Installment #10 – 1970 Triumph Experience

This tale takes me back to my early days on Harleys. My first Harley was a new, 1969 XLCH Sportster–an absolute classic machine, one of the last. I spotted it in the window of Long Beach Harley-Davidson and fell in love.

As soon as I could escape the Navy ship I was stationed on, a buddy delivered me to the dealership with the down payment burning a hole in my pocket. It was raining, but I didn’t give a shit. It was also Monday and the joint was closed. I was bummed. The next day I showed up and the salesman, who was also the owner of the dealership and the main machinist, gave me the rundown on the Sportster line. Unlike today, dealerships back then were parts and service oriented. Of course they hated chopper riders. The salesman tried desperately to convince me to take the electric start XLH with the larger tank and saddlebags.

I suppose that some of us are born chopper riders, devoted more to the essence of a motorcycle than convenience or efficiency. We want style and action, not a Winnebago on two wheels. I picked up the bike at the end of the week and they rolled it into the lane between the shop and the building next door. The owner asked me if I’d ridden before and I told him I had, so he kicked it to life. I straddled the beast and he walked away. It had been three years since I’d ridden my first bike, a 55cc Honda Super Cub. This was considerably different, but I let out the clutch and got that puppy going without a hitch. The only problem I had, which lasted the entire time I owned that bike, was that I couldn’t start it worth a damn. I didn’t understand the Tillotsen carburetor with an accelerator pump, and I believe I flooded it every time I tried to start it. Later, once I understood those puppies and had rebuilt a few, I could always start a bike on the first kick.

Before I bought the Sportster, I’d had all my bank accounts for my entire life with Bank of America. They turned me down for the loan because I planned to use the money for a motorcycle and because I was in the Navy and going back and forth to Vietnam. I haven’t done business with them since.

I rode that metallic coffee brown beauty back and forth to San Diego for months, until I left for my last tour of Vietnam. While I was gone I had parts chromed and a guy who worked for my dad in the oil fields repainted the sheet metal. Of course the Navy wouldn’t allow us scurvy bikers to have our vehicles on the base, and in many cases we were forced to park our bikes in dirt parking lots across from the base. The Navy also forced us to wear helmets. I remember almost killing myself several times riding to work in the morning with the plastic face shield fogging up to the point where I was blind. The Navy did everything in its power to discourage servicemen from riding motorcycles.

Every weekend for several months I snuck out of my girlfriend’s folks’ house in the wee hours and pushed the bike down the block to start kickin’ it. I was usually bundled to the hilt for the cold coastal ride from Long Beach to San Diego, about 120 miles. The longer it took me to kick start the bike, the more layers I took off, including the fogged-up Bell helmet, until I finally fired it to life and redressed.

After three tours of duty on a heavy cruiser, the Saint Paul, I pitched a bitch and was transferred to the USS Maddox for the rest of my time in Long Beach, training reserve crews. I was an electronics technician and one of my teammates was Steve, a college graduate who decided he’d rather be an enlisted man. He had extensive martial arts training and his father was a longtime Marine. He was also analytical, so when he decided to buy a motorcycle, he studied all the literature there was on the subject.

He decided against a Harley. In 1970, standard motorcycle magazines made Harleys sound like farm equipment, without performance, handling, style or finesse. I shook my head and was proud as a warrior on my Sportster, until I discovered by photograph that my bike was too small for my 6-foot-5 frame. Steve studied every magazine published and, although he was just about my size, wanted a new Triumph Bonneville. The only shop on the coast that carried them was Triumph of San Diego.

Unfortunately, I had to pack him on the back of my Sportster to pick up his dream bike. While in the parking lot, I discovered that Steve had never ridden a motorcycle. I’ll never forget as the salesman explained to him the basics of riding a bike. I was terrified, realizing I’d have to ride 120 miles on the freeway with a virgin. I’d experienced the newbee before, and too many times watched them fail to make it more than a block, crash into a trash can or fall down on the first turn.

The staff patiently trained Steve in the parking lot for 15 minutes before cutting him loose. I gave Steve some hints and told him to ride on my right. We headed north to his folks’ house, near Camp Pendleton. I was aware of a couple flaws in the artful British machines: They were known to fall apart and the electronics smoked. Steve’s bike seemed to be fine and I did not expect any major mechanical challenges in the first 100 miles.

I was surprised that as we pulled into his father’s driveway, the battery split down the center and dumped battery acid all over his rear wheel and mufflers. I rode back to Long Beach and he stayed behind to have the bike repaired. The dealership refused to replace the damaged mufflers, and that was just the first of many mechanical woes.