American Graffiti Motorcycle Lifestyle – Then Some

By Jim Leggett

Relaxing over a superb John Henry Single Malt from Valatie’s Harvest Spirits, “living rug” Chow dog Sasha at my feet, local FM stations playing golden oldies — Everly Brothers, belting out catchy 1957 smash hit...“Bye, Bye Love; Bye bye sweet caress; Hello emptiness; I feel like I could die...” Amazing how a song, aroma of campfire smoke, instantly conjures back memories. Singing along, I’m remembering 1958, a summer afternoon astride a 1954 Triumph motorbike, I’m riding into Chatham in search of a gas station. Curt’s Flying A, 31-cents-agallon. I fill up. Footloose, age 19, bike and I roll into town, fresh from far-away Toronto, Canada, relishing the freedom of open roads. Not a soul laying claim to my time, following my nose wherever whimsy leads. Admiring the old town clock by the railroad tracks, I lean the bike into a side street. Kick-stand down at Flo’s Luncheonette, neat little shop-front joint opposite the Morris Memorial Hall. Tasty hamburger, fries, chocolate milk shake. Change back from two-dollar bill. Seated at the counter, a few local youths, black leather-jacketed motorcyclist invites curiosity. More so when the bike sports Ontario tags, its rider a Scottish accent. “Yes, rode it from Toronto. Chatham? Found it by accident. Headed for Connecticut. See a friend.Sure, it’s fast. Easy hundred-miles-an-hour...” among answers to rapid fire questions. Flo’s daughter, Maureen, stands outside with girlfriends. They’re admiring the bike. “Fancy a ride?” Daring but scared, Maureen giggles astride. Arms tight around my waist, I gun the powerful 650 cc twin, tearing down Kinderhook Street at a right lively clip, I’m showing off, much to the anger of Chandler Pease, breathlessly rushing off to complain to Police chief Arlington Race, cop echoing plaintiff’s non-witnessed outrage. Not wishing to involve the fair Maureen, I plead guilty, pay a ten-dollar fine, returning to Flo’s, to enjoy the company of less uptight Chatham folks. Chet Cross owned the bowling alley in the basement of the Morrison Memorial. Said I could earn 10 cents a frame pin-setting. I did, gleefully dodging errant balls. Didn’t take long to recoup pesky fine. Newfound pals invited me stay at their houses, age-mates Lenny Mazel, Dave Fox, Brad and Harry Avery, Johnny Kratt, Richie Gardella, Pete Kelleher. Others named Coons, Hartigan and Donny Mills – the latter sporting a startup local rock n roll band– too, became friends. Charles and Yvonne Fox also offered me a place to stay in Canaan, Charlie landing me a good paying job with a drilling company. The Coons family, who lived between Chatham and Chatham Center on Rt 66, supplied a roof too.Later I moved in with the Mazel clan, Lenny, Judy, Laura and their mom, Ruth on Maiden Lane adjacent the cemetery. Occasionally I landed the odd grave-digging stint, working with a young blond-haired guy with a limp, nicknamed Hoppy. One memorably sweaty afternoon a skull tumbled from a side-cut, landing right at Hoppy’s feet! Shrieking in panic he shot out of the grave, a confetto of dead leaves swirling in his slipstream. “Can’t hurt you Hoppy” I mocked after him, “He’s dead!” I listGravediggeron job applications. I kinda fell in love with Chatham, then a pleasant country-town feel, not unlike the ancient village of Drymen, a boyhood haunt back in my native Scotland. Chatham’s 1950s lifestyle — what I call Mayberry Days — were immense fun. Back when “Tweet” described the call of a songbird, instead of endless political rants. Telephones were reserved for occasional short-conversations, folks actually talked face-to-face. No cell phone-addicted idiots falling down wells, walking in front of, or crashing into, stopped cars. Nature’s culling, I call it.

MOTORCYCLES EVERYWHERE

I often wonder had I not ridden my Triumph into Chatham, introducing joys of motorcycling to so many townsfolk — 23 new local riders over the next two years — how many lives were thus changed? Fellow Harley motorcyclist Jack Flaig landed me a job at Streeter’s Store Furnishing plant, following a brief stint threading ribbons piece-work through cane bassinettes at the Doll Furniture Factory (now Mac Hayden Theater) working with “Stubby” Smith, his older brother and assorted happy-golucky characters. We loved listening to It’s summertime, summertime, sum sum summertime, She wears short shorts, Nel blu’ dipnto di blu… hey, they were cool, back then. Burley’s News Room sold newspapers galore, hot rod, motorcycle and teen magazines. I never smoked, even when $2.50 bought carton of Lucky Strikes, pleas to pals to quit ignored.

Most are dead. A 15-cent beer more my speed, enjoyed at a dive, Moccios, opposite Maiden Lane. Sam Gleason his pals and I shared the occasional glass, talking cars, girls, motorcycles, girls, music, girls. American Graffiti in real life. Muscle cars to match. I didn’t own a car for a year or more, my ‘55 Chevy Bell Aire convertible ($800 used) proved delightful fun parked at the Sunset Drive-In aka The Passion Pit, near Hudson, Robert Mitcham’sThunder Road a current hit. Payton Place, The Vikings, Three Coins in a Fountain, The Wild Onewe took in at the vintage Crandell, snuggling contently this, that, or the other girl; bikes waiting, memorable after-show rides fondly rembered. Sam’s younger brother Ron and I became fast friends after he, Sam too, bought Triumph machines. Danny Glidden rode a 1940s hand-shift Indian which made a ringing “ying-ying” noise between shifts –ying-ying became Danny’s nickname. Joe Frerring, Mike Pinto soon bought bikes. So, we founded the Columbia County Riders Motorcycle Club — appointing police chief Arlington Race honorary member— keeping one’s enemies close. Chief Race was an all right guy. One winter I joined a Columbia and Rensselaer Telephone Company lineman. Wearing leg-irons, I’m climbing ice-covered poles tending wind-swept junction boxes under snow-frozen tents, a roaring propane heater fending off frostbite. That job didn’t last long! Johnny Kratt’s mother worked the local switchboard, “Hi Jim” she’d ask

whenever I placed a call from the payphone at the intersection of Railroad Avenue and Main Street. Hangout, too, for the sole black and white Chatham police cruiser. Officer Harry Malone and I often lounged inside, shooting the breeze. Knowing Malone helped when a friend from Connecticut, unknowingly, ran hard-to-spot stop sign, train tracks and Railroad Avenue. Seeing me with the driver, he got off with a verbal warning. Happiest times, surely, were during my months lodging with the Gleason family, Kate, Ernest, Sam and Ron, at the Gleason’s Farm in Chatham Center where a dairy farm and John Deere farm supply business kept everyone busy. I never envied Ron or his dad’s 4 am then, again 4 pm…365 days a year…milking chore! Ron had every other Sunday off, then we rode our motorbikes, chased girls, rode our motorbikes. Picnicking, summer dips in cooling Kinderhook Creek below the railroad trestle - jumping off the trestle for $5 bets. I needed the money! In winter, bonfires, roasted chestnuts, and ice skating a frozen pond off Rock City Road under chill moonlit skies so bright you could see the rolling hills. Aroma of crackling bonfire filling nostrils, laughter echoing endlessly…hating such joyful nights to end. Subsequent freelance photojournalist adventures took me around the world. I hold many far-flung places with strange-sounding names dear, none more so than halcyon days spent among kindly folks encountered in and around Chatham — except yon meanie who got me arrested. Did I mention apple-picking one season among the very orchards Harvest Spirits now call home? – Glasgow Jim