Introduction

     Just call me “Rich”. I love motorcycles. All types, makes and models. I have been on motorcycles since the age of twelve. I have met and known some special people during my time on two wheels. I have seen places that have put me in awe by the fact that the openness of two wheels allow you to be surrounded by all that is around you.

I do not consider myself a writer by any stretch of the imagination or marker. I have had neither schooling nor tutoring in the artful use of the English language save for what was forced upon me during those years of indoctrination from 1963 through to the year of our 200th anniversary as a nation, 1976.

Many of you have probably ridden further and have done more on two wheels than I could ever hope to. But my hope is that you will enjoy reading about my experiences.

I come from a typical family of my time. My dad was a mold maker/machinist at the local glass plant and my mom was a stay-at-home mom. I am the youngest of four offspring and try as I might, I will never live down the title of “baby” of the family.

My obsession began in the summer of 1969. It started as did most of the fledgling riders of those days, with an internal combustion motor more suited for a lawn mower than micro motorcycle purchased at Sears. None-the-less it was freedom. Glorious freedom!

Though the nomenclature that accompanied the odd-looking little bike stated it had a three and a half horsepower motor they had to have been ponies. But still, the underpowered and rumbling little bike took me to new places and discoveries. Much to the worried chagrin of my poor Mother.

Miles and miles of strip mine were explored and charted. Small streams and large puddles were forged by those asthmatic horses on which I rode. Acres of fields, with grasses and goldenrod taller than the bike and I, were hacked through and conquered.

There I was. A quirky and scrawny little kid who, at that time, wore a football helmet (Spray painted red and with the face guard cut off) as I rode. I was the explorer. I was the lone cowboy upon my iron horse. Ok, let’s face it, I was a Don Quixote. But I was on my machine. I could command my machine to go where I wanted it to. At least as far as two quarts of gas would take me.

One Wednesday night, just as a new school year was starting in session, a new series began on TV. A new show unlike any other show before. A modern-day cowboy on an iron horse. He was soft-spoken but strong-willed. A man who knew what he wanted but in search of something he had yet to recognize.

“Then Came Bronson” aired every Wednesday night at 10 PM on NBC. I was awe-struck and the foundation for my lifelong obsession began.