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 early adult life in the 1960’s and how 2-wheeled transportation has played a part in almost everything in his life. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have…Patrick M.
When I look back, I’m always reminded of a few lessons learned from my life of motorcycling. First, things usually turn out pretty well, but not for the reasons you expected. Second, experiences that were unpleasant at the time usually provide the fondest and most vivid memories. Third, you never know where an adventure might come from. The story so far: My wife and I had embarked on our dream vacation- a motorcycle camping trip to Colorado, Utah, and Arizona. When we left off last time, we were headed from Hoover Dam to the south rim of Grand Canyon.
As we rolled up to the south entrance of Grand Canyon National Park near dusk to camp for the evening, we noticed a young man working on his motorcycle at the side of the road. 
He had luggage strewn all over, tools laid out and had some parts off the bike. He looked pitiful. I stopped to see if I could help, but there wasn’t much either of us could do because it was getting dark. We decided to take a fresh look at the bike in the morning. My wife and I gathered up his gear and helped him get to a campsite. We camped next to each other, settled in and got acquainted.
Joe was a farm boy from Seymour, Indiana. When he graduated from high school he joined the Navy. While stationed in Japan, he bought his bike, which he brought back on the ship with him. He had just been discharged a few days earlier at San Diego, California. He thought it would be fun to see the country and ride his motorcycle back to Indiana. This was Joe’s first motorcycle trip, having previously ridden no more than 50 miles at a time. Joe’s bike was a 650 Kawasaki. At the time Kawasaki’s lineup was all two strokes except for the 650. Kawasaki reportedly bought the tooling from another small Japanese company that didn’t have the money to follow through with production. The 650 was a vertical twin that looked exactly like a 1950’s pre-unit BSA. I would soon learn that this resemblance was much more than cosmetic.
The next morning, we started checking out his bike. I quickly figured out there was no spark, and found the wire to the breaker points was pinched between the engine and the frame. No problem. I reassembled one carburetor he had taken apart and mounted it back on the bike. His bike fired right up and we were on our way.
Joe was the friendly, down-to-earth guy you’d expect to meet in a small town. We did our sightseeing together at the Grand Canyon and had a great time. We knew Joe would be following the same basic route, so I invited him to ride with us. From the Grand Canyon we headed east, stopping at the Four Corners area and Mesa Verde. We spent a day at Durango, riding the narrow-gauge railroad to Silverton and back. The next day we went up to Black Canyon of the Gunnison and camped there. Joe’s touring style was very spartan. He wore an open face helmet with a bubble style face shield. The shield snapped on his helmet and did not flip up. Most of the time he did not use the shield. He just wore the helmet and sunglasses. He had a flannel shirt that he wore over his T shirt when it was cool. Normally, it was completely unbuttoned and flapped in the wind. His pants were regular levis, and he had some short boots that were navy issue.
The Kawasaki had tall handlebars, the same general style as “ape hangers” but only about a foot high. There was no windshield or fairing whatsoever. Draped over the seat, a pair of leather saddlebags carried a few clothes, some cans of oil and lots of tools. Joe’s bedroll was tied to a short sissy bar, which also held his most prized accessory- a portable radio. Having no tent or air mattress, Joe just laid his bedroll out and crawled in. He slept out in the open and hoped it did not rain.
Joe’s helmet didn’t cover his forehead. When he was riding, the hair that normally covered it was blown back. Joe’s forehead had a dark reddish tan when we met, but after a couple of days in the sun, without the face shield, his skin cracked. It reminded me of a dry lake bed except that the cracks were red.
Our trip was going well as we started the next day, heading to Pueblo, Colorado, to get out of the mountains and making tracks for home. Shortly after noon, thunderstorm clouds started forming and we started hurrying to beat them out of the mountains. Almost immediately we caught up with a State Trooper who was poking along at less than the limit. I’ve had enough tickets over the years that I really don’t want to press my luck, but Joe rides right up behind him. When a passing zone appears, Joe pulls out to pass. He doesn’t want to get a ticket for speeding, so he overtakes very slowly. Joe’s still out there in the left lane when a car appears from the opposite direction. Joe speeds up a bit, then pulls over, cutting off the cop. The officer turns on his lights and pulls Joe over. I pull over and keep my distance. Joe tells the cop how he just got out of the Navy, etc., and gets off with a warning.
The clouds are getting ugly, but somehow, they hold off until we come out of the mountains and arrive at Pueblo. At the end of the mountain range, we enter friendlier weather system and we’re home free. We stopped for gas. When I looked at Joe’s bike, I noticed the oil filler cap for his transmission had vibrated loose and is gone! This is not some little screw on plug, it’s a cover over an inch in diameter with a gasket that (was) secured by two screws. Fortunately, little oil had been lost. I wetted a paper towel with gasoline and wiped off the transmission cover, then applied a piece of duct tape over the opening.
With the latest emergency out of the way, we headed north and camped at Colorado Springs. Once we were settled, we started looking at maps to plan the next day’s ride. I wanted to get most of the way through Kansas so we could finish our trip the following day. Joe looked at the map and his eyes lit up. He said, “One of my best buddies from the Navy lives in Topeka, Kansas. He said that if I ever passed through there I should call him and he would show me a night on the town!” From that moment on, Joe had his heart set on making it to Topeka.
We got on the road early the next morning. About half an hour into the ride, I kept thinking I was hearing something. When we came to a small town and slowed down, I realized what it was. Joe’s horn had spontaneously decided to start blowing. We stopped and I disconnected it. I was getting a bit unnerved at these insidious problems. What else could possibly happen?
It’s never easy crossing Kansas on a motorcycle. With the sun baking your body and the gusts of wind whipping you around, a long day in the saddle will take it right out of you. As usual, the wind was either gusting from the side or blasting in our faces. We had to slow down somewhat for Joe. With no windshield, he was getting hammered. His small gas tank would go on reserve about every 100 miles, and we would have to stop. Under these harsh conditions, the engine was blowing oil out the breather. Once we had to add a whole quart after only 100 miles. The breather hose even blew off its fitting on the engine. How British!
I was determined to get us to Topeka so Joe could meet his friend, but assorted delays put us behind. At dusk, we turned on our headlights. We discovered that Joe’s low beam was burned out, so we aimed his headlight down and kept going. At the next gas stop, I looked over the situation. The headlamp bulb had a weird base and the gas station had nothing I could adapt. Joe didn’t have a spare. We crossed our fingers and got back on the road.
Less than half an hour later, Joe’s high beam burned out. There was very little traffic on I-70. We stayed in the right lane, kept our speed down, with Joe on the right and me on the left. I turned on my high beam. The Guzzi headlight was very good for the time and cast a nice broad beam. We had about sixty miles to go to Topeka.
A sports car passed us doing about 90, moving quickly out of sight. A minute or two later, another car slowly rolled up on us in the left lane. Joe and I are just riding along, side by side. Without turning my head, I steal a look at the car slowly passing us. There’s a big sign on the side that says, “State Trooper.” 
The trooper eyeballs us for a while but can’t see Joe’s burned out headlight from where he is. Finally, he passes us. I breathe a little sigh of relief, but then he pulls into our lane. My headlight is on high beam. Do I take a chance by dimming it, possibly making him look in the rearview mirror and notice there’s only one headlight back there? Do I leave it on high beam and possibly tick him off? I flipped to low beam. Amazingly, the trooper never looked back. In a few seconds he took off. I breathed a big sigh of relief.
Before long, I could see the interchange where we needed to get off. Just before the exit there is a flashing light. The trooper has the sports car pulled over! Now we must somehow sneak past him. All he must do is look in our direction and he will see just one headlight. We don’t have anywhere to go. About that time a semi is pulling out onto the highway from the entrance ramp. I’ve never been so happy to see a big truck! We sped up and moved to the left lane, passing the truck as the truck passed the trooper. We went on around the truck and made our exit.
The only campground for miles was northwest of Topeka and we got lost trying to find it. We knew we were close, but it was dark. We pulled into a carryout to ask for directions. No one seemed able to help us until a kid pulled up on the most beat up old Vespa motor scooter I had ever seen. He was quite a sight in an old brown leather jacket and scratched up helmet. On the side of the Vespa was a tattered bumper sticker that read, “Wanna cheap thrill?”
This kid knew exactly where the campground was and took us there. We pulled in at about eleven PM. My wife and I were about half dead. We pitched the tent and got ready for bed. Joe went to the campground office and called his buddy, who picked him up at about midnight for a night out on the town.
When we got up the next morning, Joe still wasn’t back. His buddy dropped him off about 8:30AM. He was hung over and dragging himself around, but he managed to get back on his bike. I did some checking in the phone book and found there was a Kawasaki dealer nearby. They were located right on the route we would take through town. Joe got two headlamp bulbs and other first aid for his bike. Staying on I-70, we rode together into Illinois, where Joe split off to ride the rest of the way home to Seymour, Indiana, on back roads. That was the last time we saw him, but Joe later sent a note to say he made it home OK.
We finished our trip without any problems. The weather had maintained its near-perfect record, sprinkling one afternoon and threatening but not raining.
Lessons learned this time:
1. You don’t need your own trouble- you can just as easily have someone else’s.
2. Kawasaki should stick to their own Japanese designs.
3. Out in the wide open spaces, you’d better be a self-sufficient rider because dealers are scarce.
4. I want to take another trip out west next year (1971).
1. Next time we will travel west again and learn about Wyoming, Winnebagos, geysers, wild animals, and even take a side tour through the Harley factory.