Summertime and the living is easy! For Bob and Bill, this was not an easy summer. The summer prior to our entering college was the occasion of our initiation into the real world. Prior to this time, we had worked at occasional odd jobs as our recreational needs dictated. Now there were real goals and objectives in our lives. We were scheduled to enter college in the fall and we both needed good jobs, paying serious money to meet our needs at school.

Having worked part time breaking open crates, assembling motorcycles, and doing minor tune-up work the previous summer, I had been paid a whopping 85 cents an hour. Now as we seriously searched the job opportunities, we came to the harsh realization that we needed jobs that would pay around $3.00 per hour. To unskilled workers, that money was readily available in the automotive factories. Our fathers both worked in the factories and we dreaded following in their footsteps. It was a harsh way to make a living, but we assured ourselves that it would only be a temporary situation, while we received our education.

My father was instrumental in getting us jobs at the Kelsey Hayes Wheel Company at the Magraw plant. He explained all of the economic advantages of the different shifts, job classifications, and overtime opportunities. We opted to work the afternoon shift, for an additional 5 cents per hour, and to work in the foundry for an additional 10 cents per hour. He assured us that there would be plenty of overtime work available, which would only compound our rate of $3.25 to the astronomical figure of $4.87 per hour.

We felt like two fat cats. We had our big pay, and days off to water ski or go to the beach. Our first day at work, the Motown temperature was a record 95 degrees. They put us to work in the foundry, where there was little ventilation and less light than a dark cave. We were assigned the task of removing 75-pound truck wheel brake drums from hot sand molds. The molds and drums were so hot that they burned your hands, even through the large asbestos gloves that Kelsey supplied. The dust and grime were so thick you could cut it with a knife, and were only slightly less objectionable than the temperature, a constant 115 to 120 degrees. It was a culture shock to say the least. It was physically demanding, dirty, hot work that drained your spirits as well as your strength. I couldn't conceive of the drudgery of facing a lifetime of that routine. Yet as the days went on, our backs grew stronger, our biceps bulged, our hands grew callused and we adapted to the routine. We were soon accepting any overtime we could get. Though we hated the work, our bank accounts were growing.

Our overall routine went through a drastic metamorphosis. Having spent long hours in the Foundry's heat, we seldom chose to lounge in the sun at the beach. Instead we slept in late, stayed in the shade, and caroused after midnight, cruising the after-hour streets. Due to the nature of 3 factory shifts, Motown never slept. It was alive and jumpin'. Coming from the foundry, we would shower, slip on clean jeans and a T-shirt, then walk out into the cool, refreshing summer night. The two of us would jump on my Honda scrambler and cruise the Grand Boulevard, Woodward, and Telegraph Roads, looking for girls and excitement.

This was the Motor City, and everyone enjoyed the same pastime; young men and old ladies alike would drag race at the change of every light. A good deal of time was spent cruising, trying to locate an appropriate match to your vehicle's performance characteristics. I had found that having geared my Honda Scrambler down for dirt racing that it was a good match for British sports cars, which were often driven by pretty girls cruising Woodward. The Honda would even give most of the muscle cars a good run for about half a block. The muscle cars, with their period tires, experienced a lot of wheel spin, while the Honda would hook up instantly and wheelie into the lead until it ran out of gearing. Most of my drag racing took place after Bob was dropped off at home.

In my quest for speed, I was continually modifying my motorcycle; a Barnett clutch, porting, larger carbs, higher compression, lighter dyno, it was endless. I had tinkered with the motor constantly and as a novice mechanic, through trial and error, the bike became faster and faster. The combination of lightening the bike and speed tuning the motor produced two results: 1) the bike became constantly faster and 2) it became ever harder and harder to start. I had removed the kick starter and replaced the battery with a battery eliminator. The engine had to turn rapidly before it would start. So on a good day, I would push it a few feet, bump start it and roar off. On a bad day, Bob and I would push it for blocks on end before it would fire up.

These days my wife and both daughters are fitness instructors and personal trainers, so I hear a lot about aerobic fitness. But as Bob has put it, "Let's see one of those jazzercise bimbos push-start a CL-72 for five miles, then we'll talk about cardiovascular fitness." My point is that there came a time when I couldn't start the thing without Bob's help. Bob, nicknamed "The Maltese Stallion," was co-holder of the school record for the 100-yard dash, and as such became an essential part of our transportation package.

One particularly hot and exhausting night, after leaving the foundry, we pushed the old Honda well over a mile before it started. Then, gasping for air and dripping with sweat, we drove west on Grand River Road. We couldn't wait to get to our homes and collapse in exhaustion. Nearly to Bob's house, we stopped for a red light at the intersection of Grand River and Telegraph. Telegraph was one of the main highways in the area, with two lanes going each way and a wide median strip in the center.

We no more than came to a stop at the light, when three others cars pulled alongside. On our left, a Mustang Fastback, to the extreme right, a GTO and at our immediate right side, a red and white T-Bird convertible. The lanes behind us filled with cars sporting headers and hood scoops. Amidst the high-rise cams and the staccato of straight pipes, this group of predators had converged on their prey. All eyes were on the T-Bird.

I looked at the driver of the T-Bird. Whoaaa! A dark-haired beauty with glistening eyes looked back ,and when she smiled, I feared that the titanium parts on my bike would melt. There had been talk of a good looking brunette drag-racing her daddy's high performance T-Bird up and down Telegraph. Supposedly her father was a Ford executive, who with the factory's help, had turned the family convertible into a tire-spinning Motor City contender. She put the pedal to the floor, the T-Bird's straight pipes roared, and the rest of the frenzied pack did the same, until the concrete literally shook underneath us. The adrenaline surged through my body as I leaned forward and revved my engine. I yelled over my shoulder for Bob to lean forward. The light turned green. Beside and in back of me, the machinery lept forward as one thundering, screeching mass.

Leaving a cloud of smoldering rubber in it's wake, I slipped the Honda's clutch, while revving the engine to it's max. The motorcycle shot forward, side by side with the T-Bird. Nearing the middle of the intersection, I dropped the clutch lever, the rear wheel hooked up and the front wheel began to loft. I stood up on the pegs and leaned over the handle bars as the front wheel continued to climb. While I was trying to kiss the front wheel, I noticed two feet swing by my shoulders and simultaneously someone grabbed my sides and tried to pull the skin off my rib cage.

Comparing notes later, I found out that when I had yelled for Bob to lean forward, he only heard the first word and decided to lean backwards to give us more traction. He was holding on to the grab rail behind him, and when the front wheel came up, he lost his footing and almost fell off the back end. In a life and death effort to keep from falling in the path of the following drag racers, he swung his arms forward and dug his nails into my sides.

Now any experienced racer knows that when you're doing a wheel stand and the front wheel goes beyond the balance point, you simply touch the rear brake lightly and it will force the front wheel back to the earth. Just as I was attempting to stab the rear brake, Bob wrapped both of his legs around my waist, almost pulling me off the pegs. I missed the pedal altogether and the motorcycle hung for what seemed like an eternity in that no-man's land between back and front. Bob, grabbing and kicking to maintain his seat, threw the bike into a horrible gyration. If we fell to the side or backwards it would have been certain death.

In animated terror, we wheelied on, until finally the front wheel began to drop. I hit second and third gear as the cars all flew past and disappeared in the distance. Bob and I pulled the Honda to the side of the road and stopped. We couldn't speak, literally ill from fear. In the days to come, people mentioned the motorcycle that did a wheel stand all the way across Telegraph road, two up. Bob and I were only too glad to take credit for the feat of skill.

After the big wheelie, I dropped Bob off and continued on my way home. Driving down a side street about a mile from home, a car pulled in behind me and flashed it's lights. I looked over my shoulder to see the red and white T-bird. Just before the next stop sign the T-bird turned into a driveway. I spun my bike around and drove by the house, just in time to see the curvaceous brunette run up the front steps. She smiled and waved as she slipped in the front door. I was stricken by the beauty in the T-bird and determined to return, now that I knew where Miss Speed lived.

Bill Melvin

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