PERSPECTIVES

OF RED SL70s AND SUNDAYS

By Mitch Boehm

It doesn’t seem possible when I think of it, and it’s even harder to comprehend when I watch myself type it. But my very first motorcycle — and my first substantial motorcycle experiences, really — happened 50 years ago, just about the time On Any Sunday was turning people on to the thrills of our sport.

For me, those first motorcycling hooks were the minibikes and trail bikes I saw ripping up the fields and trails behind our northern Ohio suburban home, which butted up against a large tract of open land upon which, about 150 yards back, was a line of high-tension wires that stretched for miles.

The wires had a dirt service road — a two-track, really — running alongside them, and I’ll always remember my Dad telling me they were a big part of why he and my Mom bought that particular home. “They’re never gonna build behind us,” he’d say, “and I knew you would always have a place to play.” And boy was he right.

The bikes being ridden back there were all over the map…a few Tecumseh and Briggs & Stratton minibikes, a Benelli, a couple of Z50 Hondas, a Bridgestone and even a Jawa. I’d pedal my Schwinn Sting Ray back there just about every day to watch them zip around, and within a few weeks I could literally think of nothing else. Mom and Dad noticed, of course, and for Christmas blessed me with what’s easily the best gift of my life aside from the birth of my son Alex…a blood red 1971 Honda SL70.

That Motosport 70 was basically a minibike, but it sure didn’t look like it. Unlike Honda’s other minis such as the Z50, QA50 and CT70, the littlest SL looked just like its larger siblings, the SL100, 125 and 175 — only scaled down a bit.

It was quiet, too, which meant I could ride it just about anywhere… on those trails, in the fields surrounding the local elementary school, up and down the street, and even down to Polly’s deli for penny candy. I don’t remember a soul complaining about us riding in the neighborhood, we never had a run-in with the police, and when we did see a cruiser we jumped off and pushed (or pretended to) — and they smiled and drove on by. It was a very simple and innocent time.

Bruce Brown captured that simplicity and innocence wonderfully in On Any Sunday. Southern California, Daytona Beach and El Escorial, Spain were worlds away from little ol’ North Ridgeville, Ohio. But the common threads of freedom, excitement, speed and camaraderie inherent in motorcycling and in OAS connected them all, and made motorcycling seem very special, something to aspire to, something to cherish.

I still own a red SL70. It’s not the machine I rode back in the day, and it needs a carb clean and some tank rust dealt with. But it puts a smile on my face every time I see it — just like On Any Sunday. So thanks, Mom and Dad. And thank you, Bruce.