The early 80's were the glory days for my generation. We were out of school, young, our whole lives ahead of us. We lived fast, partied like each day was the last. We thought we'd live forever as the age of 40 seemed a million miles way. Most of the people around me worked the second shift at a little factory in Windsor, CT. Our dept had its own version of Fonzie, his name was Steve Smith but everyone called him Hollywood. It was a well deserved name as he was smooth with the ladies with his sly smile, handsome face and charming ways. Smith rode a Triumph as did my boyfriend Derek and another guy named Mike. At suppertime during the summer, these 3 would roar up the driveway towards the main gate of the factory, each one up on the rear wheel, seeing who could keep it up the longest. Smith usually won.
Mike was a quiet guy but he was a an extreme dude. One day Derek and I were riding back to work and Mike was coming down the hill after leaving the main gate. We were sitting at a light, waiting for it to change. As it did, Mike saw it change and hit the throttle bigtime, blasting towards the intersection. Just then a little old lady in the big car blew through the light. She saw Mike coming at her, panicked and stopped right in the middle of the intersection. Well Mike got on the brakes, but it sure looked like he was done for. No way to avoid hitting the car. All we could do was sit there and watch as it happened in a matter of seconds. Mike just sort of flipped and slid the bike to one side, then to the other, both tires smoking. He ended up with the bike stopped alongside the lady's car. Mike said more in the next few seconds than I ever heard him speak, screaming at the woman who sat there frozen.
But some of the best shows happened after work and one entertainment we could count on was watching Johnny B try and start his sportster after work. He would be in a pleasant enough mood leaving the building but that would soon change. We would stand around, someone would bring out a few beers and the show would begin. Johnny would get the kicker in the right spot and start to kick. After a few minutes, he would start all over again. Once he was completely out of breath, someone else would take over. One night, John had had enough. He pushed whoever was helping out of the way, shouting, “I 've had it! Let me at it!” He jumped up on that pedal it and it pitched back and threw his knee into the air cleaner. At the same moment the sporty's kickstand broke and as Johnny tumbled to the ground, the bike followed him. We dragged him out from under the bike as he howled. We got him to hit feet. He stood on one leg, the other just hanging here, blood seeping through the knee of his jeans.
He turned and glared at the fallen sporty and hopped over to it screaming, 'I'm gonna kill that bike!” He again fell on his ass as he couldn't quite kick at his bike and stand upright at the same time.
But a night several months later would prove to be the one that would forever stand out as one of the strangest in our young lives. Almost every Friday night we would all hang out in the parking lot of the shopping center across the street from the factory. We'd get out of work at 2 am and the bars would be closed by the time we'd get to any, so we made our own party. It was one hot summer night and there had been 2 guys absent from work that night. Charlie LaBlanc and Johnny B. We`all went over the parking lot and it got interesting very quickly. Smith was selling his Triumph and he had an interested buyer checking it out. This buyer must have thought that Triumphs wheelied easy or something, cause he took off on the bike and lifted up the front end. We watched him go across the parking lot, right towards the front of the shopping center, the front wheel still in the air. He kept that wheel right up there too, even as he ran right into a brick wall of the shopping center.
Smith and two of the guys took off running after we heard the loud crash with Smith yelling, “he just bought himself a Triumph!!!” I can't remember what kind of shape the dude was in, but Smith took off with the guy's truck with the guy next to him and the bike in the back of the truck.
Next thing, Charlie LaBlanc pulls up with a pretty girl in a '65 Convertible Mustang. There was only one problem. It was not his Mustang. It was mine. My idiot boyfriend had let Charlie borrow the '65, the Unregistered, Uninsured Mustang. I was livid. I walked right over and reaching in and snatching the keys. “Chill out baby,” he cooed, “I'm working it here.” Yeah, well he could work his way out of my car. I calmed down and Charlie and his new lady hung with us.
Suddenly we heard the roar of drag pipes. Johnny B came ripping around the corner and pulled into the parking lot.
“Yeah, so did you win?”
“No, I mean I didn't race him, I dragged him down the street!” Turns out Johnny had gone to a party. He got all trashed as many others there, including a dude whose bike would not start. The two of them came up with the ingenious plan of Johnny towing the guy home. So they hooked up a rope or chain between the two bikes, And Johnny started pulling the dude's bike while the dude was sitting on it. Johnny felt lots of resistance and gave his bike more and more throttle. When he finally looked back, he saw the dude's bike bouncing on it's side down the road, sparks flying and the dude still hanging on. Johnny stopped and ran back to the guy. He told him he'd go get help and be right back.
“And he's all bloody and stuff! We gotta get back there!” Walt and Johnny took off in Walts 'truck and off they went. They came back a little while later; the dude and his bike were gone, only the blood remained to mark the spot.
By now it was getting late around 4 am or so. It had been quite an evening. But it wasn't over yet. Off in the darkness we saw these 2 little boys pushing a shopping cart full of trash down the empty street and into the parking lot. They rolled on by us, nodding us a hello. They continued across the parking lot and right up to the big front window of an auto parts store. Now this store was owned by these 2 notorious rude assholes. We watched as these little guys lifted up that full shopping cart and heaved through the window, shattering it. The alarm rang out, piecing the quiet night.
It seemed like a good time to leave. Everyone went to their vehicles; I climbed into the Mustang with Charlie and girl beside me, Derek onto his 650 Bonneville, Johnny onto the sporty. Sunrise was a mere 2 hours away. It was the weekend and life was good.
