Little Brother and the Beezer

Little Brother and the Beezer


When my little brother Louie was about thirteen, I got my first motorcycle. A 1956 BSA Alloy Victor. It was a good one, about 4 years old and well cared for. It was all there, in good shape and it ran great. I bought it from a co-worker named George Snow. At the time George and I both worked at the Josten’s High School Ring manufacturing plant on Ortega Hill in Summerland. George, a more than nice guy worked in the maintenance shop and I worked in the****embly department.

Summerland is a small, hillside beach community south of Santa Barbara and close to Montecito. If you’ve driven Highway 101 south of Santa Barbara and seen the blue roofed Miramar Hotel alongside the beach, Summerland is just over the hill and south on 101.

I had a car at the time, a 50 Ford sedan. In fact it was my first car. Kind of a cool one too. It had a three 2 barrel setup running three 94's, aluminum heads, a great sounding set of pipes, cutouts, a 4.10 rear end, overdrive, Moon discs, lowered in front, Buick****ian Red paint, flames, striping, a white tarp over the back seat, tach on the dash, a pair of red & white hand knit dice hanging from the mirror and probably a few other things I’ve forgotten about. It would have fit in with any rod run going on today. Later, it was primered black, re-striped and was most cool looking.

The little 50 ran well with the slightly hopped up flathead, but I always wanted to put an Olds engine in it. Didn’t happen with this car.

When I got a coupe and parted with the cherry little sedan that dad had bought new, one of the first things on the agenda was an engine swap. One of several Olds engines in several 50 Ford coupes that I owned. But, I digress and that’s a whole other story.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is, I didn’t need a motorcycle to get around. I had the 50 for that. But, like any other car guy, and car guys seem to be oriented toward machines of most any type, a motorcycle was the next step. A Triumph Tiger or Trophy was most desired as my cousin Toby had owned at least one of each and maybe more.

Tobe was five years older and like a big brother to me. I figured if Toby liked it I couldn’t go far wrong. He was a hot rod guy to boot. More than a few times I saw him show up at Grandma’s house driving a 40 Ford coupe, 36 Ford coupe, 49 Ford sedan as well as a few others.
Most all of them black. Or primered black. Black cars being kind of a thing with our family.

The BSA was one heck of a dirt bike for a first one. Nothing like jumping in with both feet. The Beezer had a very torquey 500cc single cylinder engine and was reasonably light weight all things considered. Good looking and different from the BSA Catalina Scramblers of the day. The Catalina’s had a fat - at least to my eyes - painted gas tank. The Alloy Victor had a good looking slim polished aluminum tank that looked very much like the BSA 441cc Victors of the late 60's had. Although those were a combination of polished aluminum and yellow paint. Every time I see one I think of the old Alloy Victor.

The BSA was kind of a funny bike in some respects. It was built for the Six Days Trials. A very big deal in England and Europe and it drew competitors from all over the world. America’s Bud Ekins and Steve McQueen being but two.

The Beezer had a mid-mounted muffler, no lights, a factory supplied skid plate and really weird gearing for a four speed. A lot like a five speed with third gear missing. Low and 2nd were great for running around trails and such and 3rd and 4th were just as great for cruising down the high speed trails or the highway. The gearing always seemed funny to me until one of the old timers in the local bike club explained that low and 2nd were used in the slow speed trials sections with 3rd and 4th being used to get to the next section and for highway travel.

Anyway, I bought the bike and Louie was absolutely enthralled with it. We went quite a few places on it, the Bates seat handling a passenger quite well. Only problem was the lack of foot pegs for the passenger. Easily solved by the passenger dangling his legs and suffering or having the guy in front put his feet up on the cases and taking over the pegs. It was a pretty good deal and we did well in sharing. Course sometimes, I’d get to running the canyon roads on the way to the local off-road riding area that was called “The Jumps” and Louie would be left to fend for himself as far as somewhere to put his feet went. There’s just something about playing canyon racer on a knobby tired bike with two aboard. Slides on the asphalt were fairly predictable and you’ve probably been there, so no explanations needed.

He had to give up the pegs when we hit the dirt too. Most times we’d go into Hall Canyon - all of this taking place in Ventura, California - and about half way in, turn up a very narrow dirt road to the west that was a dead-end for pickups and jeeps. Not a big deal for a dirt bike. All you had to do when you got to the turnaround at the end was make a circle, get lined up and blast up the short, darned near vertical cut-bank - courtesy of the oil field D8 Cat - and after about an eight foot almost vertical shot, get on the easier, but still very steep ten-fifteen foot climb to the top of the ridge. Too much of a blast though and you’d launch yourself over the narrow backed ridge and start down into the next canyon on a steep run. That could be ... not so good. The thing to do was ease off near the top, turn left, ride out to where the narrow ridge back widened and flattened out a touch, turn the bike around and then it was hell for leather on the flat, through first and into second, hit the climb and grind your way up the long and winding ridge up to the main dirt road back into the Jumps.

Granted, it was a lot easier to come in from the dirt road that ran by the “V” - which was a big cement letter and an old aircraft navigation aid visible from most of downtown and east Ventura - and have an easy cruise back to the Jumps, but after we got halfway good at dirt riding, the run in from Hall Canyon was the most fun.

After a bit of this, we - me and the 4-5 guys that I rode with - got fairly skilled at running up the ridge line from Hall Canyon. We could do it with no stops and no turning around. Run up the dirt road, hang a left, hit the cutbank, climb to the top of that, slide a quick right at the ridge
top and it was just one long crank it on and hang on in second gear. ‘Course, that was riding single.

Riding double, most times a whole other story. Even so, we got up the ridge back without too much of a hassle. Until the day things started coming a little unwound and I was losing it and it was obvious I wasn’t going to make the long climb up the ridge unless Louie bailed off. The bailing off easily done and something he’d done more than once. It was easy enough as the speeds he bailed at were never very fast. He’d just put his hands on the seat, lean forward a touch and kick out. Which ended up with him almost always on his feet and watching the Beezer make it up the hill at a pretty good rate. Once in a while he’d fall down, but he never got hurt. He was quick and he was coordinated. About the biggest thing he had to suffer was a serious infusion of dirt down his shirt and in his face.

The Beezer threw dirt and rocks off the rear knobby like nobody’s business. Ask anybody that’s ever followed a big bore dirt bike. Specially the four strokers. It was like standing in a dirt waterfall.

The ridge was a favored ride for some to drop off the main road between the “V” and the Jumps, go down the ridge to the turnaround and do the hill climb bit back to the top. A tough learning experience for a few. Some who went down never did make it back up. They ended up going home via the dirt road into Hall Canyon and saying to hell with it for the day or riding the back way through the oil fields out to the Avenue on the west side of Ventura. And sometimes riding the front way in by the “V” road to get back up to the Jumps by way of the main road. I call it a road, but it was just a single lane dirt road so the oil company and fire department had access to the hills overlooking Ventura.

The day of reckoning finally came after the ridge had been dry for a long time. With the dirt on the ridge loose and powdery due to a long time between rains it didn’t take long to get to the point where Louie had to bail off right after the start. I just barely made it to the top.

Looking back, I could see Louie standing way down there at the bottom of the ridge. The climb out was probably a quarter mile long. He waved for me to come down. I waved for him to come up. It was an impasse for a bit, but like most big brothers I had the control and best of all I had the Beezer. I rode up the main road and left him there.

After a while I rode back down to where the road intersected with the ridge and found him almost all the way to the top. It was a tough climb and he was a thirsty kid. Made sense, I was the one with the canteen. I gave it to him and he must have drank half of it in one fell swoop. It seemed fair and I didn’t mind. I thought he’d be mad about it, but he never said a word. We doubled up, rode to the Jumps and spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns running the Beezer up and down the not so tall hill climbs as well as play racing on the track nearby. The track, just a trail worn down by the guys racing around. It wasn’t a real track or anything like that.

Seems like every dirt riding area I ever went to had a track of sorts laid out. They made for some fun times when three or four wanna-bee racers got out on it and started chasing one another round and round.

Finally though, I paid for my evil deed. Louie is a quiet and thoughtful guy, but he is a quick learner. Did I mention that?

Same place and the same deal, we were climbing the ridge double and I told him to get off. Which he wouldn’t do. The BSA came to a dusty halt about half way up. With the bike stopped on the ridge you couldn’t get started again. You had to coast to the bottom to the turnaround and give it another running start.

Riding double downhill can sometimes bring the bike down. Even if both guys are fairly well coordinated sometimes you get out of synch and lose it. Hardly ever at high speed, almost always at very low, almost walking speeds. It did this time, I got near the bottom and the rear wheel had come so far around from being locked up and sliding down the hill that the BSA slid out and went down taking me with it. Louie had simply stepped off. We picked it up, Louie walked the short distance to the turn around. I picked up the BSA, rolled it down the hill to where Louie was, turned it around and parked it. I was interested in getting my sweatshirt off and shaking the dirt out of it. Louie got on the BSA and was kicking it over. I’d like to say it was my innocence, but in truth it was just plain old stupidity. I thought he was doing us a favor. The BSA could be hard to start after a fall sometimes. I figured he’d get it lit off and we’d try again.

Like any other person who does evil deeds, occasional and otherwise, I had long ago forgotten about stranding him near the bottom of the ridge and leaving him behind. Louie, like any other victim didn’t forget.

I had my crash helmet off when the BSA lit off. Great I figured, that was gonna make life easy. I was so damn dumb, I still hadn’t figured it out. I thought he’d keep the bike running until I was ready.

You guessed it, as soon as I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, he snicked it into low, wound it up, dumped the clutch and made a run at the ridge all by his lonesome. Now he was a pretty fair rider for a small guy on the - at least to him - big BSA, but he’d never climbed up the ridge before. Not as anything other than a passenger.

He left me standing there with the sweatshirt in one hand and fending off dirt and dust with the other. He not only stole the Beezer, but he roosted me royally.

Now I had to take off the t-shirt cuz it was loaded with dirt. I was wiped out to say the least.
I shook out the t-shirt, shook out the sweatshirt, put the t-shirt on, picked up the helmet, threw the sweatshirt over my shoulder and stared at the long trek up the ridge back. The only good thing in all this was that I had the canteen.

Louie got to the top with no problems and sat there with the bike idling. I figured it was a good joke on me and motioned him to come back down. He waved and rode the Beezer up the main road and to the jumps. It probably took me a half hour or more to climb up the soft dirt of the ridge back, most of it one of those three steps up and slide back two deals. Then I had to walk up the main road and climb up two more moderate hills until I could see him sitting on the two story building sized mesa we called the Jumps. The Beezer was parked behind him and he was sitting on the top of the little mesa with his legs dangling down the hill.

After a while he took pity and rode the BSA back down to where he could pick me up. I was a bit tired and realized that fair was fair. I didn’t try to dump him or leave him far back in the hills. We just climbed on the faithful old BSA and rode home.

I finally realized that dad was right when he told me not to pick on little brother so much.
As dad put it, “Paybacks can be tough”.

Like always dad was right.

Although in this case, the Paybacks weren’t so tough.

More like “Paybacks are hell” to my way of thinking.....

-<>-

 

cooool, man. always a pleasure.

 

great read, damn nice little bike aswell. Got anymore bike stories?
-Jesse

 

Got another one on the Beezer that I've posted before, but could post again.