These articles were written by our current president, Norm Kern, several years ago. They tell of his journey from a young kid in the late 1950’s through his wedding in the 1960’s and how 2-wheeled transportation has played a part in almost eveything in his life. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have…Patrick M.
It wasn’t by choice, but I had missed the scooter craze of 1958. In January of 1965, I was a college student. I went down to the University of Cincinnati to visit Tom Aultz, an engineering student and fellow tinkerer. It was a Saturday night, and the temperature was about 24 degrees. The Aultz proudly took me around back his apartment to show me a beautiful 750 Norton Atlas that a friend of his had left for safe keeping while out of town.
The Aultz said, “Would you like to go for a ride?” I said, “Hell yes!” even though all I had was a light jacket, regular Levis and street shoes. Neither one of us had a hat or helmet, but we rode about 8 miles out Winton Road and stopped at a donut shop. We drank coffee and warmed up as best we could for about half an hour, then rode back. Our teeth were chattering, and we could barely get off the bike. Our legs were so stiff from the cold that it was a struggle to get up the stairs to the apartment. We spent the rest of the night trying to warm up. I went home to Dayton the next day and came down with a severe case of the flu and was sick for a week, but The Aultz and I had both undergone a transformation. We had bike fever.
Later that spring, the Aultz bought an old 1956 Zundapp Citation. This was a 450cc twin that was made by Horex. It was a piece of junk and required constant fiddling, but the Aultz and I had fun riding it around Cincinnati. The defining moment came when The Aultz and I were rounding a curve on an interstate exit and hit a dip. The Zundapp didn’t have folding footpegs, so the rider’s footpeg hit the pavement and the bike jumped to the side about 8 inches. The Aultz just leaned into the turn and kept the throttle on like nothing had happened. That was the day bike fever got unbearable.
I started looking in the classifieds for used bikes. I was a college student and didn’t have much money. I was 20 years old and living at home. The folks had made it clear that if I brought a motorcycle home, then both of us would be out of there. I figured I’d buy a bike and just not bring it home. I found a friend with a garage across town who would let me keep a bike there. He had a 250 BSA and a 750 Norton Atlas. (Funny how those Nortons keep popping up, huh?)
I found a used Honda 160 in the paper and bought it for $400. I bought a cheap helmet and some goggles and headed for Cincinnati to see the Aultz for the weekend. The 160 wasn’t very fast, but it could keep up with The Aultz’s old Zundapp.
After my second weekend of being a motorcyclist, I was coming up I75. There was about a 15MPH headwind and a long grade. I had to shift down to third gear and lay on the tank to maintain about 60MPH. I saw a speck in my rear-view mirror. It grew-in-size until I could see that it was another motorcycle. In short order I was passed by a Harley. I watched as he went by, sitting bolt upright. Compared to my little Honda screaming its guts out, the Harley was going PUTT…PUTT…PUTT.
That was it. I went to the Honda shop and made a deal to trade the 160 in on a 305 Superhawk. I was only 20 years old, so I needed a cosigner, even though I was paying cash. (I had cleaned out most of my savings’ account.) The Aultz came up the following Saturday to cosign and we were off to the races.
I had about six weeks of bliss with my new motorcycle. I rode it to the time trials at Indy and took several day and overnight trips in Ohio and Kentucky with the Aultz. Then the mother of one of my friends ratted to my parents. Uh Oh. This was a battle that lasted about six months at various levels of hostility but finally ended with the folks accepting my passion for motorcycling. I got to keep the Honda and live at home after all.
It was a fun and interesting summer. Many of my friends got bike fever and bought bikes. I saw my first half mile race at Lebanon in June. Security was lax and the Aultz and I got across the track in the infield and took pictures of the racers. This was 1965, the year that the outlaws were throwing beer cans at the racers on the starting line. One of the riders ran over to the fence, pulled the outlaw biker onto the track, and beat him up pretty good before the cops broke it up. Great stuff, great racing. On the way out that night, I picked up a program and took it with me. I was very impressed with that event, with racing, and with motorcycling in general. Later, I read every word in that program. I was especially curious about who would put on a great race event like that. In the program it identified the “Dayton Motorcycle Club, incorporated 1910, Walter Smith, president”.
I wanted to find out more about this club, but there was no mailing address or other info in the program. There are about half a million Smiths in the phone book, so what can you do? About two months later, I was exploring backroads in southwest Dayton. I came upon a rundown house on Vance Road that had a front yard full of Harleys and parts. A crude sign over the porch read “Outlaw’s Territory”. I was a bit scared just riding past the place and turned onto Stony Hollow Road. About halfway up the wooded hill, there was a sign that read “Dayton Motorcycle Club”. There was a steep, rough gravel driveway up the hill, so I went up there to see what was there. At the top of the hill, there was a gravel parking area and a block building with no windows that was locked up tight. In the nearby woods, there were lots of trails winding around that had tire tracks on them. I was only familiar with street bikes at the time, and I thought, “These guys must be real macho men to ride their bikes around these trails.”
In January of 1966, I was looking through the yellow pages of the new phone book to see what was new with motorcycle dealers. Going through the listings, I discovered there was a phone listing for the Dayton Motorcycle Club. I dialed the number to see if anyone would answer. To my surprise, someone picked it up. I stammered, gave my name and asked when meetings were held. The voice said, “There’s one going on right now.” I said, “How often do you meet?” He said, “Every Wednesday.” I asked if guests were allowed and he said, “Yes, just come up any Wednesday.” I was intimidated. I was only 21, had been riding for less than a year. These were older, much more experienced riders who would probably laugh at my little Honda. I still wanted to see what a real motorcycle club was like. I called up a friend, Tom Ersted, who had a Honda 305 Scrambler, to get him to go with me.
The next week the temperature was in the low 20s, but there was no way I was going to show up at a real motorcycle club driving a car. Ersted and I bundled up with heavy coats gloves, and scarves and headed out. We made our way up the steep gravel drive. (which I later learned the members called “Bust-ass Lane”) When we got to the top, I found that our motorcycles were the only ones there. The members heard us ride up. When we opened the door and walked in all bundled up, every single person stopped talking and stared at us. They thought we were crazy. They were right.
To be continued…