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THE TRUE FABLE OF "CRASH"

During what for some of you are ancient times; the sixties, it was during this decade that I was enjoyed the state of New York's educational system as an inmate; err, student…. This was my high school years, and it was during this time that I met a man who taught me the meaning of motorcycling, and encouraged me to reach out and learn about the many aspects of the sport.

Otto was one of my motorcycling mentors, he and his partner Bill owned a Suzuki dealership in my home town on Long Island (New York), and from time to time they let me work there as a bike washer, mechanic, and salesman. But, mostly I filled in as the number one gof-fer. I got to go for parts, coffee and anything else anyone needed. I learned a lot from them, street riding, dirt riding and the basics of motorcycle maintenance.

Their shop sold several brands of bikes besides the Japanese Suzuki, Bultacos and Montessas from Spain, Velocetts from England. There was always a stray BSA or Triumph on the floor, but where mostly used or on consignment. I loved being there; it was a Mecca for riders, with coffee and conversation about bikes, races, performance and occasionally girls.

We had one customer, who earned the nickname "Crash". He became a regular not because of his desire to be social, but he was always waiting for his bike to be repaired from some strange and metal crunching mishap on the road. At first I thought he was just unlucky. Later I learned that some people should never get behind the wheel of a car, never mind riding a motorcycle. He just happened to be one.

His first day with a brand new motorcycle lasted about five minutes. He rear-ended a car at the first intersection he came to. This isn't to surprising when you consider most motorcycles especially those with English heritage where not known for their great braking ability. And although he was an adult who had riding experience braking skills didn't seem to be quite perfect, at least deciding when to apply them…

On his second ride he was side swiped by a car when he pulled into traffic leaving the shop. I wondered if he needed glasses because we all saw the car that hit him, I know he saw it too, but for some odd reason he pulled right out in front of it.

I think it was Otto who gave him the name Crash after a night I'll never forget.

On some hot summer evenings, we would form up a group of whoever was at the shop at closing time. We would ride to the North Shore. This area in the middle of the island (Oyster Bay) has some pretty good twist-ies and hills. The North Shore is where the ultra rich and famous people live, like Billie Joel the singer and David Letterman.

The two lane roads on the north shore are well kept and had very little traffic. It was safer on full moon nights; those back roads lacked illumination. If you were riding in the sixties you can remember how headlights on motorcycles left a lot to be desired, remember this was the time before Halogen light bulbs.

We would form up into a single line with Otto in the lead; he knew this area well. Everyone else fell in according to his ability or the size of his motorcycle. I usually brought up the rear. After about ten miles our speed would pick up and the group would stretch out, if it wasn't for the motor sounds and the occasional brake light you would think you came alone.

Riding these roads at night seemed to enhance the effect. Your heart was always pumping as you pushed to go faster through the turns and keep up. You pushed your envelope on more than one occasion.

Most sections of this road where extremely dark, the trees alongside the road blocked most of the moonlight; and this particular road turned up a hill for about two and a half miles, crested and descended down at a very extreme angle for another mile; then made a ninety-degree turn to the left.

I remember cresting the hill, and seeing the taillight of a motorcycle making the left turn and a house directly in front. Light was coming from the open door and illuminating the front porch. I noticed the taillight disappear into the dark as I started to brake and set up to make the corner.

It's hard to believe someone could miss that turn especially with the house lighting up the corner so well.

No one noticed, until about ten miles later, when we regrouped at a diner for a cup of coffee, that our group was short by one. Otto and I left the group at the diner and retraced our route in search of our lost rider.

We retraced our route to the hairpin corner and traveled up the hill and on about 15 miles. Otto pulled over to the side of the road; there was no sign of our lost rider. We decided to turn around and this time travel slower and watch the side of the road. As we crested the hill and came toward the house with the lights on, a lone figure was standing waving from the porch.

As we pulled closer we could see he was motioning for us to stop. It was the homeowner and he was quite excited. We weren't too sure just what he was trying to tell us. But, as we got closer and pulled up in front of his house we could see his front gate was not in the best condition.

I started to get a little nervous when he ran up to us cursing and shouting about how his house was just destroyed and some other stuff, which I couldn't make out except for the words cops and ambulance.

Once he got close to us, he explained in now a much more understandable tone, how we needed an ambulance and to call the cops. He said he would have done it, but his phone was missing.

Otto and I walked to the house to see what was going on.

The front door looked as though a swat team had blown it down during a drug bust entry. The amount of debris and wood splinters was unbelievable.

The hallway walls, where waist coated with knotty-pine paneling, were now stripped bare from the floor up about two feet; you could see the floor used to be highly polished wood, where there weren't any scratches or gouges. Nowhere, on the sidewalk could we find a skid mark.

The family had just finished eating dinner and left the table. This turned out to be a good thing, because the table was broken and splintered into barely recognizable pieces; with the remains of dinner spread all over the kitchen walls, resembling an impressionist painting. In place of the kitchen table, was one sorry looking mangled mess of a 650 Triumph Trophy, and one dazed rider wearing tomato sauce, spaghetti and what appeared to be some pretty nice china and crystal.

Surprisingly Crash was unhurt, except for a minor stab wound. His jeans and summer shirt where shredded and his now naked butt was exposed with a fork firmly implanted in his right butt cheek.

When we reached him and started to check him for broken bones and stuff he was already trying to get up. I reached over and killed his engine, which somehow managed to continue to run, filling the room with smoke and the smell of burning rubber from the spinning back wheel rubbing against the remains of the kitchen's waxed linoleum floor.

He stood up on his own and pulled the fork out his butt. We forced him to sit down and not to move until the ambulance arrived.

The homeowner who by now had regained his composure handed Otto Crash's helmet or at least half of it, it must have been split by the impact with front door, and asked, "What happened?"

Crash now more coherent, began to explain how he felt he had fell too far behind the rider in front of him. He was trying to close the distance between them. The bike in front was out of his sight when he crested the hill.

His feeble British headlight couldn't throw enough light on the road for him to see the turn, until it was too late to brake and make the turn. He was traveling about 60 or 70 miles per hour. There were no house lights on when he came into the turn, it looked like an open field to him, so he decided to just run into the field and come to a stop.

To his surprise it wasn't an open field, he charged straight through a closed gate in a picket fence; up a side walk about 20 feet long, up the two steps on the front porch, through a very solid oak front door. His ride didn't stop there as he continued down the hallway to the kitchen where he finally came to rest.

The homeowner, who was quite decent considering how his house looked and how near death his family came during an ordinary evening at home; explained how he was glad no one was hurt and that his wife had gone to neighbors to call the law and an ambulance.

I don't remember everything that happened after we extracted Crash and his bike out of the rubble. I know the two Suffolk County Cops who showed up where real serious as they listened to Crash retell his account.

It seemed like forever for them to stop laughing. The ambulance crew wasn't any better. The fork wound got some comments and chuckles from them.

Once Crash was safe in the ambulance and on his way. Otto and I pulled the bent and battered Triumph from the kitchen ruble and deposited on the front lawn explaining to the homeowner how we would come by in the morning and recover it.

A few days later Otto told me that Crash wasn't riding anymore. He felt it was too dangerous and expensive now that he was having trouble finding an insurance company.

Hell, he had a good paying job. He had a job which most of us only dream about but consider it way to dangerous. Crash was a test pilot, flying F104s for Republic Aviation. Yea, Crash was one of the best test pilots of the sixties.

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