Story by Scott A. Williams
My youthful interest in machines with two wheels and a motor was heightened by my parents’ refusal to let me have anything of the sort. Luckily, I had friends who offered me the keys to their motorbikes.
Dickie and Dougie Vierthaler had two, a Suzuki MT50 and a Kawasaki KV75. These were mid-1970s minibikes with small knobby tires and clutchless 3-speed transmissions. Their dad wisely enforced the buddy system, and sometimes I got to be a buddy rider. With one brother or the other leading, I’d rip along trails through Merrick’s Woods or down by the quarry. When Dickie and Dougie got small dirtbikes, they taught me how to shift with a clutch, a skill that eventually proved useful.
Mike Wilson was six years older than me and lived next door. One summer afternoon he allowed a few of his friends to ride his Kawasaki KZ400. They all had driver’s licenses, which was still a distant goal for me, so I was surprised when he asked if I wanted to take his KZ for a ride around the block. “Hell yes!” I replied. Who knows what Mike was thinking, offering this wondrous machine to a scrawny 12-year-old wearing swim trunks and low-top sneakers. But that short ride was transformative and gave me an itch. Over the years, generous friends continued to offer me their keys so I could scratch it. Sometimes hard.
In the summer of 1988, Robert “Bart” Collins offered me the keys to his brand-new, red and white Suzuki GSX-R750 with Slingshot carburetors. “Don’t get off it, not even to put gas in it,” Bart directed me. “Just ride around the lake and come back.” That was Sebago Lake in western Maine. I had run this 40-mile route on his girlfriend’s lively Kawasaki EX500, but his GSX-R was an entirely different animal. It was, by far, the most powerful motorcycle I had ever ridden, and the acceleration scared the bejesus out of me!
On the home stretch of State Route 114, the bike’s vibey mirrors revealed two bright headlights. An instant later, a blue and white GSX-R750 pulled up on my left. The rider gestured, “wanna go?” Being neither stupid nor brave enough to race him, I gestured back, “after you.” For a few delicious miles, the landscape blurred. It’s just as well I couldn’t keep up, since my left turn onto Harmon’s Beach Road arrived way sooner than usual. Pulling into Bart’s lake-side camp, I felt an adrenaline rush I still remember to this day.
Some years later, a similar rush was delivered by a Honda CBR1100XX Super Blackbird. At its introduction, it was the fastest production motorcycle you could buy. Dale Larson had one, a well-kept 1999 model, the first year with fuel injection. While visiting him in the Pacific Northwest, he graciously offered me the keys. With soft luggage, a convex windscreen, and heated grips, it was set up for sport touring, but it still had fire in its belly. Dale led us briskly along a smooth two-lane road easing through central Washington wheat fields. As the inline-Four revved above 8,000 rpm, I felt a furious surge of momentum. Wicked! Honda’s open-class legend still had abundant speed in reserve when my fatherly sensibility returned.
Another time, a bar-end throttle lock I was reviewing wasn’t compatible with the hand guards on my Kawasaki Versys, so I reached out to Bob Bourget. I figured something in his ever-changing stable of wheeled machines could serve as a test mule. Always glad to oblige, Bob helped me install the test accessory on his 2007 Aprilia Tuono 1000. Then he offered me the keys. “I’m not the tester,” he noted. “Wait ’til you’re past the police garage to open it up.” Sage advice, as a cruiser was lying in wait on the far side.
With its visceral Rotax V-Twin, that Ape was one mad motorcycle. Even at sub-felonious speed, I felt like a hooligan at the controls. The clever throttle lock performed as designed, but in the interest of science I tried it repeatedly, conveniently extending my ride on Bob’s Aprilia. I concluded that Tuono riders would probably just pin the throttle and hang on.
Here’s to friends who offer you their keys.