This is a column mainly about motorcycles "back in the day" and asoociated life in New Mexico then. My first bike was a 1962 Honda Sport 50 (not the "you meet the nicest people on a Honda" step-through Cub 50), a real, manual shift 4 speed with motorcycle styling. My dad said if I really wanted a motorcycle I could get a job and buy one and to his great surprise, I was soon sacking groceries at the local superette and saving my money for the day I would turn 13 and could legally ride.
Soon (probably the next day) after taking possession of my shiny, brand-new solid-white scooter I was a dues-paid member of the local motorcycle club, some 30 members strong and sponsored by the local Ducati-Zundapp dealer. Hondas were very new then, having first been imported in 1958, and most of the club were mounted on the already ubiquitous Trail 50, a more rugged cousin of the clutchless, step-through Cub. The Trail 50 had a dual rear sprocket, so that you could add or subtract links of chain to switch between sprockets for trail or street use. I was quite disdainful of the Trail 50s from the perch of my faster, more motorcyclish Sport 50.
Our club got permission to build a motorcycle race track on the far west side of Storrie Lake, a few miles north of my home town of Las Vegas, NM. Our track would later be called a Motocross track, but Motocross wasn't introduced to the U.S. from Europe until 1968, so we called it TT Scrambles. It was a single loop, one bike wide, handmade trail through the fields and gullies, and about half a mile in length as I remember it. We would race on Sundays and all the guys would ride out with girlfriends on the back (if they had 'em) and then line up to race. We would start single file with the slowest bikes at the front and the fastest bringing up the rear. Since we were constantly riding together and comparing acceleration potential, we knew exactly the pecking order. The slowest Trail 50 would start first, followed by more Trail 50s and then the two or three Sport 50s. One guy had a Honda Dream 150, so he was next after the 50s (the numbers were cylinder displacement in cubic centimeters; a 50 had a piston about as big around as a fifty cent piece--remember those?). Next was a guy on a Harley Scat 175, which was a little (for a Harley) on/off-road two-stroke. The sponsor's oldest son followed on his Zundapp Super Sabre 250 and bringing up the rear was the guy on the Harley Sprint H 250, which was actually an Italian Aermacchi motorcycle. Harley had recently purchased Aermacchi to import bikes to compete with the Japanese "tiddler" onslaught, which was just gaining steam.
As soon as the starter's flag fell, the Harley Sprint would roar past everyone else and would lap the Honda 50s numerous times during the race, followed soon by the Super Saber, the Scat and the Honda Dream. The real racing was between a couple of wild and crazy guys on the Trail 50s. I would usually place third among the 50s by virtue of the relative speed and handling advantages of my Sport 50. My dad had strictly forbidden any form of racing with removal of my Honda as punishment, so I had to ride more conservatively to avoid any noticeable effects from a spill.
On one particular Sunday, the owner of the Dream 150 offered to trade bikes for the ride back to town, an offer I immediately took. This was a motorcycle 3 times larger than any I had ever ridden, my experience at the time being strictly confined to the various 50s! With this wonderful babe-magnet, I was actually able to entice Betty, whom I had long had designs on, to ride behind me back to town. Shortly after leaving the lake, we came to a nice long downhill stretch of highway and I naturally had to "see what she'll do," so I opened the throttle and went into the racer's tuck. Chin on the gas cap to minimize wind resistance, I watched the speedometer pass 80 mph, about 30 more than my existing personal motorcycle speed record. Suddenly I remembered that my pleasure was even greater as I had a passenger! I glanced back to receive Betty's worshipful adulation, only to find that she was still bolt upright buffeted by the full force of the wind, tears streaming from ungoggled eyes with an expression of total fear! When we stopped, she shakily crawled off the bike, vowing to never ride with me again under any circumstances. Girls, what mysterious, uptight creatures!
Jack Atkins
October 4, 2002
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