Tribute to Speed!
Speed is one of the Senior members of the Centre Line Riders. In the opinion of the humble Webmaster he is one of the collest, nicest and bravest men you will ever be lucky to meet! He served his country (and us all) as a proud member of the US Marine Corps. and rides with us today at over 70 years of age.
Following is a Centre Daily Times article written about Speed back when Ben Rothlesburger had his motorcycle accident. We are proud to have Speed as a member of CLR and as a friend!
Following is a Centre Daily Times article written about Speed back when Ben Rothlesburger had his motorcycle accident. We are proud to have Speed as a member of CLR and as a friend!
One Ride on the Wild Side Was More Than Enough
by Ron Bracken -- Sports Editor for the CDT
There can be no denying that what Ben Rothlisberger did was -- you pick the word -- foolish, stupid, dangerous.
No can there be any denying that he is one extremely fortunate individual to have survived his head-to-windshield encounter with an automobile without the protection of a helmet.
But he will live to play another day and it's reasonable to think that he might someday give a lou-Gehrig-type speech in which he proclaims that on that day he is the luckiest man in the world. If he's not, he's on the short list.
And while I read the account of his accident and chucked "How dumb you have to be to ride a cycle without a helmet?" the answer came to me: You don't have to be dumb, just young and full of the belief that you are invincible.
Personal experience taught me that.
It was a warm summer evening in the summer of 1963 and since my car was out of service at the time -- a fairly frequent occurrance -- I was walking to Community Park for baseball practice.
Then, from behind me, I heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching. It was my neighbor and it meant trouble. He had been offering me a ride on his new BSA Lightening Rocket motorcycle and I had been finding ways to graciously decline the offer.
All you need to know is that his nickname was "Speed." There was a good reason for that. At any rate he had me cold. He stopped and offered me a ride to the Park. Figuring that he probably wouldn't get out of second between where we were and the Park, I accepted.
But when we got to the Park there was no one there. Being early, in this case, was not a good thing.
"Well, lets go for a ride." he said
Now then there are a couple of things you need to know before this story goes further, the first of which is the geography of the area.
If you leave Community Park in Port Matilda and turn right you are on a winding road that climbs the mountain and descends into Halfmoon Valley.
The other is that this particular motorcycle was built for racing. It came straight from the factory with dual carbs, dual cams, dual ignition, and now it had dual fools astride it, neither of whom was wearing a helmet.
After negotiating the hairpin right turn at the border of the Borough, he opened the throttle, then motioned for me to take a peek at the speedometer, which was reading 90 mph before he had to slow down to make the hairpin left turn at the top of the mountain.
He couldn't hear my sigh of relief over the exhaust noise. When we reached the intersection with Route 550 he gave me a choice of which way to go, towards Stormstown or towards Warriors Mark. Back to Community Park was not an option.
So I motioned left.
Again a little scene setter. This was a summer evening. He was not wearing goggles or even sun glasses, and there was a healthy population of insects, any one of which could put your eye out at far less speed than we were about to travel. To
say nothing of groundhog which have a penchant for waddling onto a road, or farm dogs, possibly even a cow which may have strayed from its pasture.
No matter. He wound that cycle out, aiming it towards Stormstown and, I thought, lit off. He motioned again at the speedometer which was now in the 155 mph neighborhood and I was thinking "If a groundhog decides to cross the road now the wreckage and body parts will be scattered all the way to Gray's Church."
Obviously that didn't happen. And good fortune winked at me when, while raising to look at the speedometer, my baseball hat was peeled off and landed in the middle of the road.
That was a good thing because it meant that on our return to Stormstown, he'd have to stop and allow me to pick it up, which meant that we wouldn't be hitting Mach 1 on our way home.
Maybe it was the sight of my white knuckles, or the bugs splattered on my forehead, or just a gift for smelling fear, that made him keep his speed to around 70 mph on the way back to the baseball field.
But I clearly recall him asking me what I thought when I got off the cycle at the Park.
"I think that will be the last time I ride a motorcycle." I said.
And it was.
When you've lived to tell a tale like that the sequel can only end badly.
Yo, Big Ben, are you listening?
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_188036577899312
There can be no denying that what Ben Rothlisberger did was -- you pick the word -- foolish, stupid, dangerous.
No can there be any denying that he is one extremely fortunate individual to have survived his head-to-windshield encounter with an automobile without the protection of a helmet.
But he will live to play another day and it's reasonable to think that he might someday give a lou-Gehrig-type speech in which he proclaims that on that day he is the luckiest man in the world. If he's not, he's on the short list.
And while I read the account of his accident and chucked "How dumb you have to be to ride a cycle without a helmet?" the answer came to me: You don't have to be dumb, just young and full of the belief that you are invincible.
Personal experience taught me that.
It was a warm summer evening in the summer of 1963 and since my car was out of service at the time -- a fairly frequent occurrance -- I was walking to Community Park for baseball practice.
Then, from behind me, I heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching. It was my neighbor and it meant trouble. He had been offering me a ride on his new BSA Lightening Rocket motorcycle and I had been finding ways to graciously decline the offer.
All you need to know is that his nickname was "Speed." There was a good reason for that. At any rate he had me cold. He stopped and offered me a ride to the Park. Figuring that he probably wouldn't get out of second between where we were and the Park, I accepted.
But when we got to the Park there was no one there. Being early, in this case, was not a good thing.
"Well, lets go for a ride." he said
Now then there are a couple of things you need to know before this story goes further, the first of which is the geography of the area.
If you leave Community Park in Port Matilda and turn right you are on a winding road that climbs the mountain and descends into Halfmoon Valley.
The other is that this particular motorcycle was built for racing. It came straight from the factory with dual carbs, dual cams, dual ignition, and now it had dual fools astride it, neither of whom was wearing a helmet.
After negotiating the hairpin right turn at the border of the Borough, he opened the throttle, then motioned for me to take a peek at the speedometer, which was reading 90 mph before he had to slow down to make the hairpin left turn at the top of the mountain.
He couldn't hear my sigh of relief over the exhaust noise. When we reached the intersection with Route 550 he gave me a choice of which way to go, towards Stormstown or towards Warriors Mark. Back to Community Park was not an option.
So I motioned left.
Again a little scene setter. This was a summer evening. He was not wearing goggles or even sun glasses, and there was a healthy population of insects, any one of which could put your eye out at far less speed than we were about to travel. To
say nothing of groundhog which have a penchant for waddling onto a road, or farm dogs, possibly even a cow which may have strayed from its pasture.
No matter. He wound that cycle out, aiming it towards Stormstown and, I thought, lit off. He motioned again at the speedometer which was now in the 155 mph neighborhood and I was thinking "If a groundhog decides to cross the road now the wreckage and body parts will be scattered all the way to Gray's Church."
Obviously that didn't happen. And good fortune winked at me when, while raising to look at the speedometer, my baseball hat was peeled off and landed in the middle of the road.
That was a good thing because it meant that on our return to Stormstown, he'd have to stop and allow me to pick it up, which meant that we wouldn't be hitting Mach 1 on our way home.
Maybe it was the sight of my white knuckles, or the bugs splattered on my forehead, or just a gift for smelling fear, that made him keep his speed to around 70 mph on the way back to the baseball field.
But I clearly recall him asking me what I thought when I got off the cycle at the Park.
"I think that will be the last time I ride a motorcycle." I said.
And it was.
When you've lived to tell a tale like that the sequel can only end badly.
Yo, Big Ben, are you listening?
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_188036577899312
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