1970: A Memorial Day Motorcycle Ride With Willie

By Kiki

Edit by Phil Rice

Forty-one years ago, we took a motorcycle trip to Northern California. Riding with us was Gibby, his wife Gloria, Gibby's brother John and his wife (I don't remember her name.) There was also Guzman and his girlfriend, Mary Lou. Our plan was to visit Gibby's and John's cousins in Tracy, Ca. and then head on to Pittsburgh, Ca. to visit my cousin Ernie Adame and his family. One more couple was added a week before we departed.

A week before leaving, my late brother-in-law Willie said he wanted to go. But Willie had one problem: he didn't have a motorcycle. So Gibby told him, "Willie, there's a 305 Honda in my backyard; get it running, and you can go with us."

Willie went into Gibby's backyard and found the Honda in the chicken coop, and while it was covered with chicken shit, Willie thought he had found his dream bike. The Honda had been sitting for about a year, but with a bit of elbow grease and a new battery, new plugs, and an oil change, Willie got it running, and after he cleaned it up, he was sure that he had found his dream bike - now he and Annie were ready to roll with us.

Memorial Day weekend came, and we met at my place on Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m. Gibby, John, Guzman, and their wives/girlfriends rode up, and a bit later, Willie and Annie rode up. As they were parking, I asked Willie, "Willie, where is the Honda?"

"We are sitting on it, don't you see it?"

"No,"; I said. Willie was a big boy, so with him and Annie on the tiny bike, well, you couldn't see the motorcycle. The handlebars were embedded in Willie's stomach, and behind Annie, you could barely see the tail light.

After having coffee, we took I-5 to the San Fernando Valley. As we reached the Valley, Willie got a flat tire, so we pulled into a gas station to get it fixed. After fixing the tire, we got back on I-5. On the Ridge Route/Grapevine, Willie got another flat tire—the exact tire. And with no gas stations for miles around, what were we supposed to do? We tried flagging down anybody driving a pickup, but no one would stop. Finally, an old '58 Chevy station wagon stopped. All windows on the Chevy wagon but the windshield were broken, and that one had a big crack on it. An old man and an old woman got out to help, but they could barely walk because they were stinking drunk! And it was only 10:00 a.m.! But we didn't have a choice, so we put the Honda in the back of the wagon with Willie; Annie, after being told by the old folks that she could sit in front with them, decided to sit in the back seat, lest she got drunk by breathing their breath. As we were going down the Grapevine, I could see Willie drinking the old folk's Coor's. We finally got to a gas station on Highway 99, gave the old folks a few bucks, and fixed the tire one more time.

Once the tire was fixed, we jumped on Highway 99, and when we were somewhere between Bakersfield and Fresno, damned if Willie didn't get another flat on that rear tire. That part of Highway 99 was a freeway where the semis were going 80-85 miles per hour. We stopped and told Willie we would wait for him at the off-ramp, about 75 yards up the freeway. Connie got off our bike and said she would walk with Annie while Willie pushed the bike. Right off the ramp was a gas station with a store. And after all these flat tires, we were ready for a beer. We were drinking our beers when Willie came up the ramp hopping mad with Annie and Connie behind him, laughing their butts off. I looked at Willie's bike, and I could see that the handlebar on the right side was broken, and the broken piece was hanging on the brake cable. I ask Connie what happened.

"Annie and I were walking behind Willie and the bike, and every time a semi passed by, Willie's fat ass would wobble; you should have seen Willie's ass go back and forth. We were laughing so hard that he got mad, and when he stopped to turn around to tell us to shut up, a semi passed by and knocked the bike out of Willie's hands. The handlebar broke as the bike hit the ground. That's why he is so mad."

Damn! We'd had enough of these problems. "Willie," I said, "let's find out why you keep getting flats."

We took the tire off the rim and found a crack inside the tire biting on the tube. I told Willie he needed to buy a new tire.

He put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Brother-in-law, I don't have any money to buy a new tire."

Kiki bought the tire. Que no?

That out of the way, we went to work on the handlebar. I took the broken handlebar piece off the handgrip and put the grip on what remained of the handlebar on the right side. So now Willie had a long handlebar on the left side and a short bar on the right side.

Back again on Highway 99, we had about traveled about 50 miles when the Honda started leaking oil. It was leaking so bad that we began using nothing but STP. Remember STP? - We pulled into a gas station where Willie borrowed some tools to try and fix the leak. He took some parts off the bike, but he couldn't find where the oil was coming from, so he put the pieces back on. But something was wrong.

I said, "Willie, that's not right."

"Why?"

"Look at the kickstart. It's supposed to be vertical, not horizontal." The kick start was now facing forward, and he had to start the Honda like a lawnmower.

We again got back on 99 with Willie and Annie riding in front of us. Damn! We were all getting full of STP. The guys, while riding, were yelling at me, "Since he's your brother-in-law, you ride behind him, and we'll all ride behind you!" The guys wanted to use me as a cover, but I had a better idea: I yelled back, "let's have Willie ride behind us" They agreed, so we all sped up and passed Willie. Now Willie and Annie were riding behind us and, in the process getting all the cars behind them full of the STP oil.

After spending Saturday night somewhere out in the boonies, we finally got to Tracy, Ca. on Sunday morning to visit with Gibby's cousins. After drinking one or two beers, we left Tracy and headed to Pittsburgh, Ca. to visit my cousin Ernie Adame. Unfortunately, by the time we got to Pittsburgh, the charging system on the Honda had gone south, so I said to Willie, "it looks like you and Annie are going to have to ride the Dog (Greyhound bus) home."

"I don't have any money for Dog tickets."

"Willie, some people are working in the fields down the road. You and Annie can work two or three days there and make enough money to pay for the tickets."

"Do we have to do that?"

No, they didn't. So we guys put some money together for the tickets, then Cousin Ernie drove them to Stockton to catch the Dog. But, before we got back on the road heading south, we left Willie and Annie standing on the bus depot sidewalk with Willie looking sad and wearing two pairs of pants (the inside pants legs were longer than the outside pants) and holding a small bag with their few belongings. 

About a week after getting home, I saw Willie.

"Willie, how was your bus ride?"

"Okay, but for the Dog driver."

"What was wrong with the Dog driver?" I asked 

"He wouldn't stop for a cold one. Then I asked him if I could drive, and he pointed to a sign that read "Do Not Talk To The Driver When The Bus Is In Motion" and told me to go and sit in the back."