Author: Jeff Maddox

Life is truly worth living and this is how I choose to live mine.
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Motorcycles to Anamosa – J&P Cycles Open House

A couple of years ago I rode to Anamosa Iowa for J&P Cycles open house. The end of June was perfect and the weather was good with a slight chance of showers for part of the trip. But no worries, with warm weather a little shower wouldn’t matter. I left after work on my Heritage and planned on making Des Moines Iowa to spend the night. I don’t normally take the interstate but I needed to make a little time so look out big trucks and speeding cars!

A nice night in Des Moines and back on the road to Anamosa. You know at the time I had not ridden through Iowa on a motorcycle, so I was looking forward to it. It was also going to be my first trip to J&P’s and I couldn’t wait. The National Motorcycle Museum was also on my list, so quite frankly I couldn’t get there fast enough.

Now let’s be serious. We’ve all been to things like this, but as I pulled into the parking lot of motorcycles, I was amazed at the turn-out. The people working the event were directing people and it seemed like a well organized group. Very impressed! But wait this was just the beginning. In a box not far from me was a four inch square piece of plywood to put under my kickstand. what a great touch. That says to me that these people understand me and what is important to bikers in general. It’s weird to talk about a piece of wood like this but in that four inch square it might have well said “welcome my friend, we don’t want your bike to fall over”. Nice touch and I haven’t even walked through the split-rail gate to get to the open house.

The day was spent walking and talking to a lot of vendors and folks milling around. It was a beautiful day for watching a stunt show and some synchronized riding. All in all a great time. Fun and professional at the same time. Afterwords, a trip to the National Motorcycle Museum was just amazing. The history within those walls is a lifetime of labor and love for all that maintain it and enjoy it.

The trip was great. The food was good and the host John and Jill Parham, their son Zach and crew were awesome. Thanks for all you guys do and the passion you have for our sport, it’s history and future. You are good people.

If you ever get a chance, go. I mean it. GO! And tell the folks at J&P Cycle’s thanks. See you again this summer!

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Time Keeps on Tickin’

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Just to the left of center, mounted to the frame of the windshield on my Heritage, is a clock. A nice analog Formotion spot clock that I’ve had for many years. It keeps perfect time and looks good too. I know what you’re thinking, “Jeff, you ride and give the impression that time doesn’t matter. That a clock and ‘the man’ go against all biker culture”. Well, I must say that when riding I usually can’t see my wrist watch as my jacket sleeve or the cuff of my glove covers it up. And as much as I appreciate the “bad boy” image you think I portray, I’m more punctual than pissed off.

In the early part of the movie Easy Rider, Peter Fonda takes off his watch and looks at it for a moment, then throws it down into the dirt, just before he starts his epic journey with Billy. Very dramatic but it probably wasn’t a gift from a family member, or possibly it just didn’t keep good time, unlike my Formotion spot clock! But for the world I live in I might need to be somewhere and it’s nice to see how late I’m going to be.

But that clock also means more to me than just the time itself. It’s a constant reminder that time doesn’t stop. That means for you and me it just keeps going. A twenty-minute ride home, the clock will tell me I made it in the average time it always takes me. But twenty minutes is also the amount of time I just spent doing something I love. Something for me and my sanity. A break from talk and music and the sounds of everyday life. But it also tells me that right now in the garage, my Formotion spot clock is ticking as if to say “Jeff, listen to me. Life is short. Enjoy it as time is running out”. Do the things you love. Make the time to ride. Don’t let a cool day or a slight chance of rain make you stay home. Time is passing us by and if you listen closely you can hear your motorlogical clock ticking.

Now I’m not the kind of guy that normally thinks like this. Really, I’m not. But there are times when you realize that whether you golf, fish, ride motorcycles or whatever, there’s no time like now. I’m not saying that we need to know what time it is all the time, but know that any time you’re not doing what you want is time you can’t get back. Now don’t go quitting your job, and hitting the road to get away from ‘the man’ like Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. But if you feel like taking your watch off and throwing it down, that’s ok. It would be a symbol that time isn’t going to control you. And that is my point! YOU should control your time!

 

Check them out on the web at: http://www.formotionproducts.com

https://www.facebook.com/FormotionProducts

 

 

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Lost and Found

Here I am cleaning my motorcycle. It’s been awhile and it needs to be done. I ride all the time and just like your car and all the stuff you carry, it gets to the point where my saddle bags are full. Full to the point that I can’t get the required loaf of bread in it when I am asked to bring it home after work. So as I sort through what is necessary and what isn’t, I find that I’m just a sneeze away from being a hoarder on two wheels.

The very top is easy. A lighter pair of gloves, and a hooded sweatshirt. Check. Tie down bungee cords and rain suit, check. A hat for those horrible helmet hair days, and a pair of sunglasses. Broken of course. And another pair of gloves. And who couldn’t use those? What is this, a multi-tool? Great! More bungee cords and a single glove. The left one  must surely be in the other saddle bag. I mean, why would I keep a single glove? As for the bottom of the bag I find my insurance and registration card in a small zip-lock baggie which has a hole worn in it and some small things like sun screen and lip balm, and receipts for milk, bread, soda, chips and dog food!

One bag down and one to go. A tool roll and bug cleaner. Micro fiber towel and a pair of sunglasses. Not my style and I’m sure they’re not mine. Probably a find on the road somewhere and to good to throw away. Tennis shoes and teryaki beef jerky, and it’s still good. Another rain suit that has a story all to itself and wait, another bag of beef jerky that is not so good! That one was from a trip to Dodge City two years ago as it still had the receipt with it. Has it been that long? Not the trip…the beef jerky. I thought it lasted forever. For a second there I thought I saw the end of time where canned goods and beef jerky both had the same expiration date. Nearing the bottom I find the source of a lot of discussions about memory loss and the onset of aging gracefully. A Blackberry cell phone. You guessed it. The trip to Dodge City where I swore I left it in the Hotel. After many calls to them and all but riding out there to prove them wrong, I have to admit they were right. It’s funny how I knew every detail of the trip, where the phone was sitting in the room plugged into the charger, and the exact moment where the employees were making long phone calls to distant relatives while I was on the return trip home. But alas, phone records showed me otherwise.

So it’s been a couple of years since I’ve sorted through the necessities of the road. Now I have a little more room for this season’s travels, and soon I will mention the back story of the second rain suit. Melted leg and all! If I can remember it…

 

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The View from the Road

It happened a couple of times every year. The family vacation to Colorado or Nebraska was a good trip and it was always nice to get out of the small town and hit the road. Me being the youngest of three kids, my place was sitting between my brother Danny and sister Jan in the back seat. I don’t need to say anything else to all of you “youngest”, but it was the least comfortable place to be because there was no window and nothing to lean against that didn’t punch you. At times, before I started growing like a weed, I would actually lay on the rear deck in the back window. I can hear it now, “How could they allow their child to be in a car unrestrained and in harm’s way”? It was the late 60’s and early 70’s so what do you expect! Most people didn’t think about that and admit it, you’ve been there.

As my sister grew up and left the house there became more room in the back seat which was good because I was growing as well. Then it became my turn to sit by the window. We didn’t have cell phones, i-pads or dvd players. The only thing we had was an 8-track player in the car with Gordon Lightfoots’ Greatest Hits playing, and our imaginations. So for many hours driving across Kansas, Nebraska and Colorado I used my imagination to keep me occupied. Mostly pretending I was on Roger DeCoster’s motocross bike just inside the fence line along the highway. Jumping the fences as they came up was easy as someone had conveniently placed a mound of dirt there for me to get over it. If the path got to be impossible I would move to the ditch and continue. After all it was MY imagination! Speed wasn’t important, I could keep up with the car no matter what. I was that good.

When my brother finally moved out I had the back seat to myself. It’s funny how lonely it can be even when you didn’t like the cramped conditions to begin with. So as the road trip began, it was my mother and father, me and Gordon Lightfoot. The Fury III was a large car and the vinyl seats were comfortable. For those of you that don’t know, vinyl is a material that was designed to adhere skin to car seats. Lucky for me I was a self conscious preteen at the time and always wore jeans.

 I found that my imagination has remained with me. I still look at the terrain along the road and the tree lined roads with fences. The ups and downs and the deepness of the ditch. I don’t imagine myself riding along the car as every great motocrosser has to retire sometime, but I have to admit that I have watched my shadow rolling along beside me when riding my motorcycle. Wow, I look good! And you would think I would know every word to every song Gordon Lightfoot sang. And maybe I do. Some things you just can’t forget.

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Sunday Morning Coming Down

1974 Harley-Davidson 90
1974 Harley-Davidson 90

Growing up in a small town is who I am. I know every street, store front, and house around. We used to be a self sufficient community with everything from two grocery stores and two gas stations, and a cafe and clothing store to a community with limited conveniences. But still a great place none the less. At 13 years old and no drivers license it was ok to ride around town on my Harley-Davidson 90. I would ride to the Vicker’s gas station on Main street to get 50 cents worth of gas, a Snickers bar and a Mountain Dew. Herb Funk would require a 3 cent deposit on the bottle if we took it so I would eat my candy bar and drink the Mountain Dew there while hanging out with the regulars. It’s a wonder I didn’t pick up smoking cigars as a few of the old men did, but it was always fun to watch Herb fix a flat or go out to pump your gas. Looking back I have often wondered what he thought of us young guys on our bikes hanging out. As young men we never thought from that perspective. We were more consumed with the moment.

But one advantage to a small town is a local police officer that wasn’t to concerned about us riding around on the streets. And apparently neither were my parents. Frank was the local cop and he was also the city maintenance man so a lot of times he wouldn’t go out on patrol until the evening hours. Long after I had to be home! Both Herb and Frank were good guys. They are like so many people in White City that had a lasting affect either on the community or me personally.

Exploring the streets and country back roads for hours on end was great for a kid. Probably not something parents would allow now but it was the early 70’s and I guess that made it ok. Wearing the appropriate stars and stripes helmet, bell bottoms and a “what, me worry?” t-shirt and I was set. So many times we would ride out behind the grain elevator to what we called the Katy trails where the Katy train tracks used to be. It was a small area but it was all we had. You would think growing up here I would know everything about everything but it took me twenty years to find out who actually owned the property. One more person that really had an impact on us as young riders remained anonymous for most of my formative years. For that I thank him. He allowed us to ride there any time and never once said a word. Again, we didn’t think about that then, we were too caught up in the moment of being the future of our sport!

This was also a time when the summer days lasted forever. The sun hovered above us and time stood still. We went home dirty and tired, strung out on Snickers and Mountain Dew. Blisters on our hands, bell bottoms torn from getting caught on the chain and sprocket and out of gas. Good times.

I still live in this town. Some of the people that have always been “White City” have passed. Herb, Frank, Perry Moore who owned the grocery store and Earl Casterline, just to name a few, are missed. I wish I could tell them now that I’m an adult how much I appreciate them for making this town a great place to grow up. Now that I’m not so much in the moment of being a teenager, I would like to know what they thought of us. If I was a betting man they were thinking “those crazy kids and their damn motorcycles!”.

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A Lost Art

A week or so ago I met Bubba Blackwell in Grapevine, Texas. It wasn’t the first time meeting him for me, but to him it was probably like the first time meeting me. To phrase that another way, I remember him and he didn’t remember me!

For those who don’t know who Bubba Blackwell is, he jumps Harley-Davidson XR750’s over whatever is in front of him. Most people will remember Evil Knievel and Bubba’s occupation is much the same. Sit at the end of a long stretch of pavement, look at a ramp, pin it, land safely, and repeat next weekend.

Now I don’t know about you but this isn’t something normal people will do for fun let alone compensation. He’s good at it and needs to be rewarded handsomely in the process. That is what makes it a lost art. If you are going to stand out in an occupation, pick one that doesn’t have a long line of potential applicants waiting to get in. Heart surgeons? There’s a few of those. Rocket scientists? Plenty, I’m sure. Guys like me? Dime a dozen. But Bubba? Evil? Robbie? Sure there are more, but in that field of expertise you have to be good. Real good. Or you don’t last long. I know a lot of folks go to see the down side of jumping motorcycles, but everyone there wants to see a successful jump.

Bubba is a great guy. We talked and he is just as down-to-earth as one can get. He truly loves what he does and it shows. Did I mention he’s good at it? He is.

Go to you-tube and watch. Follow him on Facebook and twitter. Better yet, go to one of his shows. He is a true professional.

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The Beaten Path Less Traveled

So I’ve been thinking about the road less traveled. We motorcyclists seem to search out this road to find the peace and serenity of a curvy or tree-lined way of getting there. Usually it’s a short two-lane between cities or major highways, but beautiful none the less. But how far is the road less traveled? How far is “off the beaten path”?

A road trip to Sturgis in 2007 found me and six of my friends on one of these roads. It was a Sunday and it didn’t take us long to find out that in some remote places of this country there is a world of folks that take Sunday off! Mostly gas station attendants and repair shops. As we rode into the Northwest of Nebraska we soon found out that the more you need gas, the harder it is to find. A great idea of a modern version of the old gas station,open 24 hours, to include beef jerky, hotdogs on heated rollers and pay at the pump gas, more commonly known as a convenience store, had yet to make it to this corner of Nebraska.

As we pulled into a farmer’s co-op this Sunday afternoon with a closed sign in the window and no pay at the pump, it was decided that a restroom was also a pretty important part of the modern conveniences we have come to expect. Well what do seven guys do when nature calls? We answer  the phone! Standing next to a bulk fuel truck and our backs to the highway, we found the one person that does work on a Sunday. He wears a badge and drives a pretty fast car. He pulls in and asked what we were doing in a very nice but firm manner. We explained the situation and expecting the worse, he was quick to get on the one piece of modern technology that did make this far off the beaten path, his cell phone! He called the one guy that could come and open the co-op for us to get gas.

Relieved, in more ways than one, we stayed for a little while and spent some money on Snickers bars and Mountain Dew. The appreciation on our faces was obvious and the officer stayed and hung out as well. It is truly amazing at the helpfulness of those in the small towns. I know as I’m from one myself. But to go out of your way and help is a two way street. Pass it on or pay it forward. Take the road less traveled and relax. Meet the local people face to face, or wave at the young boys on their bicycles as you ride through town. It’s a pretty universal language.

As I said, coming from a small town myself I know how these communities struggle. Next time you stop for gas, buy that candy bar or hotdog on a heated roller and show your support. You never know, that same place may not be open next time you pass through without your support.

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Summertime 1974

1974 Harley-Davidson 90

1974

Long, hot, endless summer days. Where the sky was blue with big white clouds. All I knew was my folks didn’t care what I did all summer but I had to be home by six. How I knew it was six p.m. is beyond me but supper was always ready and I’d better be there.

I was an impressionable kid and motorcycles were new to me. My brother got me interested with talk of them and a random magazine in the house to give me a visual. Trips to a couple of local dealerships and I was hooked. Picking up free brochures and reading them cover to cover studying everything from dry weights to tire sizes. As if some day I would be asked and a grand prize was in the balance. So the day my dad brought home an AMF Harley-Davidson 90 in the back of his ’67 Chevy truck was the day the earth stood still. Or at the very least the day seemed to be really long.

So the day my dad brought home an AMF Harley-Davidson 90 in the back of his ’67 Chevy truck was the day the earth stood still. Or at the very least the day seemed to be really long.

We had a pasture by the house I grew up in and we were able to spend many hours of every day riding aimlessly around and knocking down the tall grass to make trails. To this day I can still smell the yellow weeds that grew in that field. I would ride that 90 all day only stopping for gas and maybe a drink from the hose, and then back at it. After all I would be riding the Springfield Mile before long and I needed to practice. My stars and stripe helmet with a bubble shield and cheap gloves that turned my hands black as they sweat. Great times.

Simple. Pure. How can I get those days back? I read Dirtbike and Motocross Action. Cycle World and Cycle. Every word, over and over. never throwing an issue away. I practiced and pretended. Always wanting to ride and and explore. And I did. Long hours of riding with learning to fix what broke or wore out. I looked up to the local guys that rode the big bikes. If we heard a motorcycle coming down the road, we stopped what we were doing to watch as it went by. And of course I knew what the dry weight and tire size was!

Those were the days. Not much exposer on t.v. Wide World of Sports but who had a t.v. guide? Three channels and even so, I was too busy riding. On Any Sunday had a grip on me and I still love watching that film. It was the story of my life.

I still feel like that kid when I ride. It is a feeling of the the motorcycle as a part of me. It’s always been that way and always will. Looking back on the day my father brought home that 90 he had no idea what an effect it would have on me, or how it would change my life. My dad has never ridden a motorcycle but has always supported my habit and I love him for that.

Whether we are young or old when we start riding makes no difference. The days may not seem as long, but we can still go out and practice for the Springfield Mile.

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Oh, Demanding!

Demands.

Are we really that demanding? I don’t consider that trait to be in my DNA but some people have that desire and are capable of making demands. And usually demands are made out loud. I would almost say for the rest of us it is more about silent expectations. We expect our motorcycle to start when we want to ride, we expect a reasonable amount of life from our tires, and we expect that car to pull out in front of us. All of this and more, we expect without saying it.

And let’s face it, we will continue expecting things that are going to happen anyway. And maybe that is more of taking those things for granted. Modern conveniences, such as electric start or pay at the pump gas, is all a part of it. So where is this all going? When I first started riding with little knowledge of what I might demand from my motorcycles or silently expect or even take for granted, had no bearing on the amount of enjoyment I received. What I didn’t have I didn’t miss, and didn’t become frustrated for the lack there of. Kick starting didn’t work? Push start. Nothing is going to keep me from riding.

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The Hurricane Summer

sturgis100_4434

I had to have it. I couldn’t live without it. Life as I knew it would not continue unless I could get this used Honda CBR1000 Hurricane. Just like a real hurricane it was big and beautiful while being scary and fast at the same time. Sexy in red and black, it was my next bike.

It was a great ride home. The 50 miles went too fast and the weather for the end of May was amazing. Life is good. I spent every spare moment either riding or looking at the Hurricane. Red wheels and all that body work was just cutting edge enough for this small town guy.  “It’s going to be a great summer” frequently came out of my mouth. Twist the throttle and hear me roar! Enough already, you get it!

Now, for years we sold fireworks out of our garage so my kids could have some spending money for the summer. The 3rd of July is my birthday so it’s always a good time of year for me. My wife sent me off to get some sticky dots to write prices on and I took off on the Hurricane the 50 miles to Salina to get them. A hot and dry day to say the least, my birthday today, the 4th of July is tomorrow and I’m riding. What more could I want?

Well, it appears this was the beginning of the end. After picking up the sticky dots I was sitting at a stop light unable to get the light to turn green to turn left. The heat of summer and the abundance of body work was unbearable. Apparently the heat from a hurricane removes all oxygen from the atmosphere as I couldn’t breathe. Something any good meteorologist or a salesman at a motorcycle dealership should mention. 30 seconds seemed like a lifetime and when the light did turn green, I took off the get a little air flow. I pulled over at a softball field to get off for a minute and put my head in their sprinkler. As I sat there, I heard a voice in my head say “you can’t do this birthday boy”. I sucked it up and rode the 50 miles home. On the way I saw dragons and demons swimming in water on the highway mocking me.

I decided a few days later to sell this bike.  I’ve owned it about 45 days and it hit me that I was done with the sport bikes for a while and the little issue of heat might have had a part in it. So I listed the Hurricane in the paper and in a day I had several calls. The most promising was a gentleman that I agreed to meet halfway so I loaded the bike on a trailer and set off with my oldest son Kyle. As we sat at the meeting spot I told my son “if he shows up in a car by himself he’s not buying it, but two in the car or a truck or trailer and it’s his.” Just passing on a little fatherly wisdom for his future in selling motorcycles! He shows up with a truck and his father and I excitedly said “it’s sold!” As they get out of their vehicle I notice the father has an artificial leg. I walk over to the son and introduce myself and ask if he would like to test ride it. He said it was his dad that was the buyer so away we go! He wants to ride it and that’s ok. He pulls out on the highway and from the exhaust are sounds as if he was racing in the Grand Prix of Kansas. I had no idea the redline was that high! Also there was a little concern about the wooden leg. On one hand he wouldn’t feel the heat on that side of the bike but on the other hand…it’s wood.

Well he buys it. I was never so happy to see a motorcycle leave as I was that one. But I miss it in some sort of way. Do I wish I still had it? Yes. I wish I had all the motorcycles I’ve owned. They were all picked for a reason when I wanted them, and they were all a part of my motorcycling history. Good, bad or ugly, and some have been ugly, I miss them.