By mrzip66 | July 17, 2020 | 1 Comment | Biker Stories
Editor’s Note:
Mike Frew has been riding with heart and throttle for as long as I’ve known him. He’s not just a follower of this blog — he’s the kind of guy who racks up miles like it’s nothing, often showing me hidden roads in my own backyard. I’ve been after him for ages to share his story — and finally, here it is.
Chasing the Front Tire…
For years, I’ve been wanting to put down my motorcycle memories into words. Thanks to a little push from Alan Dunn, it’s finally happening.
It all began when I was just six. My uncle sat me on the back of his 1953 Indian for a short five-mile ride to town. It may have been a quick trip, but that moment carved itself deep into my memory. I’ve revisited that ride in my mind more times than I can count — and it never loses its magic.
Fast forward four years — it was 1960, and three local guys in my coal mining town had Harley Panheads. I’d see them parked together often, never riding, but they lit a spark in me. I knew right then that I wanted something more than my bicycle.
In 1965, a buddy of mine — a year older — handed me the keys to his 90cc Honda. I had never even ridden a bike before, but we took off for a 100-mile trip to an amusement park. No license, no experience, just guts. I had a close call when I crossed the center line and nearly met a car head-on. That day, I learned that “almost” doesn’t cut it on two wheels.
The next spring, I bought my first bike: a 1965 Honda 90cc for $400. Right after 10th grade ended, that same friend and I rode all the way from Pennsylvania to Daytona Beach — 1,000 miles of two-lane highway on small-bore machines that barely touched 60 mph with a tailwind. We carried just a blanket, a change of clothes, and $30 each. We camped on the beach, lived off hot dogs and kindness, and came back with stories etched into our bones.
We did that trip twice that summer — and they remain some of the best rides of my life. My friend passed away a few years ago, and I regret not reconnecting sooner to relive those adventures together. If you’ve made good memories with good people — don’t wait. Find them. Share those laughs again.
Not long after that, I blew the engine on my Honda and found myself in a heated battle with American Honda over the warranty. They said I beat the engine to death. I said it was just honest wear. I lost. So, I moved on.
Next up was a 1949 Panhead I picked up for $75 — it needed a transmission, but when I cracked open the primary, all it needed was a chain. I paid the same for the new chain as I had for the bike and was back on the road.
Then came a new challenge: a buddy with a shiny new 350 Honda who smoked me in drag races. That Panhead didn’t last long. I bought my own 350 Scrambler — only to have him beat me again! His bike ran like lightning… until he blew it up mixing alcohol with his gas. He burned two perfect dime-sized holes into the pistons. I’m just glad that lesson wasn’t mine to learn the hard way.
By late 1968, I sold my Honda and joined the Army in January ’69. I didn’t get back in the saddle until 1973, when I bought a brand new 1972 Sportster. That bike was a dream… until I traded up to the 1976 Dyna Fat Bob — my ultimate heartbreak. Six rides, six breakdowns. Coils, carbs, plugs — it let me down every time. I finally ditched it and grabbed a lightly used Kawasaki KZ900.
Now that bike could fly. I rode it for ten solid years, clocking speeds over 135 mph. The frame flexed so hard it nearly tossed me more than once, but I figured out how to tame the wobble. I still wonder how I survived those rides.
