In 1974 Lynn and I had been married for three years. We both had good jobs and life seemed pretty stable. We had no children and no real plans for them yet. For some strange reason I became interested in motorcycles. We had a new 1974 Camaro and an older 1971 Camaro. I thought that if I bought a motorcycle I could unload the ’71 and get down to a single car. After all, Lynn and I often rode to work together and we only had a single stall garage. At a Ketzel family reunion I made mention that I was considering a motorcycle and Lynn’s cousin’s husband, Warren Hunt said, “Have I got a deal for you!” He had a 1972 Suzuki 550 with very few miles on it that he wanted rid of. We drove out to their place to see it and I fell in love. It was a brilliant green with gold trim. It was sort of unique in that it had three cylinders, was water-cooled, and had a six-speed transmission (most bikes had only five). The center exhaust split into two, giving it twin exhausts on either side. I also thought it was neat that it had a digital gear indicator between the tach and the speedometer (this was in the day before everything was digital). For a first motorcycle I thought it was “pretty snazzy” (as we used to say back then). Warren and I agreed on a price and he even threw in two helmets (which I repainted metal flake green to match the bike). One of the first things I did after I bought it was to install a smoked plastic fairing from JC Whitney (these were the days before Ebay). This made the ride much more comfortable for Lynn.
We never took the bike on any long trips but we enjoyed riding it around town and the local countryside. We rode it to work and I would drop Lynn off in front of the Social Security Office in Butler, even when she was pregnant with Matt. Eventually she got too big to fit behind me on the seat plus we didn’t want to take a chance on a pothole forcing early labor. I do recall that I used to watch the road ahead and shout “bump” so she could brace herself for small impacts.
I have discussed before what a worrier my mother was. She thought that riding a motorcycle had to be about the most unsafe activity one could undertake. She talked about motorcyclists as though they were all Evel Knievel types. In consideration of this fact I never told my parents that I had made the purchase. Many times on a nice Saturday afternoon in the summertime I would ride the bike to their house in Slippery Rock for a visit. I would park at the parts store (formerly Buckham’s Ford dealership) next door so they wouldn’t see it. On one occasion my mother asked if I would run an errand for her. She had ordered some corn on the cob (“roasting ears” as we referred to them at the time) from a local farmer and asked if I could go pick it up. I gladly agreed. I carried a small backpack on the rear fender of the bike and also had some bungee cords if I needed to strap a bag on the seat behind me. I arrived at the farm and identified myself to the farmer’s wife as Grayce Fleeger’s son. She immediately looked at my bike and said, “How in the world are you going to carry all this corn on that motorcycle?” My response was, “How much corn did she order?” To my dismay her response was six dozen ears. Now a smart person would have admitted defeat and returned home to borrow Mom’s car. I’m sure I could have invented some sort of story of why I needed it (I was pretty devious in those days – some say I still am). That would have been a smart person. I, on the other hand, had the lady help me to contain the corn in paper grocery bags. We put two dozen ears in each bag and then placed another bag over top. I then precariously balanced the three huge bags of corn on the seat behind me and strapped them down the best I could. I figured if I drove slowly and avoided tight curves I’d be ok – it was only about a four-mile trip. As I drove out of the farmer’s driveway I could see his wife shaking her head. I’m sure she figured her quality corn would never arrive at its intended destination.
I was doing pretty well on the way home despite some really strange looks from passing traffic. I suppose I was only going about 45 or so. As I approached town; however, a large truck passed me barreling down a hill and his slipstream caught the lopsided load of corn just right – spreading it over the pavement behind me like a crop duster. I don’t know why I was surprised. I parked the bike on the shoulder and gathered up as many ears of corn as I could salvage, stuffing them into the now-torn paper bags and remounting what must have been the remaining four-dozen ears. When I pulled into the parts store next door to my parents house Mom was standing outside waiting for me with her hands on her hips, wearing that look I had see all too often in my youth. “Where did you get that motorcycle?” she exclaimed as I began to un-strap the corn from the bike’s seat. It seems as though she had become impatient waiting for me to return. Being the accomplished worrier that she was she knew exactly how long it should take for me to get out to the farm and back. When the time approached twice that length she had called the farmer’s wife to inquire if I had come to pick up the corn. The farmer’s wife’s response was, “Yes, he picked up the corn but I don’t know how he’s going to get it home on that motorcycle.” “MOTORCYCLE!” my mother responded. She just couldn’t imagine any son of hers riding a motorcycle. Where had she gone wrong? As hard as it is to believe I actually coaxed Mom into a ride on the bike a couple years later. I guess we all mellow some with age – even mothers.
The following year, shortly after I learned that I would be working for the Corps of Engineers at Kinzua Dam, Darrel Brown (a friend and county co-worker we had nicknamed Browner) and I decided to use our Veterans’ day holiday for a motorcycle cruise to Kinzua. Lynn had to work that day so I figured it would be no problem to be gone. For mid-November it was a beautiful, sunny day in the high 60s. We got a late start because Browner was typically not ready on time. He had just purchased a Yamaha 400 and this would be its first long trip. We headed from Butler up through Eau Claire and picked up interstate 80 at Emlenton. Exiting 80 at Knox we took routes 66 and the 666 to our camp on the Tionesta Creek. At that point it became obvious that we wouldn’t have time to make it all the way to Kinzua. After a short rest we headed for home, taking another route through Tionesta, Oil City and Franklin. (Lynn and I were due to attend childbirth classes at the Butler hospital that night and I would be in trouble if I missed it.) The November sun went down early behind the northern Pennsylvania mountains and it got cold in a hurry. The fairing on my bike kept me pretty comfortable but Browner didn’t have one and so he slowed down to warm up. In order to keep him up with the pace I knew we needed to make I would trade him bikes for 25 miles or so at a time. It was well after dark by the time we pulled into our garage. I recall that Browner said, “It normally feels cool in this garage but it feels so warm in here tonight.” Lynn was steamed because she didn’t know I was taking the trip that day (one of many misunderstandings between us in those days). We had time to make the class but we would have to hit a fast food restaurant for a quick bite on the way (I had not eaten all day). We grabbed some fish and chips at Long John Silvers and got to the class a few minutes late. Lynn wasn’t real talkative. We were seated in a large room with folding chairs. I wasn’t sure if they had the heat cranked way up or if I was still chilled from the bike ride but it felt really warm in there. Soon they turned out the lights to show slides of new-born babies with all manner of misshapen heads. They said this was normal and the baby would grow out of it but the pictures were starting to make me a little squeamish. I was starting to get lightheaded so I told Lynn I was going outside to get some air. I tried to find my way out of the darkened room, stumbling over the other couples only to find that the aisle on the left side of the room had been eliminated as the room filled up. I must have gotten myself into the next row back and started back to my right. When I wound up right back where I started Lynn grabbed me and pulled me into my seat and said, “Sit down and put your head down.” In a minute I told her I thought I was feeling better and she grabbed my hand and led me out to the car and drove me home. I think she mumbled something about expecting one kid and having to deal with another one. It’s a day I’ll always remember.
In a couple years with a baby in the house and another one planned it was time to sell the motorcycle and get two real cars. Dad told me to bring it down to his car dealership in Slippery Rock and put it on the showroom floor for sale. He asked how much I wanted for it. I told him to ask $800 and take $700 if he got an offer. A couple weeks later he called to tell me he had sold the bike for $900. Dad was the consummate salesman!
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