MY FIRST MOTORCYCLE TRIP

MY FIRST MOTORCYCLE TRIP
by Laurie “Rocky” Rockwell

It was the summer of my twentieth year and I was looking forward to my first week of paid vacation coming up in a few days. I had been hired just six months earlier, but the job would eventually become a 36 year career in Federal public service. A co-worker, Bill Kane, be-friended me and took me under his wing to show me the ropes. It was a friendship that would last a life-time.

Bill happened to be on vacation that week too and over Tuesday morning coffee he asked what I planned to do on my vacation. Learning that I had no plans he casually suggested that we ride my motorcycle to Boston to visit my relatives. He said he would ride pillion and share the driving.

In those days, before the modern highways, Boston was about 900 miles away. It was an exciting idea and I was all for it, but the only problem was, Bill didn't know how to drive a motorcycle and I had only four evenings in which to teach him and prep the bike. We would have to "make haste" as my British grandparents used to say.

With typical Nova Scotia conservatism our families thought we were crazy to try such a stunt. Just a couple of young fools risking their lives they muttered. Undaunted we went ahead with our hastily made plans. We had never been out of the province before and this would be our first real adventure. And riding a motorcycle to Boston and back? That was daring stuff in those days.

My 1952 BSA 650cc Golden Flash was in good condition and had only 6000 miles on it. The bike was second-hand to me when I bought it the year before and was already fitted with leather saddle bags, but only had a solo seat. I soon bought dualseat and a wind screen turning the 650 into a very nice touring machine. The only thing the bike needed for such a long trip and sustained high speeds was a new pair of tires. During the next four evenings I fitted new tires and tubes, changed the oil, checked all the nuts and bolts and taught Bill how to drive. He did very well considering the short period of time he had to learn.

We didn't wear helmets in those days, but I borrowed two from my friends and we were ready to go. By today's standards they were pathetic Forties style helmets, but since we were going into unfamiliar territory they were better than nothing. Wearing them also put our families more at ease.

A few changes of socks, underwear and T-shirts were stuffed into paper grocery bags inside the saddle bags. We wore leather jackets and jeans, helmets, goggles and gloves, but had no rain gear of any kind. There was no room for both boots and shoes so we wore shoes for easier walking when we arrived in the suburban Boston city of Lynn.

On Saturday, 13 July 1957, at 6:30 a.m., I picked up Bill and we were on our way to Massachusetts, U.S.A.

It was a glorious sunny morning and we enjoyed the long ride to New Brunswick. Those were the days before the Trans-Canada Highway and modern four-lane highways so you had to follow route 2 from Halifax to Amherst on the New Brunswick border and meander through every town and village along the way. Route 1 through N. B. was rough in places and highway and bridge repairs caused us to detour onto back roads several times.

Passing through the town of Sussex, N.B., a car in front of us braked suddenly to make a left turn and was blocking our lane. Bill was driving, and as the rear bumper of the '55 Buick loomed closer and closer, Bill didn't seem to be stopping.

I panicked and yelled, "STOP! STOP!"

"Relax! I was stopping!, Bill said, after coming to a stop with the engine racing. He had been slowly braking with the clutch in using only the foot brake, but was holding the throttle open and the bike sounded to me like it was still at speed. Bill's lack of experience in traffic was showing and we agreed that he should only drive on the open road for now. He would be a veteran by the end of the trip.

Saint John, New Brunswick, is the only large city between Halifax and the U.S. border and we got lost. We were pondering our next move at a traffic light when a fellow on a shiny Triumph Tiger 110 pulled up beside us. Noticing my N.S. license plate he asked where we were from and where we were going. I told him...and that we were lost.

"Follow me," he shouted with a knowing grin and roared away. We blasted through the streets of Saint John at perilous speeds trying to keep up with the Triumph tearaway who seemed bent on impressing us with his speed and driving ability. Eventually, he pulled over on the edge of town and shouted, "You're back on route 1. The border is about 70 miles straight ahead. Good luck and have fun." We barely had time to thank him when he roared off again winding the peppy 650 up through the gears.

We crossed the border at Calais, Maine, without incident and bought a tank of much cheaper American gas (29 cents a gallon!), a road map of New England, then set off on route 1 along the coast. Progress was slow because of the many towns and villages with low speed limits, but it gave us a chance to look around as we rode along. It also gave Bill a chance to practice his driving.

The coastal regions of Maine are a lot like Nova Scotia. Except for the Cape Cod houses and the American flag, it didn't seem like a foreign country at all. The friendly folks along the way were amazed that we had driven "all that way", but they clearly had no concept of how far it really was.

Nearing Cherryfield, Maine, we found a motel across from a diner and pulled in for the night at about 6:00 p.m. The owner/cook/waiter of the diner was an ex-navy cook and didn't know you could drive from Nova Scotia to Maine. He had been to Halifax once on a destroyer during WWII, but thought N.S. was an island. We had a good laugh over that remark, but he was a good Joe and certainly knew how to cook!

The diner was nearly empty and he doted on us with generous portions of home-style cooking. Breakfast the next morning was equally as festive. What a great fellow Joe was!

Back at the motel we fell into a coma-like sleep. This was the longest sustained run the bike had ever been on and it was running like a top. It was the longest run for us too and we were worn out.

Sunny skies greeted us again the next morning and we continued south along route 1 and straight through the city of Portland, Maine. Traffic was light and we had no problems getting through the city mainly due to the excellent highway signs. Saint John could have taken a lesson from Portland when it came to traffic signs.

At the rate we were going it would take us all day to get to Lynn and we decided it was time to stop meandering and find the interstate highway. Just south of Portland I turned west and merged onto I-95 which is also the Maine Turnpike toll road running north and south.

What a difference! We blasted along the "pike" at 60 mph and made up for lost time. We had never been on a flat wide and straight highway like that before and it was such a lark for us we took turns driving just to enjoy the smooth high speed cruising.

An hour or so later we crossed the state line into New Hampshire and then into Massachusetts where any similarity to Nova Scotia quickly evaporated. As we got closer to Boston we never imagined there could be so many roads, so many lanes, such dense traffic or so many people. And this was on a Sunday! On a Sunday back home they practically roll up the streets.

We had been in the saddle seventeen driving hours and covered well over 800 miles when we finally pulled up in front of my aunt’s house. She had been worrying for two days about all the horrible things that might have happened to us. A quick phone call home and everyone settled down. The A10 was still running like a top, but we were glad to get off it for the rest of the day.

We quickly learned our way around and adapted to the much faster pace of life. Getting through traffic on a motorcycle made life much easier for us. Bill drove quite often and was becoming a better driver every day which gave me a chance to look around too. The size of the city, the tall buildings, the heavy traffic and hordes of people in the Boston area were pretty overwhelming at first until we got used to everything.

We had to leave the following Saturday so we had to make the most of the five days ahead of us. It didn't rain the entire week and every day was a whirl-wind of activity doing such things as bowling 10-pins for the first time, going to a modified stock car race under the lights, watching the Air National Guard jets flying at Logan Airport, swimming and girl-watching at Revere Beach and going on all the rides at the Revere Beach Amusement Park. It was the first time either of us had been on a roller coaster and we rode it seven consecutive times until the thrill wore off.

We also saw the Boston Red Sox baseball team beat the Cleveland Indians at Fenway Park. Our seats were just up from first base and seeing Ted Williams and other baseball hero’s of the day only a few yards away was a huge thrill.

The Revere Beach Amusement Park was also a hangout for the motorcycle crowd. There were always lots of BSA's, Triumph's, Harley's and others lined up along the boardwalk. The "Fonzie" types with oily duck-tail haircuts and zipper jackets who owned the bikes were certainly less than friendly. I think they saw that Marlon Brando cult movie, "The Wild One," one too many times.

The first time we went to the park we left the bike in the parking lot and strolled along the wooden boardwalk just above the sand beach. We came upon the bikes and naively walked right up to the shiny and newer BSA's for a closer look. A short scrawny "Fonzie" with a small-man complex came over and rudely told us to get away from the bikes. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and the sleeves of his T-shirt were rolled up to reveal small tattoo's on his puny biceps. At first we were taken aback by this little runt and bristled at his attitude and almost laughed in his face, but with a gang of fifteen or more clones watching the encounter, we sized up the situation pretty quickly. We were naive, not stupid, so I politely told him I owned a BSA too, that we were only looking and meant no harm.

"I don't care! Beat it,” he barked in a loud voice; his mouth making up for his diminutive stature. We retreated to the boardwalk and the "hero" strutted back to his approving friends sitting in the shade of a canvas cafe awning across the street.

We went over to the beach for a couple of hours every day and parked near the bikes, but off to one side since we weren't part of the clique. Most of the other riders were friendly enough, but we didn't mingle much when "Fonzie" and his wolf pack were there. We weren't brawlers, but in our hearts we both wished we could catch that mouthy little punk by himself so we could show him some good old fashioned Nova Scotian hospitality!

Thursday afternoon we stopped at a BSA dealer we had passed many times during the week. I needed an oil change and it was an opportunity to drool over all the new Road Rockets and Super Rockets in the showroom. They said they were too busy to change my oil, but I bought the oil anyway. I asked if I could borrow a drain pan and do it myself, but they said no; wait if you want or come back tomorrow. By now I was beginning to get the impression that they weren't too interested in my business. We were leaving Saturday morning and had no time to waste hanging around or to come back the next day. There were no facilities to drain or dispose of oil back at the house so I took the all-too-common easy way out.

The dealership was on a large piece of property on the edge of town so we wheeled the bike into the bushes, took out the oil tank plug, let the oil spill on the ground, filled up the tank with fresh oil, left the empty cans on the ground and rode away. Environmental concerns were not an issue in those days and I'm ashamed to admit we did dumb things like that.

We had also done a lot of shopping and all that "stuff" wouldn't fit into the saddlebags. We had stocked up on the latest styles in shirts and trousers and would look pretty cool at the dances back home. I bought two army back packs from a nearby surplus store, linked the straps together, threw them over the fender under the saddle and lashed the bags to the frame with string. The bike was now four bags wide and a lot heavier.

Early Saturday morning we were on the road heading north. My relatives advised us to take I-95 north and the Maine Turnpike all the way to Bangor, Maine, then east on route 9 (the Airline Trail) to Calais at the U.S/Canada border. Route 9 is a truck route through the Maine woods, but it would save us lots of time they explained. When we got there it became obvious they had not been on that road in quite a while, and certainly not since the spring thaw.

We flew up the four-lane and made great time to Bangor. On the way it occurred to us that we needed proof to show our friends that we actually made the trip and the best way to do that was to photograph one of us and the bike in front of a state highway sign. But the "Welcome to Massachusetts/New Hampshire" signs were on the other side of the divided highway. When traffic permitted I drove across the grass median, took the picture, and returned the same way. We did that twice, all the while keeping an eye open for state troopers.

The first few miles of route 9 were fairly smooth, but when civilization disappeared large sections of it turned into a narrow, rough, twisting, turning, roller coaster ride. The road is paved, but it was 90 miles of hell and the broken and heaved pavement pounded us half to death.

In an effort to stay ahead of an overtaking truck I hit a frost heave too fast and we were launched into the air. Our feet left the foot pegs and for a second men and machine were airborne. The plunger suspension bottomed out when our butts slammed into the seat and Bill almost fell off when his foot missed the foot peg. He grabbed hold of me and almost pulled me off the bike, but somehow we managed to stay on and the bike stayed upright. The bike wasn't damaged, but after that incident I pulled over and gave way to overtaking trucks.

Half way through this desolate place a thunderstorm overtook us and we found shelter under a Department of Highways snow fence lean-to until it passed. The road was still very wet and we had just gotten underway when a sharp curve surprised me. I leaned hard into the decreasing radius and for a few seconds I didn't think the tires would hold with all that weight and speed. The bike drifted to the very edge of the pavement, but by some miracle the tires held their grip. I was very thankful I had fitted new tires for the trip. To say were happy to finally reach Calais would be an understatement.
There were no delays with Canada Customs at the border and we motored straight through to Saint John. It was late in the day and fog was rolling in off the Bay of Fundy when I stopped at some overnight cabins next to a family restaurant. The pummeling on route 9 had exhausted us and after a hearty meal we slept like logs.
The remainder of the ride home was routine and the A10 was still running like a top. Not so much as one nut or bolt fell off during the entire trip. None of my friends or anyone in the bike crowd we knew had ever made such a motorcycle trip and we were welcomed home like conquering heroes.

After a week of non-stop excitement in the U.S. it took us a couple of days to settle back onto our normal lives. We told stories and bragged about our adventure for weeks to anyone who would listen.

We often talked about going again the next year, but we never did. Bill is four years older than I am and got engaged the following year. I kept the BSA for another year and sold it to buy a second-hand Ford car. I needed winter transportation, and since I couldn't afford both a bike and a car, the bike had to go.

I had taken a cheap Kodak camera with me and snapped a couple of rolls of black and white film. I still have those pictures and most of the negatives, but at the time didn't realize what a treasure they would become nearly fifty years later. Looking at them today, and reflecting back to 1957, it was indeed a wonderful, daring adventure of a lifetime for two young men on a motorcycle.

Prologue: It would be 34 years before I owned another motorcycle which was a gift to myself on the eve of my retirement in 1992. Bill was forced to retire seven years earlier due to a severe heart condition and was an invalid for the rest of his life. He never did get to see my new Honda motorcycle. William David Kane, my friend for 44 years, passed away in November 2001.

Rest in peace old friend. I'll never forget you or our wonderful adventure together.