Motorcycle Mystique
My earliest recollection of a motorcycle goes all the way back to 1925 when I was four years old. My parents, my sister and I lived in a second floor apartment in Jersey City, New Jersey. We had no car, but my father owned a red Indian motorcycle with a sidecar, which he kept in a nearby rented garage. On a pleasant Sunday, my mother would sometimes say, "Let's take a ride up to Sussex County for a breath of fresh air." My father would get the motorcycle while my mother fixed a picnic lunch and off we would go to spend the day in what was then sparsely populated farm country. In winter, my father removed the engine and transmission and stored them under his bed when he wasn't overhauling them on the kitchen table.
So, not surprisingly, my first ride on a motorcycle was a very memorable event. It took place in France in 1944. I was platoon leader of the 7th Infantry I & R platoon and I spoke French quite fluently at that time. We had just liberated another French farming village and the villagers crowded the roadside to offer us hugs, kisses, fruit and wine. But one old farmer heard me speaking his language and came over to my jeep to begin jabbering away, as the French were wont to do. He had a greater gift to offer. He told me that the Germans had left behind a motorcycle in apparently good condition, because they had run out of gasoline, a constant problem for them. He had put it in his barn with the intention of turning it over to the Americans. We had a policy of not using enemy vehicles because we had enough of our own and to drive Kraut equipment was an invitation to death by "friendly fire." Besides, we had an image to maintain. We were an advancing American Army, not a bunch of gypsies!
But there is a certain mystique about motorcycles. My curiosity and pleasant memories of the old Indian demanded that I at least go look at the German machine. I told the farmer to climb in the back of the jeep and he guided us to his barn. I wheeled out the huge BMW (Bavarian Motor Works) machine and was fascinated by it! It radiated raw power and superb German workmanship. It was painted in the Wehrmacht light earth/dark earth flat camouflage colors and it was beautiful! I turned to my jeep driver. "Steele, how about getting that spare jerry can of gas off the back of the jeep and let's see if we can start this monster." We filled the tank, I turned on the ignition, kicked the starter crank, and was rewarded with the throaty roar of the engine. It was sweet music to my ears and my spine tingled. I familiarized myself with the controls. The temptation to ride it was just too great.
I had never ridden a motorcycle before, but I convinced myself in no time at all, that years of experience on a bicycle were sufficient training. I shifted to low gear and sedately cruised out of the driveway and onto the paved road. For the next half hour, I rode serenely through the beautiful French countryside at a leisurely pace. The feeling of exhilaration, the joy of the wind in my face, the sensation of controlling such power, and the complete sense of freedom I felt is indescribable. It was truly a one of a kind experience.
I took a different route on the way back and soon found myself on an unpaved road. I drove slowly and carefully, but as I leaned into one curve, the wheels slid out from under me and I found myself sliding down the road on my hands and knees at about 20 MPH. I picked myself up and sat at the edge of the deserted roadside for five or ten minutes and examined my scrapes, cuts and bruises while the shock wore off. The knees were gone from my wool O.D. trousers and both knees were raw and bloody. But my hands were worse. Both palms were lacerated and bleeding. The BMW was lying on its side, stalled out, but apparently no worse for wear. I cursed it soundly, stood it up and climbed back on. No piece of Kraut equipment was going to get the better of me! I started it up and the engine responded with a smooth musical burble, which I took as a welcome apology. I drove back to the barn and told the farmer to hold onto the Hog and give it to the rear echelon troops, which would follow us. Only then did I stop at the aid station to have the cuts and abrasions cleaned and sterilized.
But by far the worst part of the experience, was facing the men of my platoon. The
story had traveled like lightning, and although no one said a word, I knew what they were all thinking. "How the hell could the Lieutenant do such a damn-fool thing? We would never have fallen off!" But we moved out the next morning, the lacerations healed and the motorcycle adventure was history.
I never rode a motorcycle again. The closest I came was on a Bermuda vacation, forty years later, when my wife and I rented Honda mopeds to tour the island. The moped was a far cry from the BMW and doesn't even count as a motorcycle. But I do remember passing a teen age native on his beat up moped. As I breezed by, he shouted after me, "GO, GRANDPA, GO!"
Russ Cloer
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