Story by SCOTT A. WILLIAMS

After a ride on the old racetrack in Louden, New Hampshire, Bart smoked the tire on his GSX-R750, c. 1988.

Photo by Wendy Pomelow

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!

12 / NOVEMBER 2026 / RIDERMAGAZINE. COM