and I just couldn’t get that girl out of my thoughts. Who knew we would meet up again out west in Colorado. Lightning can strike twice.

And that, kiddies, is how I met your mother.

So, there’s one thing you have to ask yourself, punk. Does this author of tall tales with a dubious reputation for voracity ever tell the truth? Is this an actual fact or just the made up musings of a fevered mind? Well, it was the sixties. And anyone that can remember the 60s, probably wasn’t there.

Pearl

I’ve written before about the “Blue Bus.” That’s our 2009 Ford Flex. We bought it a year before I retired with the goal of it being our main road machine on the highway adventures we had planned once I was free of the nine to five.

Longmont, Colorado

I had been thinking about a new car for some time and had decided on the Ford Flex for many reasons including the fact that I loved the looks and style. It doesn’t strike everyone as a good-looking automobile. Some love it, and some hate it. I’m definitely in the first group.

A speedometer "roll-over" moment somewhere in Oregon

Plus it has a lot of advantages from seven-passenger capacity to an easy entrance and wonderful road-worthiness. It is a pleasure to aim it down the highway and enjoy the ride. It has one of those modern six cylinder engines mated to a trans-axial front wheel drive and gives good gas mileage. But most impressive and important is the comfort it provides to two to many passengers. We’ve driven that  bus long hours on four-lanes and country roads. It is always a joy.

The Blue Bus in Virginia City, Montana on her maiden voyage

As proof of that flexibility, we once loaded it up with six adults and one two-year old child for an adventurous trip to Dallas. With all the seats folded up, there was just a little room for luggage, so we rented a small U-Haul trailer to fit our suitcases. The three person capacity middle seats are very comfortable in a limousine sort of way and the middle rider isn’t crowded like most back-seat third parties. The back two seats also fit adults comfortably and have good visibility over the heads of those in front.

Crater Lake, Oregon

Shortly after that trip we folded all the seats down making it a two-seater. We then filled the spacious storage area with more furniture and belongings than you can imagine and drove to Alaska to deliver things to family. We drove to Washington, took a ferry to Haines, AK, drove around the great state, and then back down the Alaska Highway after delivering the goods.

Columbia River Gorge, Oregon

Flex is a great name for such a flexible vehicle. We drove that car over 200,000 miles and across 35 states. We’ve driven from Alaska to Florida and California to Virginia. She took us an uncountable number of times from home to Oregon to visit my dad. Those were some of the best trips because of the company at the end of the journey. We drove up and down the coast with dad, and even took him back to his home in Alabama. That was one of the greatest trips and he greatly enjoyed that final journey to see family and friends. He was 90 and concerned the trip would be too tiring. The Flex came through again offering him a comfortable ride and he (as well as we) enjoyed that trip and the memories it made.

My dad and my sister, Lincoln City, Oregon

We hitched up our small trailer and drove the Flex to Minnesota, Kansas, Texas,  Illinois, and clear to Pennsylvania picking up motorcycles. We drove to Vegas and to most of the National Parks within 1500 miles of home. We toured the great state of Colorado and drove around most of Montana too.

On the road to somewhere to pick up a motorcycle

The Flex has a wonderful sound system with CD, radio, and Sirius to provide accompaniment for our travels. I plugged my large iPod into the system and selected personal favorites from the thousands of tunes stored there. We drove the Blue Bus to Casper, WY and slept in the back for the total solar eclipse.

Dawson Creek, British Columbia

And we drove a hundred trips with the grandkids to Colorado Springs, Durango, Utah, Mount Rushmore, and more.

Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah

She was a faithful companion. A big truck rear ended us once on a draw bridge and dented the back fender. Ford and insurance quickly healed that wound, although my rear license plate still has a small dent from that experience.

Somewhere in Alaska of Canada

However, our faithful transportation was starting to show her age and miles. At 205,000 it was starting to get addicted to the repair shop. I replaced a cooling system controller ($700) and six months later revisited the problem with a whole new fan assembly ($1,400). Regular maintenance and tires were forgivable, but I sensed it was time for a new ride.

Longmont, Colorado

So what did I choose? Another Flex, of course. We loved our blue color, but we had started envying the metallic white color Ford calls Oxford White, but we call it Pearl. We had named our first Flex the “Blue Bus” based on its color. I was thinking of calling our new conveyance the “Great White Whale,” but decided that name might be mistaken as a description of me in a bathing suit. So we’re going to call her “Pearl.”

Longmont, Colorado

She’s almost identical to the Blue Bus except for typical high-tech updates. This new one is keyless, you just keep something in your pocket so she’ll recognize you. That’s nice. Also has more electronics including a video screen and backup camera and the voice command seems to recognize my voice better than the old Flex. 

Longmont, Colorado

The interior is two-tone mixing black and “dune.” Our old ride was pure black leather inside. There’s a few more buttons and automatic features, but — in general — it’s exactly the same car inside and out. That’s a plus. We loved the old Flex and now we love the new Flex.

Longmont, Colorado

I can hardly wait to get her out on the open road. Not sure when or where the next adventure will be, but I’m ready to start adding memories to all the good times we had in the old ride. I sold the Blue Bus to my son’s girlfriend, so we sort of kept it in the family.

Life is a road you travel down, discovering new things at every turn. We now have a new ride down that road, and we will soon be putting the miles on Pearl. May she serve us as well as her predecessor.  

Car Songs

She's real fine my 409
She's real fine my 409
My 4…0…9

Well I saved my pennies and I saved my dimes
(Giddy up giddy up 409)
‘For I knew there would be a time
(Giddy up giddy up 409)
When I would buy a brand new 409
(409, 409)
Giddy up giddy up giddy up 409
Giddy up 409
Giddy up 409
Giddy up 40…

Nothing can catch her
Nothing can touch my 409
409 ooooo
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up)

My four speed, dual quad, Positraction 409.

The result of a random discussion between Brian Wilson and Gary Usher about cars and joking about the 409 being based on a truck engine block, a song and possibly a whole new song craze (often described as a sub-genre of the surfing genre) was born. California culture was praised and worshipped by all of us in the other 49 states. To a teenager in love with surf boards (all right — skate boards) and cars, these songs filled my head with dreams of California life, cars, girls — the standard teenage angst and desires.

Sure there had been car songs before "409." “Beep, Beep” by The Playmates in 1958 told the story of a little Nash Rambler that surprised the big boy ("I’ll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn"). Or the original “Hot Rod Lincoln” ("son you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’") by Charley Ryan recorded in 1955, but more familiar now due to the cover by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen on the album Lost in the Ozone released in 1971. (And many others stretching back to the Ford Model T), but “409” added cars to surf boards, beaches, and sun as the way blond haired kids enjoyed the California way-of-life.

"409" was written by Brian Wilson, Mike Love, and Gary Usher for the Beach Boys. The song features Mike Love singing lead vocals. It was originally released as the B-side of their second single, "Surfin' Safari" (1962). It was later released on their 1962 album, Surfin’ Safari and appeared again on their 1963 album, Little Deuce Coupe.

The song is credited with initiating the hot rod music craze of the 1960s.

"409" was inspired by Gary Usher's obsession with hot rods. The title refers to an automobile fitted with Chevrolet's 409-cubic-inch-displacement "big block" V8 engine. The song's narrator concludes with the description: "My four speed, dual-quad, Positraction four-oh-nine." This version of the engine — at 409 horse power, achieving 1 hp per cubic inch — featured twin "D" series Carter AFB (Aluminum Four Barrel) carburetors ("dual-quads"). It was offered in new vehicles Impala SS (“Super Sport”), Bel Air, Biscayne and as replacement units in the 1962 model year.

The group's treatment of this song, one of their first major releases recorded April 1962 (released June 4), reflects the influence of black R&B acts popular on Los Angeles radio stations at the time and shows a more raw approach to rock and roll than their much more polished releases continuing in 1963. It stayed one week on the Billboard Hot 100 at number 76 in October 1962.

This song describes the Chevrolet 409, named because of its huge 409 cubic-inch engine. Dubbed "Turbo-Fire," production began in January 1961. The engine had a single Carter four-barrel carburetor that supplied enough fuel-air mixture to generate up to 360 horsepower. With a bit of hot-rodding such as adding a second four-barrel carburetor and headers, more than 400 horsepower was easily available, making the car a big hit among street racers.

Chevy produced a later SS version with two, four-barrel carbs standard and advertised it at a conservative 425 HP in ’63. Look for the “QB” suffix code used by GM to ID 409 blocks that were to get the high performance 425 HP package of dual carbs, including high performance heads and manual transmission. Replace the stock exhaust manifolds with tuned headers plus some cam and lifter modifications and horse power could reach 460.

This full-size family car with a 409 did the quarter mile in 13.58 seconds at 105.88 miles per hour. It could go from zero to 60 mph in under 6 seconds. This song describes the Bel-Air sport coupe version of the car equipped with the "4-speed, dual-quad, Positraction" (Chevrolet and GM brand name for a limited slip differential rear end) equipment. It could do a 12.22-second quarter mile at 115 miles per hour. Zero to 60 miles per hour in 4 seconds flat.

An early Beach Boys release and their first on Capital records preceded only by their first hit, “Surfin’,” Brian Wilson wrote this with his early collaborator Gary Usher. Wilson knew very little about things like surfing or cars, but Usher did, and he was able to help Wilson tap into the California culture. In 1971, Usher said in an interview, "Dennis Wilson was the first Beach Boy to pick up on surfing. Brian was aware of Dick Dale [King of the Surf Guitar, the Del-Tones, and motivation for the Fender Showman amp with JBL 15” speaker], the Pendleton jackets, and that whole shot. It just rubbed off. I never surfed. I was a hot rod freak. I loved the 409. One day we were driving up to Los Angeles looking for a part for my car, and I said 'Let's write a song called ‘409.’ We'll do a thing ‘giddy up, giddy up,’ meaning horses for horsepower, just kidding around. We came back and put it to three simple chords in five minutes, and it developed into a million-dollar car craze."

It was released as the B-side of "Surfin' Safari." The group didn't have a record deal at the time (their first label, Candix, folded), so the group's manager and Wilson trio father and band manager, Murry Wilson, made a deal with Capitol Records, selling them both sides of the single, and anther song, "Lonely Sea," for a total of $300, with the band getting a small royalty of 2.5% of the sales. After the single was released, Capitol signed the Beach Boys to a deal.

Usher stated, "My car was a 348 Chevy, but it was always my dream to have a ‘409.’ We recorded the car sounds outside the Wilson family home in Hawthorne. We (meaning Brian, Carl, Mike and me) ran a 100-foot extension cord out of the house. Driving my car, I made about four passes past the house and the tape recorder, and after the fourth, the neighborhood lights suddenly went on, and there were sirens everywhere. So I ‘decked’ my lights and got out of there."

Ironically, after the song was recorded, Gary purchased a Plymouth 426 Hemi Superstock, not a 409!

“409,” the song that launched the car craze and, in some manner, the Beach Boys, was recorded April 19, 1962. Originally released as the B-side of the single "Surfin' Safari,” their second single after the first hit: Surfin’. As the biographers often state, “The rest is history.”

A quick follow up to "409" was “Shut Down” by the Beach Boys recorded January 5, 1963 The song details a drag race between a Super-Stock 413 cu. in.-powered 1962 Dodge Dart and a fuel-injected 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray.

The car song craze was quickly followed up with many more car songs by the Beach Boys either directly or indirectly through their associations with other California artists such as Jan and Dean.

Although Jan and Dean had been in the business since 1959 originally performing as the Doo-Wop group the Barons, William Jan Berry and Dean Ormsby  reached their commercial peak in 1963 and 1964, after they met Brian Wilson. The duo scored an impressive sixteen Top 40 hits on the Billboard  charts, with a total of twenty-six hits over an eight-year period (1958–1966).

Jan Berry and Brian Wilson collaborated on roughly a dozen hits and album cuts for Jan and Dean, including "Surf City,” written by both Jan Berry and Brian Wilson in 1963. Ironically “Surf City” went to number 1, a feat not yet achieved by the Beach Boys with their earlier songs “Surfin’” and “Surfin’ Safari.” Brian Wilson’s father was very upset that Brian gave “Surf City” to Jan and Dean rather than recording it with the Beach Boys. The song was initially titled “Two Girls For Every Boy,” but once Jan (along with Dean) tweaked it and finished it up, it became “Surf City.” Thus was a born a songwriting partnership between Berry and Wilson.

After the success of “Surf City,” as the concept for the next Jan and Dean LP came together — thanks in no small part to the success of The Beach Boys’ hits “409” and “Little Deuce Coupe,” respectively — Berry and Torrence made a decision. They wanted to do an entire album about the car industry. Unlike the Beach Boy albums Little Deuce Coupe or Shut Down, which were just marketing, named and collected albums put together more by Capital Records than the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean wanted a true concept album, which, by the way, might be the first concept album in rock history.

Another very important element of the material that they began to compile was lyricist Roger Christian. Christian was a vital piece to the songwriting team. Of the 12 songs to appear on the Drag City LP, Christian co-wrote 10 of them, chief among them, The Beach Boys’ “Little Deuce Coupe.” With Brian Wilson, Roger Christian, Jan Berry, and Artie Kornfeld, the sessions commenced in September 1963 and wrapped in late November. As a new and innovative artist, Wilson was learning from Berry, and they were grooving on Christian’s entire car vibe. It worked to everyone’s benefit.

Roger Christian  was a radio personality and lyricist who co-wrote several songs for The Beach Boys, mostly about cars, including "Ballad of Ole' Betsy,” "Car Crazy Cutie,” "Cherry, Cherry Coupe,” "Don’t Worry Baby,” "In the Parkin' Lot,” "Little Deuce Coupe,” "No-Go Showboat,” "Shut Down,” and "Spirit of America,” all with Brian Wilson. He also co-wrote many songs recorded by Jan and Dean, including "Dead Man's Curve,” "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena,” "Sidewalk Surfin’,” "Drag City,” "Honolulu Lulu,” "The New Girl In School,” "Ride The Wild Surf,” and "You Really Know How to Hurt a Guy.”

Subsequent top 10 hits for Jan and Dean included "Drag City" (1964), the eerily portentous "Dead Man's Curve" (1964), and "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena" (1964). On April 12, 1966, Berry received severe head injuries in an automobile accident on Whittier Drive, just a short distance from Dead Man's Curve in Beverly Hills, California, two years after the song had become a hit. He was on his way to a business meeting when he crashed his Corvette into a parked truck on Whittier Drive, near the intersection of Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills.

“Drag City,” recorded October 1963, written by  Jan Berry, Roger Christian, and Brian Wilson; and “Deadman’s Curve” recorded on December 4, 1963 were hits for Jan and Dean. The latter song was written and composed by Brian Wilson, Artie Kornfeld, Roger Christian and Jan Berry at Brian Wilson's mother's house in Santa Monica. It was part of the teenage tragedy song phenomenon of that period, and one of the most popular such selections of all time.

“Hey Little Cobra” by The Rip Chords in 1963 was produced by Terry Melcher and Bruce Johnston, who also sang vocals. Bruce was a member of the Beach Boys and Terry Melcher was a musician and record producer who was instrumental in shaping the 1960s California Sound and folk rock movements, particularly during the nascent counterculture era. Melcher is also known for his involvement with cult leader Charles Manson, being one of the targets of the Manson Family during the late 1960s.

Melcher was the son of actress/singer Doris Day. Most of his early recordings were with the vocal surf acts the Rip Chords and Bruce & Terry. Melcher's best known contributions were producing the Byrds' first two albums Mr. Tambourine Man (1965) and Turn! Turn! Turn! (1965), as well as most of the hit recordings of Paul Revere & the Raiders and Gentle Soul. In the 1960s, Melcher was acquainted with the Beach Boys, helping connect Brian Wilson to Smile lyricist Van Dyke Parks. Melcher later produced several singles for the Beach Boys in the 1980s and the 1990s, including "Kokomo" (1988), which topped U.S. record charts.

The Beach Boys recorded “Little Deuce Coupe” June 12, 1963, and Jan and Dean recorded “Little Old Lady from Pasadena” in March 21, 1964. Joining the genre were Ronny and the Daytonas with “G.T.O.” and “Bucket T” in 1964.

“Little Honda” by the Beach Boys was recorded in April, 1964, covered by the Hondels and many others that same year. Although about a motorbike rather an a car, it is also part of the California car and beach theme.

“Fun, Fun, Fun” released in 1964 is one of many by the Beach Boys that virtually defined the California myth. Its lyrics are about a teenage girl who tricks her father so she can go hot-rodding with his Ford Thunderbird. At the end, her father discovers her deception and takes the keys from her. The narrator then comes to the girl's rescue with his own car. I still remember where I was when I first heard this song, sitting at a stop sign by the county court house across from the library (where I told my folks I was going), waiting to pull onto Main Street in my blue ’59 Chevy, six-cylinder, stick shift. Sigh … the envy!

Even the Beatles joined in with “Drive My Car” recorded October 1965, and released on Rubber Soul. Not to be left out, Motown — literally Motor Town — offered “Mustang Sally” by Wilson Picket in 1966.

Not gone entirely, the car genre (or sub-genre) did pretty much die out by the end of the ‘60s, although car songs continue on including “One Piece at a Time” by Johnny Cash, a country novelty song written by Wayne Kemp and recorded by Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Three in 1976. It was the last song performed by Cash to reach number one on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart and the last of Cash's songs to reach the Billboard Hot 100, on which it peaked at number 29. The song told the story of a Detroit auto employee workin’ on the assembly line who stole car parts one part at a time and built a rather unique Cadillac from the many years of miss-matched parts.

The transmission was a '53
And the motor turned out to be a '73
And when we tried to put in the bolts all the holes were gone.

So we drilled it out so that it would fit
And with a little bit of help with an A-daptor kit
We had that engine runnin' just like a song
Now the headlight' was another sight
We had two on the left and one on the right
But when we pulled out the switch all three of 'em come on.

The back end looked kinda funny too
But we put it together and when we got through
Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one tail-fin.

⋮

Uh yow, Red Ryder, this is the cotton mouth

In the Psycho-Billy Cadillac come on, huh,

And negatory on the cost of this mow-chine there Red Ryder

You might say I went right up to the factory

And picked it up, it's cheaper that way.

⋮


Uh, what model is it?
Well, it's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56

'57, '58' 59' automobile

It's a '60, '61, '62, '63, '64, '65, '66, '67

'68, '69, '70 automobile.

Zoom, zoom.

The Edge

Hunter S. Thompson. I don’t recall exactly when I read Hunter’s Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, but it was probably in the early seventies. I know I was very interested in motorcycle tales around the time I first read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which was published in 1974. Maybe I read Hells Angels … before that. Anyway, I found Hunter’s book on his experience with the Hells Angels quite enlightening in many ways.

I appreciated how he captured to a great extent the actual motivations and attitudes of outlaw bikers, as well as debunking some of the silly stories that drew from the old Wild One movie. For one example, Hunter accurately describes the small size and influence of the outlaw bikers in the mid-sixties and the apparent view of law enforcement of these bikers, at least in California. The cops were concerned about a bunch of bikers coming into town to rape and pillage. Mostly they just came into town to get high.

Never mind the public conclusions about bikers from Easy Rider. At least that movie didn’t involve motorcycle gangs.

I was also aware of the AMA (American Motorcyclist Association) negative opinions of “outlaw bikers” in general. They called them the “one percenters” to emphasize that most bikers were “the nicest people” to quote a famous advertising slogan. On the other hand, it was a label the Angels wore with pride, often sporting a patch on their trademark, sleeveless denim jackets.

As Thompson states in that book, he was offered several bikes by the Angels. He was worried that the free bike would have stolen parts. Besides that, he was more a Harley Sportster type of guy, and that wouldn’t work with that bike gang that rode exclusively big Harleys. Thompson said he had owned a few scooters prior to his experiences with the Hells Angels, and he ended up purchasing a 1967 BSA Lightning. He also commented on the Japanese bikes of that time and on the Honda Superhawk.

Anyway, he ended up with a BSA, although his adventures with the Angels was usually with him in a car. The book describes one three-day weekend run he participated in. He ended up on the beer runs because he had a car.

After reading and enjoying his book on the Hells Angels I was drawn to his best selling Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. I had heard a lot about it, and I wanted to read more of his work. Although it was Hunter’s best selling book, I found it very disappointing. To begin with, part of the book was supposedly about the “Mint 400.“

In some circles, the "Mint 400" is a far, far better thing than the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby and the Lower Oakland Roller Derby Finals all rolled into one. This race attracts a very special breed …”

— Hunter S. Thompson

The Mint 400 was a dessert race during the 60’s and 70’s sponsored by the Las Vegas casino, “The Mint.” It was founded as a PR stunt in 1961 — a two-car death race through 600 miles of Nevada hell-fury to promote, of all dissipative American traditions, a deer hunting contest. The brainchild of the owner of the now-crumbled Mint Hotel by the name of Del Webb, the event was inspired by the famed Baja 1000, and its inaugural running’s success led to dozens of racers attending the second running: a 400-mile loop through the Las Vegas desert open to all sorts of vehicles including bikes.

Desert racing attracts a special breed, indeed. The glitz and glamour that surrounds motorsports like Formula 1 is a long way from the crippling heat and desolate conditions of races like the Mint 400. It takes a unique variety of maniac to welcome a venue that so actively discourages the vital necessities of life, but in the heyday of the Mint 400, it was one of the largest motorsports events in the US, boasting a staggering $100,000 purse by 1975. Competitors came from far and wide, with racers like Steve McQueen lining up alongside Joe Average all vying for the win. The race was pandemonium, bikes and dune buggies flying in reckless disregard to the rules of racing, and nature.

So I was very disappointed when I read the book since about all Hunter described was his frequent comment to bystanders that he was part of the Vincent Black Shadow racing team. Rather than sit outside in the dusty old dust of the race, he spent all the time inside at the bar consuming various strong liquors until he couldn’t stand up. Zero about the race. Didn’t even mention the winners.

Without spoiling the book for those who haven’t read it, part of Thompson’s story is about him abusing all sorts of drugs in expensive hotels rather than really attending the race. The second half of the book is about him abusing all sorts of drugs in expensive hotels while attending a D.A. conference on drugs. The story is sort of a distorted autobiography of his time in Vegas, and it was not appealing to me at all. The truth is it was a combined tale of two visits to L.V. sponsored by various publications to write stories about the events. Somehow this turned into this drug addled exposition on his life style. That’s what “gonzo” journalist means. The writer becomes part — if not the central character — in the tale.

I’m no “drug prude,” and you know I've smoked a lot of grass, O' Lord, I've popped a lot of pills, but I’ve never touched nothin’ that my spirit could kill. Yet I never thought about snorting ether (the gas that puts you to sleep)! I suppose Hunter was making some point, but he failed in my case to make it.

Hunter, meanwhile, seemed to have smoked, ate, dropped, snorted, and otherwise consumed about every drug then extant. It really came across as boring and juvenile. I realize he won critical acclaim for this book, and sort of based his career on its success for the rest of his life, but I didn’t think much of it. (I never saw any of the movies either, but don’t feel that is a great loss.)

His Hells Angels book, however, did leave me with a strong impression of his literary skills. It also convinced me he was a bit of an impossible drunk, and I think history pretty much shows that opinion to be valid.

I have not read any of his other books. After being turned off by F&L NV, I didn’t pick up another of his books, although the ones on politics might be useful in today’s environment. He was no lover of Nixon (to understate the facts), but had little regard for LBJ either.

As a journalist, it does seem he was everywhere there was to be during the revolutionary sixties. He was in Haight Ashbury during the summer of love. He was in South America and the Caribbean. He was in Vietnam at the end. (Not sure what ‘copter ferried him out as Saigon fell.) He worked for dozens of different publications from Rolling Stone to the local shopping market weekly news and jokes. His biggest successes were as a sports reporter. Not really gonzo at all.

As I said, I did enjoy greatly his Hells Angels book. He literally lived with the Angels for over a year and reported pretty clearly and accurately their lifestyle and motivations. Best of all, IMHO, was his descriptions of the Angel’s bikes. Their skill both in maintenance and in riding. Although they seemed perpetually drunk, most of the time they rode in tight precision with expert skills splitting lanes and dodging death, although they didn’t always avoid the grim reaper. One chapter of his book describes a Hells Angels funeral.

Of course there were other times when, drunk as skunks and high as mountains, they couldn’t even bring the V-twin beasts to life or, if they could get them to start, rode off in a roar and into a tree … or each other. Yet Hunter exhaustingly describes their personal love affairs and ability with the freedom of two wheels. That’s really the plot of his HA book, the love of freedom.

At one point the Angels meet Ken Kesey (Electric Kool Aid Acid Test and many more … also consumed by this avid reader … your truly) and Allen Ginsberg (I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked). Drug use on a higher plane and anti-war tactics were discussed, but the Angels were much more interested in getting high than exploring the philosophy of conscious expansion. If only the middle class bikers could have connected with the elite class intellectuals of Berkley. Where did H.S.Thompson put his personal view? He didn't say much about that either. Just a journalist telling other's stories.

That part of the tale adds interest to his stories for me. The summer of love (and L.S.D. meets the bar fighting Angels). But then the Angels would have beat the shit out of the intellectuals if nature had taken its normal course. It’s probably best that the Berkley elite and the Bay bad boys ended up going their own separate ways.

But the bottom line … the subtle subplot … the glaring truth of Hunter’s whole book on the outlaw motorcycle gang was about the freedom of their lifestyle and how motorcycles represented, augmented, presented, and made obvious their goal, their desire, their life. It was about freedom.

I was saddened when I learned Hunter had ended his own life, but then, based on what I’d read about him and his personal lifestyle and his books, I’m not surprised he didn’t grow old gracefully.

But I’m not here to bury Hunter, I’m here to praise him. Never visited his “Owl Farm” property during my frequent Aspen sojourns, but I was always aware he had left the California lifestyle described in his earlier works for the Colorado high. Another John Denver crying out from the wilderness on the misdirections of mankind and American life. All we need is love … and drugs … and guns?

Oh, I was impressed with some of his writing, and especially his reporting on motorcycles. He got it. When I first read the following excerpt from near the end of his book, his coda, his summation, his connection. He got it. The reason many (most) ride. Here’s his answer. From the ending of his Hells Angels story is this description of him out for a jaunt on his red BSA.

Months later, when I rarely saw the Angels, I still had the legacy of the big machine — four hundred pounds of chrome and deep red noise to take out on the Coast Highway and cut loose at three in the morning, when all the cops were lurking over on 101. My first crash had wrecked the bike completely and it took several months to have it rebuilt. After that I decided to ride it differently: I would stop pushing my luck on curves, always wear a helmet and try to keep within range of the nearest speed limit … my insurance had already been canceled and my driver’s license was hanging by a thread.

So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head … but in a matter of minutes I’d be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz … not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-night diner down around Rockaway Beach.

There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip.

Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out … thirty-five, forty-five … then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these … and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything … then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a wind scream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board.

Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly — zaaapppp — going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea.

The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-slick … instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway 1.”

Indeed … but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there’s no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.

But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right … and that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it … howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica … letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge … The Edge … There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others — the living — are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between now and Later.

But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it’s In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

— Thompson, Hunter S. Hell's Angels: A Strange and and Terrible Saga. Random House Publishing Group.

Was Hunter S. Thompson a good writer? Well, you can now decide for yourself. My mind is made up.

P.S. Of course, what’s not to love in a writer who mixes "ellipses"(…) and "dashes" (—) in the same paragraph. (Who else does that? Hadn’t you noticed?)

P.P.S. Did I tell you I also have a red BSA Lightning. I don’t ride by the beach. My destinations are mountains and river canyons. And I don’t ride at night. (Old eyes don’t do as well at night.) But I’ve “Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind.” Oh yes, Hunter got it. Do you?

1947

1947

That was the year that was! For me, it was my first year!! But a lot of history had already happened. There had been two world wars, a canal dug in Panama, the airplane was invented, rockets and missiles weren’t far behind, and India won its independence. The propellor would soon be replaced by jet engines and radio was giving way to television. Oh, there was a lot more to happen. Since the turn of the century transportation had gone from the earlier horse to the steam engine to the gasoline engine and transportation, both two-wheel and four-wheel, had evolved and improved. And that’s where we will start the story of this important (at least to me) story.

The fall of 1947 brought the end of the Kuucklehead, Harely-Davidson’s first Overhead Valve (OHV) production engine. Harley’s magazine teased that the new news would be the “biggest motorcycle story of the year” and that the new OHV model would carry The Motor Company into a bright new future.

Yet the change, like much of Harley-Davidson history, was more evolutionary than revolutionary. An updated top end for the popular OHV engine consisting of aluminum cylinder heads, hydraulic valve lifters, redesigned cylinders with internal oil feed and return lines replacing the often leaky external lines, and a chrome plated, stamped steel “pan” cover that completely enclosed the rocker arms and valves of each head. This new “top hat” quickly became the common moniker for what we now affectionately refer to as “Panhead Harleys.”

These updates produced a motor that was smoother, quieter, more oil tight, cooler running, and more maintenance free, yet no lighter or more powerful than its predecessor. (History will repeat with the introduction of another new engine design, now called the Shoveled, some eighteen years later. Again, better and requiring less maintenance than the Panhead, but still heavier and even slower.)

Other than the top end, little else was changed for 1948. Even the styling was almost exactly the same as on the 1947 Knucklehead. Regardless, the new model was an instant success and even more popular than the previous model.

The gradual changes continued in the years that followed with hydraulic forks replacing the old springer front ends in 1949. This new bike, for the first time, was given a name by H-D, rather than just a set of initials; branded as the “Hydro-Glide.” During the next decade things were slowly modernized. The hand shifter was replaced with a foot shift and hand clutch, and, by 1958, the hard tail suspension was replaced with a hydraulic swing-arm yielding another new moniker from Harley, “Duo-Glide.” Ultimately the kick starter would be replaced by the “Electro-Glide” electric starter. The modern era had arrived.

The legacy and designs that these new models were built upon were based on the old Knucklehead design slowly improved since its release in 1936. (Really more like 1937, as it was a slow start for Harley at first). Their major rival, Indian, never did go OHV and slowly disappeared, partly due to the competition of this new technology from Harley.

In 1947 the war was over and the soldiers, sailors, and airmen were returning home. Over one million former servicemen entered college on the G.I. Bill and prepared for a more prosperous future. Business was booming, but prices were going up too. The new Harleys that began rolling off previously part shortage limited production lines jumped over $150 in price from around $450 to $600. It was during this jubilant time that the Motor Company began the design and preparation for the next generation of OHV machines. Although Indian wasn’t much competition for Harley’s more state-of-the-art machines, overseas manufacturers were.

When the Knucklehead was first sold, biplanes were still the main stay of the U.S. Army Air Corps. Now the sleek P-51 Mustang was becoming obsolete through the introduction of jet airplanes. How long could Harley’s rapidly aging design of push rods and air-cooled twins survive. That’s the odd part of the story. They did survive and thrived right up to today’s computerized world. Part of that story is due to nostalgia and the undeniable “style” that Harley continues to exhibit. But it was also the result of continual, albeit rather slow improvement.

Although Harley-Davidson sales were booming, our allies from England and Europe were having even a better time. A flood of sophisticated and lightweight bikes from England, Italy, and even war torn Germany were hitting our post-war shores. The young and reckless who had been the primary marketplace for motorcycles — which in that era included thousands of discharged fliers, sailors, or soldiers who were looking for a new high to replaced the terrifying thrills of combat — were not going to be satisfied with Harley’s old “biplane.”

In the next ten years, British bikes in particular were to completely dominate the American scene. At the same time, Harley was consciously shifting its target audience from thrill seeking, testosterone loaded young men to making motorcycles that would appeal to a broader segment of society. And H-D wanted to make them repeat customers for life.

This was a good long term strategy, but didn’t do well in the short term. While the British alone were selling tens of thousands of motorcycles, Harley hoped their long term plans would come to fruition.

As I said, prices were going up, there was a housing shortage for the millions of returning military who quickly started families, there were several labor strikes and the U.S. entered a cold war with Russia and the communists. Soon we were worried that the commies were in Hollywood and under every bed. In one of the saddest events, the father of the A-bomb which quickly ended the war with Japan was stripped of his security clearance primarily because he disagreed with the current Atomic Energy Commission’s strategy of development of a more powerful H-bomb.

Technology was just beginning its boom. Medial science found cures for diseases, Edwin Land invented the instant camera, and commercial air travel bloomed. Television took its place in the center of post-war homes and shows like Howdy Doody entertained we baby boomers. Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier and Jackie Robinson broke the race barrier. What would come next? Rock and roll and selfies. It would only take time.

This all started at some point in 1947. In March of that year, a first-born boy was delivered at St. Joseph’s hospital in Lewistown, Montana. That boy would grow up in this modern world and end up typing these words to you on a modern Mac.

But what of the Harley Panhead? It would spawn everything from baggers to choppers. From bikes fully equipped with windshields, saddle bags, and ultimately satellite radio and cruise control road bikes to fantastic works of art rendered in steel and chrome. Whether stripped down to duplicate the British style or dressed up for a 1500 mile journey, Harley fit the bill. Harley outlasted the British invasion and the later Japanese invasion. The latter required a little help from Uncle Sam in the form of tariffs on large displacement imported bikes, and ultimately the Japanese motorcycles started to copy the Harley big V-Twin.

The Panhead spawned the Shovelhead, each step an improvement. In 1984 it was the EVO for “Evolution” engine that fulfilled the promise of 1936. This new engine was lightweight and reliable and as maintenance-free as any of the completion. Yet it could be improved further. Largely under the pressure from Uncle’s EPA, major changes were made to improve the emissions and sound output of the venerable big Twin leading ultimately to the modern Twin-Cam Harly engine with electronic fuel injection and a master computer in charge of everything from fuel input to spark timing and exhaust output. There’s even a model that shuts down the back cylinder when idling to keep it from overheating. GPS navigation and anti-lock brakes round out the modern Harley. Yet the sound goes on and on.

Will environmental concerns finally force Harley-Davidson to become water cooled, jacketing the great cylinders and probably toning down the “rump, rump”? Only time will tell. For now I’m just celebrating that magic year of 1947 when the greatest became even greater.

Even though it has been many years of change, 70 of which I’ve born personal witness, and the world today has exceeded the imagination of that young boy growing up in a little town in central Montana, I am able to look back and see how the small changes were made toward perfection. Back then, it was “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” For example, Harley modified the clutch four times on the old Knuckle until reaching a design that was used unchanged until the ‘80s. That’s Harley for you. If it breaks, make it bigger. Pretty soon it quits breaking. Then you have that problem solved. The Knucklehead was version 1. And as all software consumers know, don’t buy version 1. The Panhead was version 2 of the overhead valve designs. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Some 70 years after the Panhead, we are on version 6 of the OHV and, in a sense, Hareley's version 8 of the V-Twin called, quite appropriately, the "Milwaukee Eight."

1. 1909 First V-Twin
2. 1929 Flathead
3. 1936 Knucklehead
4. 1947 Panhead
5. 1966 Shovelhead
6. 1984 Evolution
7. 1999 Twin Cam
8. 2016 Milwaukee Eight

Evolution, not revolution. (See where number 6 came from?) Meanwhile Mac is on version 10 and Windows plans to skip 9. So it seems OK for HD to claim “eight.” Maybe we should look for a computer operating system out of Milwaukee. Which would you prefer?

DKW Motorcycles

It’s time to practice your German — auf Deutsch: Des Knaben Wunsch — "the boy's desire” — a two-stroke engine produced by the German manufacturer that became known as DKW. (You see where that name came from — right?)

The year was 1916 and Danish engineer Jørgen Skafte Rasmussen founded a factory in Zschopau, Saxony, Germany, to produce steam fittings. That year he attempted to produce a steam-driven car he called the DKW. That was followed in 1919 by his first two-stroke gas engine.

He put a slightly modified version of this engine into a motorcycle and called it Das Kleine Wunder — "the little marvel.” This was the beginning of the DKW brand: by the 1930s, DKW was the world's largest motorcycle manufacturer.

They made cars and motorcycles, and in 1932, DKW merged with the brands Audi, Horch, and Wanderer to form Auto Union. The four interlocking rings are not representative of the Olympics, but rather of the four manufacturers that merged. After World War II, Auto Union moved to West Germany. Auto Union came under Daimler-Benz ownership in 1957 and was purchased by the Volkswagen Group in 1964.

The Audi company name is based on the Latin translation of the surname of one founder, August Horch. "Horch," meaning "listen" in German, becomes "audi" in Latin. (That’s also where the english term “audio” comes from.)

Before all this happened, during the late 1920s and early 1930s, DKW was the world's largest motorcycle manufacturer. In 1931, Ing Zoller started building split-singles and this concept made DKW the dominant racing motorcycle in the Lightweight and Junior classes between the wars. This included off road events like the International Six Days Trial (ISDT) where the marque scored some considerable inter-war year successes alongside the Bavarian Motor Works (BMW). At the same time, the company also had some success with super-charged racing motorcycles which because of their light weight were particularly successful in the ISDT.

The split-single ("Doppelkolbenmotor" to its German and Austrian manufacturers), is a variant on the two-stroke engine with two cylinders sharing a single combustion chamber. The split-single system sends the intake fuel-air mixture up one bore to the combustion chamber, sweeping the exhaust gases down the other bore and out of the exposed exhaust port.

The rationale of the split-single two-stroke is that, compared to a standard two-stroke single, it can give better exhaust scavenging while minimizing the loss of unburnt fresh fuel/air charge through the exhaust port. As a consequence, a split-single engine can deliver better economy, and may run better at small throttle openings.

A disadvantage of the split-single or “Twingle” as it was called is that, for only a marginal improvement over a standard two-stroke single, the Twingle has a heavier and costlier engine. Since a manufacturer could produce a standard twin-cylinder two-stroke at an equivalent cost to a Twingle, it was perhaps inevitable that the latter should become extinct.

However, from the 20’s to the 70’s, DKW and the Austrian manufacturer, Puch, had many successes with Twingle engines. Sears marketed considerable numbers of the Puch SGS split-single fitted with both these innovations as the "Allstate 250" or "Twingle" in the US.

Meanwhile, The motorcycle branch of DKW produced famous models such as the RT 125 pre- and post-World War II, and after the war with production at the original factory in GDR becoming MZ it made 175, 250 and 350 models.

As war reparations, the design drawings of the RT125 were given to Harley-Davidson in the US and BSA in the UK. The Harley-Davidson version was known as the “Hummer,” while BSA used them for the “Bantam.” IFA and later MZ models continued in production by DKW until the 1990s, when economics and environmental regulations brought production of the two-stroke to an end.

Other manufacturers copied the DKW design, officially or otherwise. This can be seen in the similarity of many small two-stroke motorcycles from the 1950s, including from Yamaha, Voskhod, Maserati, and Polish WSK.

DKW was once the world’s largest motorcycle company, and a major building block of some of today’s most successful companies. The car branch, Audi, is one of the largest luxury companies in the world. August Horch and Jørgen Skafte Rasmussen and these other early pioneers may not be as famous as Henry Ford or the Dodge brothers, but they are integral to the origin of motor vehicles too. And now you know the rest of the story.

Another storied European Motorcycle brand is NSU. Once called "Neckarsulm Strickmaschinen Union," (Neckarsulm knitting machines … remember Suzuki started as a knitting machine company too!) the company eventually shortened its mouthful of a name to NSU and became one of Germany’s most famous marques along with BMW and DKW. Annual production grew to more than 350,000 units in 1955, making NSU one of the world’s largest manufacturers of two-wheeled vehicles at the time.

But by then, the company was already on its way to losing the distinction. Through the 1950s, NSU became increasingly preoccupied with developing the Wankel rotary engine as well as a line of automobiles. Motorcycle production ceased in 1963, and Volkswagen/Audi swallowed the company by the end of the decade. In 1969 Auto Union GmbH amalgamated with NSU Motorenwerke AG.