Vinnie Mendes sitting on his old motorcycle.

Vinnie on his 1963 BMW R69S

I learned to ride a motorcycle in the 1950s and have not stopped since. Back then I had a 1941 Indian “74,” which I bought for $35 in a basket, assembled, got running, rode for a year, then sold for $100. Immediately, I bought a 1947 Harley “61” for $40 and repeated the process. After riding it for a year, I put it away for storage in our barn when I joined the Navy.  When I returned home four years later, it had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. (See On the Water, August 2021). I currently ride a 1963 BMW “R69S.”

Back when I was riding the Indian, my Uncle Sark took his family on vacation to Daytona Beach, and came back with a bunch of stories and pictures of miles of beaches with sand hard enough you could drive a car on it, and pictures of him driving the family station wagon on the beach! I thought this would be cool, so despite warnings that New Jersey sand was too soft to ride a motorcycle on, I gave it a try. After several hours of pushing and digging, I finally got the bike back on a hard surface, with sand in the carburetor, generator, brake linings, and anywhere else you can think of. So much for riding on the sand.

Fifty years later I moved to Georgia. Southern biker friends would talk about Daytona Bike Week, with all the beautiful beaches and motorcycle related activities. Finally, after much procrastination, four of us old guys decided to go and see for ourselves. John, Carl, and I rode sidecar machines, while AJ had a two-wheeler.

The closest place to Daytona we could get a motel room with a view of the ocean was New Smyrna Beach, about 30 miles south. We arrived at the motel to find that our four-person room had a fine view, but you couldn’t get out to the balcony unless you moved the couch which was opened out to a queen-sized bed. There was also a double bed and a single cot, like I used in the Navy. I grabbed the cot and let the other three guys fight over sleeping arrangements.

AJ had warned me about John, who wore false teeth and put them in a water glass in the bathroom at bedtime. He said “when you get up for a drink of water in the middle of the night, make sure to turn the light on. Otherwise, you might look at your glass of water and see it smiling back at you!”

My main interests in Bike Week were the Antique Motorcycle Show, Sidecar Show and Swap Meet to be held on successive days at the county fairgrounds. I’ve always been interested in the old machines because they were so simple. You can take one apart, throw all the pieces in a corner and (given enough time), I can put it back together and get it running.

Daytona itself was a constant parade of tricked-out bikes, most of which cost more than my first house, and women in scanty bikinis or total leather bike garb, or a combination of the two. (Keep in mind that all of us had underwear older than most of those women!)

On the sidewalks and in the shops were vendors selling everything motorcycle-related imaginable, including chrome accessories, leathers, stereos and helmet-mounted radios so you could talk to your buddies as you ride down the road.  There was also entertainment such as Wet T Shirt Contests, Coleslaw Wrestling, and other bizarre spectacles to attract middle aged lotharios.

In the evenings we would have dinner in some out-of-the-way steak house which was always packed. John’s daughter lived locally so she and a girlfriend would join us. They were both tall slender knockouts and knew it, and when they walked into the room every head in the place would turn. Then there would be a collective groan as the girls came over and sat down with us ugly old guys!

After a few days we were ready to go home so John, who lived in Florida, simply rode home. I loaded my sidecar machine onto my trailer, and then helped AJ load his bike into the back of his wife’s “Big Bug,” her brand new VW bus. I offered to help him and Carl load his rig onto the trailer, but they assured me that they were OK by themselves, so I went off to secure my bike.

I noticed that Carl had some trouble riding his bike up the ramp to the trailer, and several guys were crowded around, offering to give him a push, but he insisted he could do it. He backed up across the parking lot, put the bike in gear and hit the ramp at about five miles per-hour. Suddenly … BAM! The trailer hitch tore loose from the ball and jumped about three feet into the air, slamming into the Bug dead center on the two rear doors, destroying the handle and lock! I was just glad that I was on the other side of the parking lot and had no part of it! Also, glad I wouldn’t be around when AJ had to explain to his wife that her precious Big Bug was no longer pristine!

I think the best part of the trip was the ride back home up the interstate. Going along towing the trailer at 55 MPH in the right-hand lane, I had my own personal bike show as an endless parade of motorcycles passed by me slowly enough that I could admire them, all the time thinking “there’s no place like home!”

Photo: by Hollis Mendes