Gum Boots Finished Off The Look

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 16 “Gum Boots finished off the look.”

The original Hells Angels were formally grouped as an official Club in March 17, 1948. They were former World War 11 pilots, bombardiers, navigators and gunners who craved the thrills they lost as the war came to an end only a few short years before. Self-designated ex-U.S. war veterans branded as “born to be wild”, these young dare devils found a new kind of freedom and thrills in the noisy, hard-riding Harley Davidson and Indian motorcycles.

Their name was a favorite nickname for World War Two fighter planes, and of rebel flyboys who took extreme risks and refused to conform to the rules and expectations of the military.

The returning airmen could have been our Dads although they were only similar by age grouping. None of our Dads had a motorcycle and did not fit the description of thrill seekers regardless.

We kids were a little young and barely able to reach door handles. We were not “born to be wild” nor chose to be. We were just kids. Wild was a relative term. The freedom of childhood, thrills of living carefree, and, outside of our own parental conformity was however steeped in the same kind of historical diary. Never did we know our formal notoriety.

Expectations we were unclear about. It seemed coincidence the American Flyers and the kids of Clydesdale both adhered to the same central theme of freedom, thrills, the abandonment and the comradeship we shared.

The kids of Clydesdale Street may likely have been the very first Motorcycle Riders ever assembled as a Club, all be it unofficial. We were active as early as 1947 a full year ahead of our counter parts official organization, but how were we to know. We never even knew where America was.

Of course we did not have “R-E-A-L” motorcycles. The Club, we had!
Our imagination could not be deterred.

Nobody had yet heard of real Motorcycle Clubs but we sure loved motorcycles. There was that something about them. They were special. None of us as yet even had a bicycle. Some were still on hand me down tricycles.

When we saw our first motorbike we were awestruck. A motorcycle was so exciting. It burbled and sputtered then roared off leaving behind a trail of cloudy blue smoke. Pretending we had a motorcycle made kid sense. Studying the motorcycle, what we needed was handlebars and happy feet.

Off we went into the trees again this time searching for the perfect branch. The right branch that we could call our handlebars was hard to find. Once again it came to sacrificing fruit trees at times. Hacking branches was hard to explain to moms and dads.

We finally got smart and realized the fruit trees had to be pruned soon and with that in mind we knew there would be inventory ready made. No one had to risk parental reprisals and that was good.

Some of us carved our perfect branch with little cuts; personal nicks and even painted them. The kids with less imagination, no access to paint and did not care just had a branch. A new bike everyday was one more branch.

You could see the kids proud to have great motorcycle handlebars. Woolen mittens were out of place but served as our riding gloves. Goggles were common. Gum Boots finished off the look.

There were endless runs for the kids of Clydesdale. We would get on our make believe motorcycles, start up the handlebar branches, and holding them so we could steer, all run together down to the Evan’s store. The noise of roaring engine sounds and the clomp of our rubber boots gave the Evan’s time to cover the jawbreakers and gum before we got inside.

Once there, we parked our branches. We went in on mass, clomping loudly, and with our pennies and nickels ready to buy up the store. When it was hot we would stop much longer and have an iced soda pop out front.

Adults had to weave their way through us and usually ended up stepping on our branches. That was so not proper. We saw that as wanton disrespect for our ‘Wild Ones’. The fact we existed could not be denied. Clydesdale Street ranked with the best we knew. Of course, we only knew us.

Soon we would begin school. The branches were discarded.

My first honest to goodness motorcycle was a Christmas present from my Dad’s friend. Gordie Hall was a fireman. He was a real fireman. All the kids thought he was really special. Imagine a real fireman. How we were thrilled.

There was the Christmas he visited and he brought something wrapped in crisp red and green paper with a ribbon. It was for me. Jumping up and down almost toppled the Christmas tree. The cat ran. How wonderful. How generous was Mr. Hall. He and Mrs. Hall did not have kids yet.

Christmas in my house generally meant knitted sweaters, socks, and mittens both from home and distant relatives. The hopes of something different were dashed by the reality our family could not afford store bought luxuries. Necessities were paramount. Imagination offered warm comfort.

Great holiday feasts made up from our garden inventory, and lots of my Dad’s homemade wine is how we compensated for material gifts. For adults it was okay but kids had private dreams. Vegetables, duck, chicken, rabbits, preserves, homemade bread, Christmas cake, pies, cookies and sing songs were the order of the time. Truly the spirit of Christmas prevailed. Material wealth would have to wait.

The Christmas wrapping was quickly torn off and there it was. A shiny enamel blue and white motorcycle with slotted side exhausts and hard rubber wheels. It was eye popping. It was truly wondrous.

Mr. Hall showed me the motorcycle’s secret. Taking the metal motorcycle he would rev it up by quickly running the wheels on the wooden floor, and lifting it off then running it again. The motorcycle came to life. It was as real as can be.

The toy would roar and through the perforated side exhausts sparks would fly. I was transfixed. It was a wonderful site. My motorcycle. Never had I received such a gift. The anticipation was unbearable. Mr. Hall handed the shiny motorcycle to me and there I was quick to the task. Nothing could stop me. The whirring noise and the sparks were thrilling.

How was this possible? Where was the motor? Friction created by the wheels run over the floor created the noise and shot the sparks through the double exhaust. The wooden floor was soon to feel the wear and tear.

I did not know how to thank Mr. Hall. He really captured a kid’s imagination turning it into instant reality. That meant something special. It never escaped me how kind he was. He just said “Call me Gordie.” I did. My Dad and Gordie went down to the basement to double check the wine barrels were not leaking.

Mr. Hall did not return the next Christmas but I still had the motorcycle. My Mom re-wrapped it for me so I could tear the paper off just like the year before. Was I ever so excited! It still made noise. It still sparked.


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RGT