Heavy Harleys and my biker gang days

I had a few years as a motorcycle nut, riding a BSA.

The BSA was built by the Birmingham Small Arms Company, which stopped building motorcycles and built war materials instead during World War II.

I and my friend, Joe Emerson, a member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, bought our bikes the same day.

Joe had moved to Palouse when his mother, Bertha, took a job with the Northern Pacific Railroad as a telegrapher. They had moved into a house just a few blocks away and the two of us were constant companions.

Joe had an older brother, Guy, who never seemed to work. He was gifted as an idler, after years of practice.

Guy hung out with a motorcycle gang on East Sprague in Spokane. The whole bunch spent a lot of time at the British-American Motorcycle shop, also on East Sprague.

We started going up there and hanging out and spent a lot of time at the cycle shop. The only difference was Joe and I were gainfully employed.

One day, the two of us decided to purchase bikes; he got a 500cc BSA and I got a 350cc BSA.

Neither of us had ever been on a motorcycle. It was an adventure getting back to Palouse.

Over time, we cropped our fenders, purchased and installed Flanders bars and risers, so our bikes looked more like racing cycles.

We got a bunch of old tires and outlined the curves on a race track we constructed at Joe’s house. His mother was always supportive of things we wanted to do.

So we started revving up and racing on our track.

We continued going to Spokane and hanging out with the gang and at the cycle shop.

That motorcycle gang was not a real gang, and they weren’t so tough. I don’t remember that there were ever any drugs, but sometimes a lot of beer.

We got familiar with that environment and decided to take part in a hare-and-hound chase.

It started high above the Spokane River and eventually ended at the bottom of a deserted hill climb. The trail wasn’t well defined, and in places they spray painted signs to help you stay on course.

There were places where trees had fallen across the trail and you had to pull your bike under the trees, or make your way around them.

The guys with Harleys or Indians had a hard time because their bikes were so heavy. It was hard enough for me also, but we were young and eager.

I made it to the top of the hill climb and looked down at the trail ahead. It looked like it was straight down. I took off over the top and my front tire slipped down into the rut from the hill climb days. About halfway down I could see that a good size rock had slipped down in the rut, and I braced myself for a fall. I hit the rock and my bike took a jump, and the last I remembered at the time was that I had been out cold, and Joe was standing over me.

The fall sent my bike flying through the air, throwing the frame out of sync.

I tried everything to fix it, even sending it to the shop, but it was never the same. My bike would throw a chain on a regular basis.

It was the beginning of the end for my motorcycle days.

Not long after that, Joe split his finger with a power saw at work and, as he said at the time, it was his ticket to college.

We parted ways and only had a few letter exchanges. Joe went on to get his bachelor’s degree from Washington State, then served three years in the army, after which he went on to get his master’s and doctorate degrees.

He became a professor of psychology at Cleveland University. When he retired, he came back to the reservation to live in a family house built on property that became his. The Emersons had property along the Columbia River, but when the lake behind the dam inundated their property, they were given property higher to make up for the loss.

In the meantime, I had gone my own way. It was only after I retired in Electric City that I found that Joe was nearby.

Motorcycle days were behind both of us. I visited Joe a few times, and then one day I received a letter in the mail with Joe’s obituary in it. I still don’t know who sent it and how they knew to send it.

Now, when I return to Palouse to visit, I can look up on the hill and reminisce about my motorcycle days.

I never learned about Guy, but I imagine he lived a long life, still not doing much.