1931 Henderson 4 Cylinders, Three forward
and one reverse gears
The Stutz DV32 was a wonderful but
temperamental piece of machinery.
The
dual Winfield multi jet carburetors
required
constant adjustment in changing weather conditions. One day, in the pouring rain, I stopped by the roadside to adjust
the carburetors and as I finished and closed the hood, a Stutz coming down the
road stopped, behind my car, and the driver asked if I needed assistance. It was a coincidence since there were very
few Stutz cars made. The driver of the Stutz, Richard Kowalski, and I sat and
chatted in my car while the rain beat a staccato rhythm. Richard was a medical student who owned a
Stutz and motorcycles. We developed a
friendship and when I visited Richard he showed me his motorcycles. One of them
intriged me, a four cylinder Henderson, and like the Stutz, an unusual, high
performance machine. He had two Hendersons. and I made an offer and purchased
one of them
For
a few years, a motorcycle mania interspersed my other activities. I purchased an Excelsior motorcycle and
induced Edythe to drive it. At times we
would ride to Coney Island and park alongside the row of cycles parked around
the corner of Surf Avenue. Edythe was
four months pregnant when she stopped driving motorcycles and relied on four
wheel transportation. The mania for two
wheel exhilarating touring diminished, but not before I experienced some
associated and memorable experiences.
One day I took my brother, Gene, for
a ride on the Excelsior. He sat behind
me as we rode down Linden Boulevard. Stopping at a traffic light, Gene was
trying to talk to me but the rumble of the exhaust rendered conversation
impossible. When the light changed and
I drove off I realized that his arms were not around me. He had gotten off the
machine at the traffic light, and the heat I was experiencing in sensitive parts
of my anatomy was not emotional.The odor of burning cloth reached my nose. I
stopped and lay the machine
Motorcycle Mania
down
while I beat at my burning trousers and saw the cause of the problem. The carburetor was on fire due to a loosened
gas line. A smiling Gene was trotting up as I closed the fuel line petcock
before an explosion would occur. My scorched testicles created a sitting
problem for many uncomfortable days..
My last motorcycle adventure was
more dramatic. Before dawn I left home on my Henderson to join a group of
cyclists in New Jersey. After taking
the 69th Street Ferry to Staten Island, I was cruising on a winding road near
Lighthouse Hill, when I heard the sound of a horn behind me. Glancing back I saw the grinning face of the
driver of a Ford convertible. I waved
for him to pass but he merely grinned and moved his car close to my cycle’s
rear wheel. I accelerated and waved for
him to pass me but he also sped up. I
looked back and he was laughing at my dilemma.
I realized that he was drunk or enjoyed harassing me. Ahead was a upward curve in the road lined
by garden apartments.
I knew I could accelerate faster
than the Ford and make the curve and then find a side street to wait and let
him pass me. I opened the gas intake to
maximum to get away from the Ford. The Henderson seemed to leap as it
accelerated and I had to lean to keep my balance in the turn. Then I heard the sharp and penetrating sound
of a crash.
I momentarily looked behind but the
bend in the road prevented me from seeing what happened. I braked and turned the motorcycle around
and went back to see a disaster. The Ford
had not negotiated the turn and had crashed into the wall of a garden
apartment. I idled up to the car and
realized what had occurred. The Ford
had what was jokingly called a banjo steering wheel, and the driver had been
holding on to the steering wheel when he crashed. The thin flexing spokes that supported the steering wheel was
pushed forward, and the rider’s chest was crushed by the steering column. I pushed up my goggles to see him better and
I smelled alcohol and saw blood flowing from his gasping mouth. One of his hands was clutching at the bloody
cavity in his chest while his staring eyes were losing their luster of
life. People were opening windows to
look out and a door was opening as I drove away.
I did not go on my intended tour,
but somewhat detached and alone, I returned
to my home. At times I had the feeling
of guilt that I was the cause of the driver’s death. Had I pulled off the road
and stopped, the accident may not have happened. My sudden acceleration on the
turn may have goaded him to speed up and try to follow me. I will never know. Not long after that event, I sold my
motorcycles.
