CB175, Dad, and full Shriner regalia. 1976.
(originally published on May 10, 2017)
“Pity the sons of great men, forever in the shadows they dwell.” Pseudo-Lucretius, first century AD.
This is the story of a motorcycle, a father, and a son.
He was a Dust Bowl Okie, being part of the great ecologically disastrous diaspora that scattered our people to the winds like dust in the 1930s and 40s. Hailing from Sallisaw, Okla., yes indeed that Sallisaw of Joads and “Grapes of Wrath” fame, Dad dropped out of school at eighth grade never to return and worked full-time on the family homestead where they eked out a meager life. He was fast friends with poverty, their shack of a house had dirt floors, no running water, no electricity, no car. A well out back sourced the water, and an outhouse returned it to the Earth from whence it came. Mules, wagons, a walk-behind Oliver cultivator and monthly trips into town for supplies was how that barefoot boy passed his formative years, a life that seems as remote to me now as cavemen discovering fire.
An Oliver Cultivator out in my yard. The two row walk-behind model, attach twin mule power for the full experience.
I was the son of a Dust Bowl Okie and I never knew want. My childhood homes were modern, my bedrooms air-conditioned, my TV connected to cable, a Mac SE on my desk. My feet were never bare except by choice, my father paid for my college education. I lived a life that must have seemed as remote to my father’s upbringing as a caveman watching men walk on the moon.
After Dad’s folks lost the place in Oklahoma in the late 30’s they washed up in the Great Central Valley of California, picking cotton and working the fields where he met mom. Their first home in the Golden State was a chicken coop in Wasco, after they shooed out the fowl. When Dad got home from Korea, where the USMC had generously sent him on an all-expense paid trip in 1951, (15 months as a front line machine gunner) he married mom, got into construction work and two-wheeled wonders.
My father in Korea, 1952, at his machine gun. The gun had a name, but as this is a family friendly site I can’t tell you.
Some of my earliest pictures are of me on motorcycles. Dad was crazy for them. Curiously his bikes of choice were always Hondas. You’d a thought my old man, given his All-American credentials, would have been a Harley man, but nope, it was Soichiro’s little motorbikes that won his heart.
My sister and I on her Honda Trail 90 up at Sequoia. I “shared” my Slurpee with it once, pouring it down the gas tank. Not good.
There was the CL77 aka the dual-purpose Scrambler 305, an original ’65 model which was as sweet a machine as mankind has ever crafted. Racy upswept pipes, little “peanut” gas tank with knee pads, knobbies for off roading, able to cook at 9,000 rpms. Sa-lutte!
Me and the Scrambler!
Dad converted that one to a hill climber, which was his preferred mode of self-immolation. On Any Sunday™ you could find him and his posse out near Shark Tooth Hills on the East side, munching pork rinds, drinking beer and attempting to scale vertical heights in glory, but, like Icarus, finding that their reach exceeded their grasp, ending in debacles of broken bones and bent wheels.
I’m trying to take the Scrambler out after Dad gave it the hill climber makeover but the legs are too short! Notice that crazy giant back sprocket?
Which brings us back to the lecture at hand, a ’72 CB175, a type of the old Universal Japanese Motorcycle. Among his many colorful extracurricular activities the old man was a Shriner. You know, funny hats, secret handshakes, free hospitals for crippled children. Those guys. To this day I’m convinced he signed on for the Shriner tour of duty because they got to ride motorcycles in parades, the legendary “Iron Camels” and wear cool costumes. Dad joined up in ’73 and needed a bike.
Dad’s Shriner kit, minus the Fez, circa 1974.
The Iron Camel Corps of the Bakersfield Shriners flew Honda CB175s exclusively at that time. And why not? Big bike looks, a manageable dry weight of only 264 pounds, kick and electric start, overhead cams, five-speed gearbox, dual low chrome pipes and another of Honda’s illegally smooth running twins pumping out 20 horsepower. The Shriners bolted on a ramrod upright windshield, CB radio to hear the maneuver order call outs, and twin flag mounts to fly Old Glory.
Minhadid Jemels in full glory, Dad’s Shriner krewe, June 1976. Dad marked with an arrow. This is how you do it baby.
My pop and his krewe (Silent and Greatest Generation guys, blue-collar, and most had combat experience in their respective wars) were all quite happy in 1973 to ride little Hondas with engines not much bigger than sewing machines while wearing funny hats. These guys survived the Dust Bowl and Depression, WW2, Korea, and built the entire infrastructure of the modern world we inhabit. Interesting eh?
Modern motorcycle Shriners.
Dad bought his CB175 from a fellow who was bailing on the Iron Camels, it was but a year old but had all the proper accoutrements already mounted and was parade ready. Red, black and chrome. It also had the 1970 gas tank mounted, which all their bikes had for uniformity, everything had to match exactly. Under the classic Honda wing on the tank it still bears the enigmatic label “AAONMS”. Any idea what that means?
“Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine”
And you didn’t think you’d learn anything new today.
As the old man never could do anything half way, he bought a trailer to haul it and a couple more buddies bikes to events, proudly painted in Shriner colors, heraldic badges emblazoned, along with spare gear and ice chests brimming with beer. (can, domestic)
And thus began a decade or so of spending many weekends at every podunk Central Valley town’s summer festival of raisins, pears, roses, almonds, garlic, old-timers, and fiesta days. The Steel Camel-riding Shriners would gather in force, and always had pride of place in the local parade, doing figure eights, Immelmanns, skeins and finger-fours. It was all very military, (of course) with super tight precision, full uniforms (jackets with aiguillettes, neckties, no matter that it was 105 degrees in July) called out commands and dripping esprit de corps. (Iron Camel Corps) I, of course, loved it!
Once, in 1976 at the Frazer Park Fiesta Days (slogan: “since 1968!”) I had followed the Camels all the way down the parade route and ended up far from our base camp. I figured I’d have a long walk back now, and resigned myself to the trudge, when suddenly dad roared up to me, his CB175 gleaming as usual, Ray Bans on, fez bolt upright, and that ever so slight hint of a smile he’d get on his normally emotionless face. “Hop on” was the order called out, and his booted foot expertly kicked the passenger pegs down. I clambered aboard, arms around his waist to hold on, smelled his signature scent of Old Spice combined with tobacco, and we zoomed off. Dad was never shy about speed, and as we sped backwards down the parade route on that beautiful sunny day, now lined with milling crowds looking bemusedly at us, I was overcome with a sense of pride to be his son.
My own motorcycles followed, including another of dad’s signature oddball Honda moments when he got me a NA50 when I turned 14. That, uh, moped I guess, turned out to be a metric ton of fun in the hands of us country boyz and Flash is worthy of his own writeup someday. My early riding daze are filled with epic crashes of a young man overwhelmed with stupidity and a sense of misguided glory.
Me and Flash in ’79. Those socks are the secret to my success with the ladies.
I never joined the Shriners, and thus was never an Iron Camel like Dad. My own young life was one of disorder, ragged around the edges, and groups like the Shriners of my fathers era, with their parade ground pomp and US Marine Corps levels of spit and polish would have found me an ill fit. While Dad had become a living legend in his chosen field, eventually owning an underground utility company that employed as many as 40 men at its peak, I was bumbling about from odd job to odd job, school to school, unable to find my way, rudderless. Dad was strong, sure and expert in his craft, but he wasn’t much of a hands on father, and I was left to my own devices a lot. Lest this grow too hagiographic, it needs to be said that Dad had a legion of demons that plagued him, and us as a result. Mom said it all started after he got back from Korea and it never really ended. My predictable angry teen years came along, bah, how stupid was that, and into my 20’s my anchor dragged. I needed to, in his words, get my shit together.
Yup.
The years came and went. Dad got old and his health took a serious downward turn. A lifetime of hard construction work, two to three packs of smokes a day, all coupled with daily red meat dinners washed down with lots and lots of Coors was starting to demand it’s payback. Someplace in the late-80’s, after I’d moved out, he quit riding with the Iron Camels and the 175 got parked in the barn’s tack room. He gave away all the other motorcycles he still had, even the old Scrambler, rats, but the 175 lingered out in the barn.
Dad’s construction company, he was founder/owner, circa 1987, he’s marked with the arrow. Not bad for a guy operating with an 8th grade education. I, lacking all entreprenuryness, work for other people.
Once, in early 1991, we were out for a visit with the folks having come from our at that time home in Texas. The old man had deteriorated in shocking ways to me, he’d been a goddamn bull moose of a man, John Henry levels of strong, always trim and fit regardless of what he ate and working before sun up to past it’s setting. But now he was weaker, with a ponch, and suddenly seemed human in a way I’d never imagined him to be, frail like the rest of us. As we were in the tack room looking at the 175 one day he out of the blue said,
“You want it?”
“Uh, sure!” trying to hide my shock. It wasn’t a good sign that dad was giving away his beloved motorcycles.
And so begins its chapter with me. We hauled it out and cleaned it up. The carbs had gummed up something fierce, but after pullin’ them and a good boilin’ out we were ready to try to start it. Of course it fired right up, it was a Honda made when they were top of their game, led by a man not unlike my father in his exacting demands to perfection. Maybe that’s why dad liked Honda motorcycles so much, kindred spirits.
I took the 175 back to Texas with me loaded in the back of my ’73 Chevy C10. Got stopped once by a Texas Highway patrolman on the way for doing some absurd speed near El Paso. When he spotted the 175 in the pickup bed he grew interested, and we chatted a bit about it before he let me go with a warning to “keep it down.” Moral of the story, keep an old Honda CB in the bed of your whip when you speed in Texas.
For the next few years I merely putted about on it, off roading the whole time as we didn’t have the money to register it. Our abode was a single-wide nestled deep in the oaks and cedars of the Central Texas Hill Country. Surrounded as we were by some 500 acres of hill, creek and foresty land, which was filled with cattle and rabbit tracks, what better use for a street Honda than riding those trails? It was fun, it was harmless, it kept me out of trouble with the law.
Had a son born unto us in Texas.
My lad getting the feel of the 175 circa 1995.
Early in 96′ mom called one morning. The old man had woke up a few days earlier and had no voice to speak of, they’d gone to his doc and he pronounced it cancer and bad. Test results were pending. Damn. I scurried to a plane and jetted to the folks place. In the later part of their lives, like salmon, they had returned to Sallisaw, and the next day I sat with mom and dad in the doctor’s office as he laid out the verdict. Small cell carcinoma. Metastases. Extensive Stage.
“How long?” dad asked.
“If we do chemo, 6-8 months. But you’ll be very sick the whole time.” replied the doc, who looked like the type of guy casting would send over if you ordered a “reliable, solid, middle-aged Midwestern male doctor” for your mini-series on your life.
“And if we don’t do anything?”
“Six weeks.”
Stoically, dad looked at mom and me and said, “Well it’s up to you two, what do you want me to do?” Now mom and I both knew what that meant, he’d hang around longer for us, and the grandkids, if we wanted, but we knew Dad, and knew that he wanted to do nothing and let nature take the short course with him and get it over with.
My father died six weeks and two days later in his living room. He was situated looking out over the back pasture, and surrounded by friends and family. He was 65. His dog, old Petey, refused to come near him those last weeks after the cancer became very obvious, dogs can be funny that way.
In the mid 90’s, lacking direction, I washed up in the Great Central Valley of California. The 175 became my commute bike for a time in the later ’90s. I never used the electric start, bah-that’s the plinker way, when one good solid kick of the starter lever would bring it to life and was so much more satisfying. Left all the Shriner gear on it, the CB, the flag mounts, for a time, but gradually started pulling them off. I clearly recall the first time I gave my son a ride on the back, kicking the foot pegs down with my boots, telling him to hold on to me, noting how the bike settled, and roaring off down the street with the surety that comes from decades of relationship with a machine.
Me heading off to work one morning in 1998. Sa-weet Caddy Coupe de Ville in the background.
I’d ride it for a time, then non-op it for a few years, then pull it out, wash it, fill it with fresh fuel and it’d fire right up again. Over time I noticed that the gasoline stopped gumming up the carbs when I parked it, California, that state over at the coast that controls the Great Central Valley, changed to different fuel formulas which seem to have removed that clogging carb problem quite nicely. Always and faithfully the little Honda answered the call to duty again and again.
Me Esposita giving the 175 a spin in 2010.
Around 2011 I reluctantly took it down to the motorcycle shop and had them change the tires out for new. Riding on 40-year-old rubber was probably kinda dumb, but I’m such a sappy, hapless, sentimentalist that it took me forever to get used to the idea of tossing the originals. The shop was amazed at the condition of the bike, and yeah it frankly still looks new. At some point I realized I became fastidious with my stuff like Dad was, and the 175 looks as good as it ever did when called up for parade duty for the Iron Camel Corps in the ’70s.
On the left, my horsefaced self, in the middle the 175 and on the right my sonny boy, circa 2010.
Haven’t ridden it for a couple of years now, it’s on another non-op hiatus for a biblical time, times and half-time. Riding my 49cc Honda Metropolitan for my 2-wheel junkie fix these days, bikes are in the blood. Harleys hold no interest for me, nor do crotch-rockets, but Soichiro’s velvety smooth modest mechanical phenomenons snap me to attention. Funny that.
Yup, the missus and I terrorize the town on these 49cc beasts of fury. Circa 2014. And yes, that is indeed a ’98 Neon R/T coupe with a 5-speed in the driveway.
I’ll not part with it. It’s a living vestige of my Dad and clearly shows the man he was, and it’s easily portable, tangible, practical and beautiful. Could a father leave his son anything better to remember him by?
The bike today. Never been dropped.
Wow. Thank you for a fantastic story and not just about a great motorcycle. Best thing I’ve read all year.
Great story about you, your Dad, and family. Thank you. I think I’ll buy that CB 175 I’m looking at recently.
Mr McClure, your last story here caused real and – where I happened to read it – untimely guffawing laughter. Truly worthy of Twain.
This piece, very close to the opposite effect (and still worthy of Twain, in another mood). Poignant, crisp, vivid and unsentimental. You have a very considerable talent, sir. Congratulations.
What a great story and your storytelling style is excellent–put me right there. Thanks for sharing it.
Trust me, I know what it takes for a father to give up his motorcycle. Been there, done that, in my case it was my late wife’s father, and the bike was a 1929 Indian 101 Scout. And I watched Frank, probably the meanest, nastiest, most hardboiled parent I’ll ever hope to meet, cry as we pulled out the driveway. That was his second and last Scout, and at 88 he wasn’t going to ever ride again.
Unfortunately, with Patti’s declining health, it (and the rest of my vintage collection) had all gotten sold in the next eight years to pay for the $80k a year I was spending out of pocket on her medical care. Warning: You don’t get me started on the health care argument.
That was an absolutely wonderful story. And you want to keep that bike for as long as you can ride it, passing it on to your son (who hopefully can understand what he’s getting). We see those come thru the shop every so often, the parts staff will usually bust their collective asses to try and find parts to help the owner keep it on the road, and I’m usually called out of my office at these moments because I’m the guy who knows where you find the collections of NOS parts on the internet. But I’ve never seen one come thru the shop with the pedigree that yours has.
Honda Metropolitans. Yep, had one of those at the house, too. The current wife was riding it for quite a while, and I had great hopes of her using it as a commuter for work (six miles each way), but unfortunately she had this fear of traffic. And her place of employment fronted US1 in Ashland. Absolutely sweet bikes, and the current version (water-cooled engine with fuel injection now) really punches about it’s weight in daily use. But for me, it’s got to be a motorcycle-class scooter. Zuma 125 as we speak. Parked next to the Harley.
Awesome story and told magnificently. Thank you!
+1
+1, again
+1+
A bittersweet story about an awesome bike and an even more awesome Dad. Thanks for sharing both with us! 🙂
Great story about your dad. My family hails from Pottawatomie County Oklahoma. Sallisaw is THE bathroom stop between Little Rock and central Oklahoma. My favorite pic of him is on my bathroom wall, his 20 year old self is leaning against the enlisted man’s latrine somewhere in the south Pacific, waiting on what they thought would be the invasion of Japan.
that was a really great story. thank you….long may you ride.
As has been remarked here before by myself and others, you are a gifted writer! Thanks for sharing another wonderful story with us.
A wonderful story. There is no richer place from which to mine a story than the relationship between father and son, and when a car or motorcycle is part of things, then you can hardly miss.
I always enjoy your writing, but this may have been your best yet.
Nice story and loving tribute to your father.
And, a very moving moment in the story when you kicked down the passenger pegs for your son, just as your dad did for you.
Marvelous story, thank you. Keep that wonderful little bike, it’s irreplaceable.
It’s stories like these, and the insightful comments that make CC a special place.
Wow. Almost speechless.
+1
Great story, great bike!
Great story. The bike is beautiful. You should keep it so long as it gives you pleasurable memories. Then pass it down if it means something to your kids.
And as for the size of the bike, I had a 600 Shadow, a 1000cc Suzuki V-Strom, and a BMW K1200LT and rode a friends GoldWing for him while he recuperated from surgery and wanted it used. The first two were wonderful. The BMW was good at somethings, but always felt ponderous. The Goldwing was somewhat better, but still other than touring, was not a lot of fun for me to commute on a daily basis.
Sold the BMW for a divorce – yes it was worth it. Now I am riding a 1995 CB250 that was retired from the NC motorcycle training program. (5800 miles when I got it and less than $400 in it) I’m a big feller and it pushes the limits to get to 60 – 65 up and down the hills, but that is the most fun bike I have ever owned. For my 11 mile commute everyday on 55mph roads, it’s perfect. I have no desire to do anything else – I’ve done touring and group things and everything I wanted. the little bike is perfect and suits me fine. And it’s cheap.
Thanks for reminding me there arte poeple out there who appreciate smaller bikes. thanks for the story too.
When I lived in London I had a CB250RS. With it’s willing little motor, narrow width and oh-so-flickable chassis it was just perfect for London, which is why it was often used by dispatch riders. I honestly don’t think there was a quicker way to get from one side of London to the other in heavy traffic. Loved that bike…
PTSD sucks, and it affects the family, too. I am glad to read that you have been able to come to see your father in toto, and to also come to value and own the parts of him that have become a part of you. These men showed their love for their home and families in funny ways, and it can takes years to be able to understand that. I know you will keep your father’s bike as he did. It will mean more and more to you over the years, some day helping you to explain his story to your son. Wonderful read.
I’m at work, and I just basically shut down operations entirely for 30 minutes to savor this. Thank you. Really a great piece of writing, and a very respectful tribute to a man who clearly was deserving of it.
A great story, and well told. Thanks for this. The greatest generation were joiners, so clubs like Shriners flourished in the 70s. People aren’t joiners anymore.
So glad you’ve still got the bike too, I hope your son turns out interested and continues to use and care for it.
My son is just learning to drive a standard transmission car. Once he’s got that down we might go for a dirt bike training/trail ride. I can’t double him on my bike anymore, he is a strapping lad who outweighs me by 30 pounds.
Will it do a wheelie?
Thank you so much for a great story about family and small bikes.
My cheep-ass parents thought it would be so much cheeper to buy me a near-exact CB175 instead of a car to commute to school on. Mine was a red ’75 with a cleaner tank shape, but still seems pretty naive of them considering Ithaca was a LOOONG ride up 17.
Heath, thank you so much for the inspirational story. With 6 kids and 1 income, my father didn’t have time for fun but found it anyway in the form of a 1965 Honda CB160. Family camping trips and bicycle rides were ok, but the weekend rides on the 160 remain as my fondest memories of time with my father. He was always the boss, but as I hung on to that seat strap behind him I felt more like a friend. My 2 brothers agree that this was our only real one on one time with the old man, and he was finally able to show us how special we were to him. Dad passed away 5 years ago, still in possession of the bulletproof 160. His 3 boys recently hauled it out of mothballs and will, with a little work and a lot of love, ride it once again.
I’ll join the chorus and say this was one of the finer stories about this complicated subject I’ve ever read. You’ve really done your father justice. I am very proud to have it be published here.
In the background of the eighth photo from the top is a sign for the legendary “Black Board” (or Blackboard) night club in Bakersfield. It is credited for inspiring a classic country song. From Wikipedia:
“Dim Lights, Thick Smoke (And Loud, Loud Music)” is a country song written by Joe
Maphis, Rose Lee Maphis and Max Fidler. It was originally recorded in December 1952 by the bluegrass duo Flatt & Scruggs, and later released by Joe & Rose Lee Maphis in 1953 as a single.
“Joe Maphis said he started the song after moving from barn dance shows in Virginia and Chicago to playing in a honky-tonk in Bakersfield, California, in a band that included Buck Owens on back-up vocals. It is also said that Joe Maphis wrote the song one Saturday night (presumably in 1952) while driving home to Los Angeles from Bakersfield after seeing Buck Owens perform at the Blackboard Cafe.”
I lived in Bakersfield (Oildale, actually) from 1975 through early 1980. Many memories.
A terrific tribute to your dad, well told. I took a long time to realize the family hero aspect of my dad. Born Lithuanian, he came to the United States in 1949 from a displaced persons camp in British Sector Germany.
By shear hard work, by the end of the ’50s he was an English speaking college educated married man that gave back to his adopted country with a stint in the Army as a German teacher in Germany. He returned to the US to a successful banking career, and raised kids in air-conditioned bedrooms as well.
From nothing to something is quite a journey for everyman that makes it.
Mr. McClure ;
.
Your Father was obviously a man among men and he was able to impart his basic life
philosophy to you .
.
Thank you for writing this good piece and sharing your story .
.
-Nate
Great story. This rings so many bells for me. I was a Navy Hospital Corpsman who spent as much time treating marines as sailors or so it seems. My paid government vacation was one conflict after your dads but the PTSD is the same. It finds many ways to loose it’s demons.. Your dad obviously coped well with his.
Some years back I wrote about all my bikes on this site. The two that stand head and shoulders above the rest were the SL175 (hidden in the CB350 article) and the DT250. Still have a DT175 but a bad back injury as kept it parked. Think I may have to shine it again but it won’t lost it’s home.
One more thing. My mom was a McClure from eastern Kansas. We just buried the last McClure cousin early this year. Nice to see the name again.
Keep up the good work cuz.
What a wonderful story–honest, moving, and beautifully written. And that Honda is a great piece to remember your Dad by and to be able to pass on to your son one day. Thank you!
I loved this story, poignant, funny and real. Thank you.
Just a great story any old way you look at. It’s almost like meeting your dad in person.
What a beautiful bike and even more beautiful telling of its story with your father.
When I opened up CC this morning and saw “By Heath McClure” under the title I knew we were in for a great story! Got a lump in my throat reading this one. Thankfully, my dad is still around and in good health but he is one of those “old school dads” that have a hard time giving their kids an “attaboy” or “well done” once in a while. Now I have my own two boys and it really helps me understand my dad a whole lot better. Thanks for taking the time and the effort to tell this story!
Wow, Heath. A well-crafted piece. Thanks for the introduction to your dad and you. Fine men, and I wish I could shake hands with you each. Best wishes.
Brilliant piece. Thank you.
Not much into bikes, but this changes how I’ll look at them in future.
Wonderfully written, thanks for sharing this story.
+1 and ditto everyone else. Simply a great story, well told.
Great story Heath, sorry about your father.
I can’t believe how similar our choice in cars were. I had a 74 VW Kombi (window van) a 1980 rabbit and Jetta. And a 1976 Honda CB 360 for about 20 years. I got rid of it a few years back as I wasn’t riding it much anymore and parts were getting hard to find. I still miss being able to leave it under the old apple tree and being able to kick start it every spring with old gas and a near dead battery. Something my buddy with a Harley could only dream of (or have nightmares about)…
A well-written, interesting read from start to finish. I know you’ll keep that bike clean and in good shape. It deserves no less.
Fathers and Sons. A universal experience, but a unique one for each family. I really enjoyed the story, I’m glad you got to understand your Dad better as time went by. Those little Hondas have the heart of a Lion. Just keep clean oil in them and they’ll run forever.
podunk… hehehe. What a story and what a teller. No, that’s just dust in my eyes.
Great read. Thank you for sharing the story. I’ve come across a few 70’s era motorcycles lately and would really like one. My skinny arms won’t handle anything bigger than 300 CC I’m sure.
Thank you all for reading my story. Was a bit of a bugger to write, piddled with it off and on for the last couple of months, but I guess it really took 21 years to write this.
Pestered mom a lot for pictures in the last weeks, she probably thinks I’m on another wild goose chase.
To all our fathers.
And our sons. I truly hope that my son (3 yrs old and already obsessed with my bike) one day has a story to tell like yours. Thank you for a wonderfully moving read.
While I know nothing of motorcycles and have no direct personal experience of the father-son dynamic, your story both transfixed and moved me with it’s insight, wisdom and compassion. It’s a fitting tribute to your remarkable father. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Bravo!
My dad, also now gone, flew flying boats in WW2. School on the GI bill and became – really – a rocket scientist . Similarly humble, but southern urban, beginnings – ended up in suburbia ala 50’s & 60’s. I got interested in Suzukis in the early 70’s (smokey but reliable little things) while he finally progressed from stripped model Dodge Darts to Mercury Cougars. A hard act to follow, it was all a moment in time, brothers, receding into the rear view mirror ever so fast…
Superlative barely starts to describe your telling of your father’s story, intertwined with his enjoyment of Honda motorcycles. Thank you for presenting this family history!
Your father was quite an impressive individual. There is a small chance that he and my father may have crossed paths, as in 1951 mine lived in the Seoul area, on a farm in a house with a dirt floor and straw roof, hoping not to get drafted into the ROK Army as he approached military age.
Damn, well done sir. Easily the best post of the year.
Such an impactful post. Made my morning reading this. Your CB is the most valuable bike in the world. To you, it’s priceless.
Bravo, a great narrative that repeatedly brought tears of joy and remembrance to my eyes as I read it. I enjoyed your love for your Dad.
I too loved my Dad, and miss him and the memories and loving guidance that he gave me.
Thank you so much for sharing a moving glimpse into your life with your Dad, and reminding me of how much I treasure my Dad’s memory, and that many of those memories are bound up with mutual experiences with cars and motorcycles.
Fathers have an indelible, sometimes humorous influence on our lives, as in my case, like the time he bought a Honda Mini-Trail for my mother and surprised her with it when she saw it sitting in the kitchen on the kitchen table. (He had me help him carry it into the kitchen for the surprise.) Her shrieking, and then her laughter were priceless. He too loved Honda bikes, and that Honda love had to have been in the water at the time.
I also was reminded of a summertime evening drive heading south from Cleveland in his 1970 Cortez Silver Corvette Roadster, top off, the cooling, faintly damp early evening air swirling in the cabin as he drove us to Hinckley Lake. When there, at the lake, he then asked me to drive him through the countryside in the fading twilight-such an enjoyable treat, and then told me to drive to a small country inn that he knew for a Scotch–our first Father and Son Scotch together. As we sat outside in the cool summertime darkness, hearing the occasional tinkling of the cooling engine and cooling exhaust, and for the first time sharing his favorite Johnnie Walker Black over conversation, he elevated me in status from son to equal. A transformative evening. An unforgettable rite of passage.
Every time I have a sip of his scotch, I always think fondly of my Dad and the pleasant memories he gave me.
Thank you for reminding me how much I loved my father, as you did yours. No question, you loved your Dad deeply. Again, thank you for a great article.
This was the best thing I’ve read for a long, long time. I’m actually getting ready to go visit my dad right now, I’m grateful that he’s still around and we can just hang out. Thank you for posting this.
Great story, Heath. I looked up this particular model of motorcycle out of curiosity having had a CB400T Hawk back in 1981 myself.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Honda_CB175
Look at the picture on the right on the Wikipedia article. I think this may’ve been your Dad’s exact bike, or at least an identical one from his ‘gang’. Look closely at the gas tank in that picture. It sports the “AAONMS” on which you kindly educated us.
You’ve got a good eye! That is my bike in that wikipedia article! I wrote most of that article some years ago and placed the picture of Dad’s bike at that time.
As always, a great story, HM. You’ve got one helluva writing style and sounds like your pop was an interesting guy for sure. Really points out how fortunate some of us are to have a good father in our lives. These days, most aren’t nearly so lucky.
I’m happy to have had the chance to read this story. I can’t think of anything else to write that hasn’t been written more eloquently by other commenters, so I’ll just leave it at that, and add that I hope to read more of your writings.
Great story Heath! What a great tribute to your dad.
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Hate the Donald, also hate interrupting a cool auto site. But my 40 years of exp. (& bs degree) designing electronic hardware was thrown in the toilet by rich guys I will never meet & your Shriner story reminded me of the bs the “Dead Kennedys” went through for their artwork for “Frankenchrist”. Listen to this – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUpidCc7wwY BTW, it is called “Soup is good Food”.
Wow, it took me a few times to read the article in its entirety because my father passed away almost a year ago. I miss him very much even though we had difficult father-son relationship when I was younger. Like wines, our relationship improved with age.
I could relate to your experience as adolscent, locking the horns with your father and leading the nomadic existence. More I read your article, more I think about why my father did this or that and how it had made me a better person today.
Great tribute to your father, Heath. And I learnt a lot about the Honda motorcycles as well.
thanks for the great story! your Dad was a good man. love these older Hondas as with basic mainteinance they run forever and if you abuse them they still run almost forever. Thanks again!
I’m going to go ride my Honda and work through some things.
GREAT idea ! .
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I’m reading Neil Peart’s book ” Ghost Rider ” travels on the healing road , it covers one man’s return to sanity after losing his Daughter and Wife…
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-Nate
Great writing – really enjoyed the story!