First to Last: The Tale of a Biker. Dennis Lid

tire on an ordinary bicycle wheel. It was chain driven, single geared and even had pedal-assist for getting started and negotiating steep hills. Its top speed was a rousing 35 mph. Finally, it was equipped with mechanical hand and foot brakes fore and aft. What a contraption it was. Yet, as a young teenager, I was greatly impressed by that first set of motorized wheels. The bike didn’t just provide transportation but a means of mobility, freedom, independence and control. The style, power and adrenaline rush, however, would have to wait until years later. The novice moped was strictly a learning device, sufficient for scooting up and down the Northern California hills but not much more. Yet, it was a start, an initiation… a first bike.

       An Introduction to a Biker’s Way of Life

      My first bike introduced me to the world of motorcycling. I became addicted to a sport and way of life that would last the better part of my lifetime. The motorcycle became a centerpiece of life, a common denominator so-to-speak. It provided a reason for starting conversations with perfect strangers, some of whom became fast friends. The bike was the subject of attention and served as the basis for both social and adventuresome experiences. Races, shows, rodeos, tournaments, expeditions and other events were oriented on the motorcycle. Even work depended on it.

      At home the bike occupied my thoughts, time and effort as well. The maintenance and beautification of the beast, service and repairs, accessory items needed for bike and rider, and the money applied to all these items required my attention. Windscreen, helmet, goggles, gloves, boots, leathers, wet-weather gear, compass, toll-coin holder, tank or saddlebags, bungee cords, cover and cleaning paraphernalia were some of the critical items needed by an avid motorcyclist. All these things including insurance, license and registration came at a cost and over a period of time. Accessory items were not purchased all at once. Few riders could afford that. Yet, over the months and years, every biker could afford these accessories. The most essential items were selected for purchase first, followed by those less critical. Luxury items were acquired last if at all. Things like stereo sets with speakers and two-way radios were the ultimate indulgences and were seldom purchased. They were lowest on the rider’s priority list.

      A motorcyclist must be a dedicated individual to tolerate all the demands on time, effort and wallet. And, so, motorcycling became more than a sport in my life. It became a way of life. The simple moped, my first bike, introduced me to the biker’s way of life. What a beautiful memory. You remember your first bike, too, don’t you? It’s as vivid in your mind as it was the day you bought it, isn’t it? Some things we never forget. That’s how it is with bikers and their mounts. First bikes are especially well remembered because after all, they are special in that they are “first.”

      My top priority after purchasing that motorbike, besides getting it registered, licensed and insured was to safely park it. Now that doesn’t sound like much of a problem, does it? Normally it wouldn’t be, but our house had a small, two-car garage. Our family car took up one parking space; our tenant’s car occupied the second space. My moped had to fit somewhere in between the two cars and there was very limited room. The handlebars of the moped had to be raised above the level of both cars’ fenders so as not to scratch them. The solution was the construction of a wooden ramp for the front wheel only, so as to lift the handlebars higher than the car fenders when the motorbike was parked. The trick was to make sure that I parked the bike before both cars arrived in their parking spaces each evening. Timing was critical. If I misgauged it, or came home late, then my dad would have to back his car out of the garage to permit access of my bike to its ramped parking area without scratching either car. Needless to say, I was reluctant to impose on my father’s kind nature any more than was absolutely necessary. This exercise, however, was required on several occasions and taught me an important lesson: “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Having to interrupt my father made me think things through before I acted and to be aware of the possible consequences. It was a good lesson for life. I wish I had kept it in mind more often as I pursued my own.

      The years passed; we boys grew up. By the time we graduated from our respective high schools, each of us followed different paths in pursuing our lives. Contact between us was eventually lost as our individual courses diverged over time. People moved, some took civilian jobs and others went on to college or into the military. Our first motorbikes and scooters were sold; old friendships faded. We struck out along life’s road into an unknown adult future. Our quest finally began in earnest. Such was the prelude to our motorcycling lives.

      California Map (Thornhill Drive)

Chapter Three Interruption

       Years of Drought Without a Bike

      It was the dry period – a time without a motorcycle that lasted seven years. My life as a biker had just begun during my teenage years and a long interruption had already intervened. This drought was like a plague or blight on my life. There would be other periods like it in the future. They would be memorable only by their extreme monotony. “Into every life a little rain must fall.” Yet, the quest continued even during the dry years.

      My fledgling biker’s life was severely interrupted when the family moved and I was sent off to boarding school. I had to sell the motorbike. There was no choice in the matter; it simply had to be done. My parents took a chance, garnered all the cash they could muster from their known assets, threw in with a partner and went into the resort and hotel business. When the house was sold and their first resort lodge at Lake Tahoe was purchased, I became a bike-less boarding student at Saint Mary’s High School located in Peralta Park, California. What a change it was compared to the nice home we had on Thornhill Drive in Montclair. The school was fine, but housing for boarding students, though appreciated, was very old and decrepit. It remained rather inhospitable even after a homemade paint job of my two-man room. Peter Hookendyjke, my Dutch roommate, and I made the best of it. We dwelt and studied there for the next two years until graduation from high school gave us relief. Both of us then went off to the University of Santa Clara in California, Peter as a Mechanical Engineering student and myself into Liberal Arts as an English Major. I graduated four years later; Peter left for Holland after completing his junior year. He didn’t graduate. I never heard from him again and didn’t know the reason for his abrupt departure. Word had it that there was a family problem of some sort, and that he joined the Dutch Air Force after returning home. Some friendships end abruptly and are never reestablished, as was the case with this one. God speed was my wish for him.

       Finishing School and Beginning Work

      I chose the University of Santa Clara because it was close, affordable and my application was accepted there. The business my parents engaged in at Lake Tahoe didn’t last. The partners didn’t get along well and so dissolved their business affiliation. Each traded their share of the partnership for a smaller commercial property and went their separate way. My folks ended up in Menlo Park owning and managing a restaurant and quaint hotel by the name of the Marie Antoinette Inn. It was close enough to Santa Clara for me to live at home, even though I preferred boarding at the university. I lived and worked at home during my freshman year, and then I bought an old 1948 Chevrolet convertible and became a boarding student at the university. It was more convenient and conducive to studying, and my father was willing to pay the boarding costs. Those college days constituted four long, hard and boring years with the exception of my writing, drama and military ROTC classes. I knew I needed a degree, but I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. Perhaps I’d end up in teaching, or the military or who knows what. Anyway, the bachelor’s degree was an essential first step; it was a necessary ticket-punch for the professional life. That sheepskin was a mandatory requirement for a successful life in the 1950’s era. So I endured unto graduation and received my degree and lieutenant’s commission into the regular army.

      After graduation, the United States Army took over my life. Wow! What a change. Since I wanted more than “three hots and a cot” to start off my military career, the first thing I did was to partner up