Gotham’s Dynamic Duo | Al Toefield, Lou Maltese, and New York City Bike Racing

Originally I wrote this for the July 1986 issue of Bicycle Guide Magazine. This version is slightly different. It’s shorter. And better. You’re welcome.

I have not updated any time references. “Last year” means 1985, “four years ago” means 1982, etc. There was no internet or cable then, and the only bike racing on TV was the Tour de France. This story is based on personal interviews with Al Toefield and Lou Maltese conducted in 1986. They died in 1989 and never, ever got enough credit for what they contributed to the sport of bicycle racing. That’s why I’m posting this. Thank you Lou Maltese, Al Toefield, and Pete Senia.

Copyright ©2017 ©1986 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

New York is a city of five boroughs and two cycling czars. In the battle of nerves that is Big Apple bicycle racing, Lou Maltese and Al Toefield never blink.

Lou Maltese and Al Toefield each have respected racing clubs in New York City. Both were track racing fiends in their youth, and both love to organize big-time racing events. Before there was ever a Coors Classic, before the Colorado World’s Championship was even a gleam in the USCF’s eye, Maltese and Toefield were showing Americans what a real race is all about. There the resemblance ends and the fireworks begin.

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Depending on whom you ask, the reputation of Lou Maltese’s Century Road Club (CRC) Association ranges from Olympic cadet school to marauding band of rowdies. You can’t be the oldest and perhaps largest racing club in the country without developing a certain cachet. The CRC has been raising dust and more since it was founded in 1898 by Charles P. Staubach.

Central Park is the domain of Lou Maltese and the CRC, as it has been since 1963. Before that he ruled Grand Concourse in the Bronx and Harlem Speedway. When he set his sights on Central Park, it was a rough start.

His storied nemesis was legendary civic builder Robert Moses. A colossal asshole with an ego to match, Moses was the State Council of Parks chairman, Long Island State Parks Commission president, NYC Parks Commissioner, New York State Power Authority chairman, Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority chairman, president of — well, you get the picture. Moses championed a lot of causes. Bicycle racing wasn’t among them.

Says Maltese about Moses’ Central Park welcome wagon: “I used to run like an outlaw. Every once in a while the officials would catch up to us and chase us out of the park.” With time came shifts in city politics. Moses died in 1981 and Maltese holds court every Saturday at the Central Park Boathouse, the de facto CRC headquarters.

Maltese was born in 1907. In his halcyon days he was a record-breaker in 3-mile, 25-mile, and century time trials, holding the 100-mile record for more than 30 years. He first joined a club himself in 1922, qualified for the Olympics but missed selection by a hair, and turned pro in 1928. His specialty was motorpace racing, pedaling 55 mph behind motorcycles on board tracks.

The Great Depression and World War II caused the tracks to fold, and many pros returned to the amateur ranks. Maltese didn’t need to. He took up race promotion, developing a talent that served him as well as his racing skills had.

For 27 years he was Director of National Championships for the Amateur Bicycle League of America (ABLA was renamed the U.S. Cycling Federation in 1975, and USACycling in 1995), organizing thousands of races all over the country. He was responsible for the 1955 National Championships and Olympic qualification trials in 1960, 1964, 1968, and 1972, all held in New York. He ran the monthly races at Astoria Park for years. In the 1930s he joined CRC and now runs the club’s weekly races in Central Park, as well as the annual Memorial Races and Mengoni Grand Prix.

While Central Park is certainly glamorous, he’ll be the first to tell you it’s no picnic running a sane event there. Educating parkgoers is about equivalent to informing a zombie horde they’re about to be flattened by a rabid pack of bombers. “They run down the middle of the road,” says Maltese in despair, “even with baby carriages! You learn how to ride your bike like a cat walks.”

Public use hours of the park are posted on signs all over. But problems exist despite a raft of precautions that include advance cars with loudspeakers, race marshals, road restrictions, and suspension of riders who drift out of the designated race path. And that’s just for training races.

To make things more lively, the southernmost end of the 6.25-mile race circuit is carpeted with emissions from police horses, carriage horses, and the riding academy horses. The racers call it Marlboro Country. And yet a CRC membership card is still the hot ticket in town. Maltese expects to log over 400 members this year.

Most CRC members are male. Female riders are especially difficult to attract to a club, and the CRC’s few are a point of pride for him. He has but one complaint. “Our women get better, then the other clubs steal them away.”

By “other clubs,” he could mean the Nassau Wheelmen way out on Long Island, or maybe Westchester Velo up north, or perhaps the Century Road Club of America over in Jersey (no relation, he’s quick to add). But all of them are virtually inaccessible to people who spend all their money on bikes instead of cars. What he probably means is the only other club whose races you can get to by bike: Kissena.

The monarch of that Queens domain is, of course, Al Toefield, who has a reputation for never forgetting a name, and for dispensing the same quality of advice to geeks as to stars.

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

From where Toefield stands, Maltese’s Central Park operation is more flash than substance, and the CRC serves but one useful purpose: prescreening.

“We turn down an awful lot of people,” he says, referring to CRC defectors. “We’ve found through experience that if they’re frustrated in that club, it means they’re looking for something unrealistic. Eventually they’ll be frustrated with us. We don’t want them.”

In a town where talk is cheap and poseurs are the rule, Toefield has become something of an icon to kids with a dream. His Kissena Cycling Club has a stellar rep for mentoring juniors, and the Kissena Bicycle Shop that he owns is about the only one where a serious racer of modest means can get a competitive bike. It also serves as executive HQ for the 200-member KCC.

A night person, Toefield can be found most evenings fielding phone calls in this tiny place that somehow holds a vast jungle of racing equipment. In a corner hangs one of his old wood-rimmed tires with “Toefield 1972” painted on it in script. It was a good-luck gift the year he went to Munich as chairman of the U.S. Olympic Committee and manager of the Olympic cycling team.

Before that he was the ABLA’s president (1967-1971), and now is the USCF’s first vice president. For the last 12 years he’s been New York State and New York City regional chairman of cycling events for the prestigious Empire State Games. He also ran the Pepsi-Cola Marathon for 12 years, the 1985 Tour of Long Island, and the 1980s Lowenbrau Grand Prix cycling series.

Toefield was born in 1921. He scored his foundational chops during the Great Depression, working as a bicycle messenger for 15 cents an hour and joining school teams. All of them.

“I learned fund raising early by playing as many school sports as possible,” he says of his high school years. “Each coach dispensed lunch on practice days and 25 cents for car fare,” which Toefield squireled away for bicycle equipment purchases. It was a brilliant plan, he says, “except when different teams practiced on the same day.”

By World War II Toefield was burning up the board tracks at the Coney Island Velodrome, the old Madison Square Garden, and the velodrome in Nutley, New Jersey. He joined CRC in the 1950s. His last sprint was in the 1953 Race of Champions at the now-defunct Flushing Meadow track, a six-tenths-mile oval in Queens.

In 1958 he became president of the Eastern Cycling Federation. Now he runs his track races at the Kissena Velodrome in Queens and his road races in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park.

In the battle of nerves, Toefield is a front-liner and beloved folk hero. It serves him well in Prospect Park, a scaled-down version of Central Park bordered by rough neighborhoods and frequented by airheads shambling and biking where they shouldn’t. But it also has a world-class art museum, fine botanical gardens, a big zoo, a skating rink, and a famous ampitheater. Its picturesque race circuit measures three miles and change. Vehicles are prohibited all weekend, and from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily in the summer. But that doesn’t stop some folks.

There’s an oft-told anecdote about a car parked in the middle of the road during one of Toefield’s races. The driver had wormed past a police barricade, then proceeded to ignore warnings from club marshals to leave the park. Toefield, a retired police sergeant with 38 years on the force, approached the party pooper himself. Failing to persuade him to go home by being nice, Toefield produced a revolver. The pooper scrammed.

[Author’s note: Toefield famously tolerated no poopage of any kind in his races. Before motorcycles were commonplace in cycling events, he recruited me to run interference for him on mine. I was impressed at how effective it was to sneak up on hosers and bark in their faces, “Al says get out!” The one time it didn’t work, the perp (an unregistered rider who shouldn’t have been racing) threatened to kill me, which I duly reported. Toefield tore off after the f∪cker in his van. That guy never tried it again.]

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of NY

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of New York

The Kissena Velodrome saga

One of the few things on which the two kingpins agree is the circus surrounding construction of the Kissena Velodrome in Queens.

It was intended to replace the old flat track at Flushing Meadow, the one where Toefield rode his last Race of Champions in 1953. Maltese’s eternal nemesis Robert Moses, who demolished a children’s park to build a parking lot for Tavern on the Green and tried to demolish Greenwich Village to build a highway, now wanted to raze the Flushing track to build the 1964 World’s Fair.

“Many good events, starting in ’55 with the National Championships, were held there,” says Peter Senia Sr., a longtime partner of Toefield and Maltese who was a USCF board director and U.S. team coach for the Pan Am Games and Olympics.

So while the city was still feeling guilty about depriving the racers of their last velodrome, a deal was struck for a new one. The cycling clubs would raise enough cash to surface it and the city would donate building funds and land — if Toefield and Maltese came back with the money.

And raise cash they did — $10,000. And the Parks Department, who’d expected never to see them again, granted $90,000 and a site for the project after a lot of arm-twisting.

The Parks staff had never seen a banked track, so Maltese had to design the 400-meter Kissena Velodrome himself. The groundbreaking was delayed, however, by bureaucratic red tape; construction prices rose, and with them the cost projections. The city refused to allocate additional funds to meet rising estimates.

According to Toefield, Maltese, and Senia, the city forbade them from privately negotiating with the union contractors who originally bid for the job, and those contractors in turn leaned on other contractors to scare them away.

Pete Senia. Photo © Anthony Van Dunk

Pete Senia. Photo © Anthony Van Dunk

After years of government sidestepping and relentless perseverance by Toefield, Maltese, and Senia, the asphalt arena finally got built in 1963 — over a sewer pipeline in a swamp, thanks to the choice parcel donated by the city. Every year the track sinks a bit, requiring extensive repairs. Local racers affectionately call it The Track With A Hill.

To the surprise of no one, Robert Moses took credit for building Kissena Velodrome. It rests but three blocks away from the Kissena Bicycle Shop, and so Toefield assumed maintenance of it (helped by Senia, with the two often paying for and doing repairs themselves) after a falling-out with Maltese that led to the founding of KCC.

That spat started a few years earlier, driven by differences of opinion regarding CRC policy. U.S. junior national champion Perry Metzler, a racer from Brooklyn, was a CRC rider Maltese wouldn’t help. Toefield personally drove Metzler to the 1957 senior nats in Wisconsin, a trip Metzler couldn’t afford to make on his own. Metzler won, becoming the first African-American U.S. amateur national champion.

Rather than abandon CRC’s 1898 charter declaring it a club exclusively for white men, Maltese reportedly told everyone Metzler was a Mexican, a Puerto Rican, or an Indian. By 1963 Toefield and Senia had had enough. They started their own club in Queens, KCC, to develop talented young riders of all skintones while Maltese headed to Central Park to get pounded some more by Robert Moses.

Despite the city’s bad behavior and Maltese’s departure, Kissena Velodrome’s season still creaks to life every May, with the faithful arriving on Wednesday nights for racing at dusk.

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Above: Kissena Velodrome in 1975, © Paul Sery. The “hill” is clearly visible at 0:55.

New York City club wars

Club membership in New York City is a microcosm of the general population: You’ve got your schoolkids, your banshees on gaspipe bikes, your affluent Baby Boomers scrounging around for lost youth, your Gen X-ers who are “serious,” at least until they acquire mortgages. The common fabric is racing fever and a unilateral resentment of joggers who think $150 shoes make them athletes.

The mere mention of the New York Road Runners Club is enough to foment a cyclist shitstorm. Founded in 1958 with 47 members, NYRR now has 25,000 members who also have races in Central Park on Saturday mornings, effectively inflating the club’s influence there as well as its sense of property rights.

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

It didn’t take long for the rift between runners and riders to become the biggest undeclared war since Vietnam.

Maltese, Toefield, and Senia were excited to be awarded the 1960 Olympic cycling trials, scheduled to be held in Central Park. They were unhappy when it took six months to get consent to close the park to cars for four hours. So they organized a coalition of clubs that lobbied the city into closing all parks to cars every weekend. What they had in mind was more bike races. What they got was quite different.

After the weekend car bans began in the late sixties, the Road Runners overran both Central Park and the city’s major events calendar. Says Senia, “They’re allowed to use the park as much as they want. We’re not allowed a permit except once a year, for the Mengoni race.”

[Author’s note: The CRCA was unable for years to obtain city permits for its Saturday morning races, which were held anyway. Maltese called them “training rides with a sprint finish.”]

The NYRR got pretty much the whole city shut down for the 1976 New York City Marathon, while the CRC was ordered to hold their weekend Central Park races at dawn, so as not to inconvenience any runners training for it.

Ask Toefield about the park wars, and he’ll tell you an epic combat story. “A certain corporate mogul and major political contributor likes to run off his hangovers in Central Park. He gets the finger from cyclists. He gets four-letter words shouted at him. They run him off the path — aim at him! And he calls up Eddie [Koch, the mayor]. He calls up Henry [Stern, the Parks Commissioner]. How are you going to fight that?”

Cyclist-versus-runner turf wars rage nonstop. The clubs hate each other, but Maltese denies it. “It’s not the Road Runners Club that gives us any problem. It’s the general public. The runners have one inside lane, and the riders have two outside lanes. The [rest of the] public thinks they own the park.”

Bill Noël, Executive Director of the Road Runners, agrees, explaining how a coalition of eight civic groups is trying to draft ceasefire guidelines and failing utterly. “It’s extremely slow going. It’s very complex. Things that are not very practical are being tossed out on the table.”

Meanwhile, during one particular CRC race, an errant yuppie was plodding in the cyclists’ lane instead of the runners’. The pack saw the jogger and parted like the Red Sea, all except for one novice at the back who did the unthinkable: He creamed what turned out to be a lawyer. The case went to court. The CRC won.

Politics & payola

Everyone agrees racing costs money, lots of it. It will always live in a financial Twilight Zone between municipal and corporate dependency.

For those who promote it, American bicycle racing at its best is a nightmare of permit applications, insurance hassles, and scheduling conflicts. Arguably the toughest problem is how to simultaneously satisfy sponsors, who mostly want love, and politicians, who mostly want… well, something else.

Sponsors, they’re easy. Anyone asks them for a donation, they’ll ask what they’re getting for it. Fair enough. Mainly they want uncritical publicity. If they’re into bike racing, they’re often good with whatever ya got for ’em.

Politicians, they’re different.

Witness the Apple Lap, an ambitious plan by Maltese and Toefield for a 75-mile race in which 300 riders would cut through all five boroughs. New York City initially said yes, due to the success of the first all-borough NYC Marathon that year. Also thanks to the Marathon, the city insisted on not 300 riders, but thousands.

Toefield says, “I finally convinced city fathers that there would be a massacre with 10,000 riders racing.” So it was on, again. But then the police didn’t like the idea of 600 cops guarding 300 riders. And with that, the 1976 Apple Lap was history before it even began.

[Author’s note: When Toefield and Maltese originally proposed the Apple Lap, the city rejected it. But there were in fact two successful Apple Lap races, in 1978 and 1979. Not for nothing are these guys legends; they managed to get nine highways and the Verrazano and Throgs Neck bridges closed to motor traffic.]

Given the logistics, it’s not hard to understand why corporate sponsors are more willing to commit time and money to lesser events in remote places; it’s just easier and cheaper. But Toefield believes big cities like his have unlimited superior talent reserves begging to be showcased.

“You could sell horseshit in New York City if you package it right,” he says, quoting his ad exec friend on Madison Avenue. “Why should they create markets when they’re already here?”

It’s a good question. And the answer is kind of sad. Access to Central Park — what little of it there is — goes mostly to Maltese, possession being nine-tenths of the law. The outer boroughs have many fine venues, but they suffer from a lack of recognition as commercial race sites for much the same reasons that cycling itself is slow to be recognized as national sport: They have a reputation of being dull, dangerous, and small-time.

Even though Brooklyn’s Prospect Park was designed by Central Park architects Olmsted and Vaux (and is widely considered more beautiful), racing sponsors always demand Central Park. Toefield says, “I forfeited a blank check from Cinzano because I couldn’t deliver Central Park for a Sunday afternoon race.”

Then there’s the other spoiler, which is way thornier.

According to Toefield, Bloomingdale’s agreed to sponsor a race four years ago. The bill from the Parks Department was $25,000 for the use of Central Park. That’s in addition to, you understand, salaries, security, equipment, insurance, prize money — the race itself. Bloomie’s was horrified. They coughed up the dough, but backed off from race sponsorship for the next three years.

“Anybody comes up with $100,000 for me to run a race, I’d gladly give Central Park $10,000,” maintains Toefield. “But if Central Park knew I had a $100,000 budget, they’d want $50,000.”

Toefield is one of the few promoters who will talk about payola. It isn’t pretty. [Read my story from Spy Magazine about the 1989 Tour de Trump, which also addresses this subject. — ss]

A few years ago he provided cyclists and technical advice for the film Key Exchange, which features footage of racers in Central Park. The producer agreed as payment to sponsor another, real race in Central Park. When Toefield filed the permit applications, the Parks Department discovered the film’s backer was Manufacturer Hanover’s Trust. They had a question. Just how generous a contribution to the Central Park Cultural Foundation were Kissena Cycling Club and the fourth largest bank in the country prepared to make?

MHT threatened to back out, but the movie did get made. And eventually Toefield had his real race, but in Prospect Park rather than Central Park. And MHT never sponsored a cycling event again.

It’s easy to argue that until cycling is considered mainstream in the U.S., getting sponsorship will be difficult. Getting sponsorship requires a guarantee of publicity, and getting publicity requires the guarantee of sponsorship. Cycling will never become mainstream without them. This is the Catch 22 of the sport’s future.

That said, it’s worth noting that when the Europeans showed up in Colorado last year for the Coors Classic and this year for the UCI World Championships, the national media lapped it up. And with Greg LeMond, Steve Bauer, and Andy Hampsten proving to the world that North Americans are fierce contenders, the international focus may shift as well. Whenever that happens, America is ready because Toefield and Maltese showed us just what to do. Catch 22 just slipped a toestrap.

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

Author’s note: Shortly after this piece was written in 1986, Century Road Club management was taken over by the membership. They created a board of directors, wrote new bylaws, officially renamed the club CRCA, and became the inclusive organization they are today. Lou Maltese remained CRCA chairman until his death in 1989. Al Toefield remained the head of KCC until his death in 1989. KCC incorporated as a nonprofit that year and is ongoing today. The club still manages the operation and maintenance of Kissena Velodrome.

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.


Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.


Jody Whitesides | Just Looking for Some Touch

Jody Whitesides

If you haven’t heard of Jody Whitesides yet, well, you have now. And you’ll be hearing more.

At first glance he could be one of those Renaissance multi-hyphenates you love to hate — artist-producer-athlete-businessman-Josh Hartnett stand-in — and then you can’t, because he’s just so damned talented and funny. Politically savvy, too. Plus he bakes. Bakes! Scratch bread, scratch brownies, scratch pizza. I am not making this up.

Yeah, the guy totally cooks. Whitesides is a musician who plays, sings, writes, and produces. He’s got some cool videos on his website, and publishes his music on Spotify and iTunes. He’s so into process, he even makes instructional tech vids for musicians. And posts crazy gifs and vines on Twitter. That’s where I discovered him. And unlike a lot of popular Tweeps who can’t be bothered, he actually interacts with followers. Which is how I ended up at his website, being impressed enough to write all this.

Whitesides prolifically generates fun music that’s infectiously danceable. And he markets all his product himself, making him kind of a poster child for DIY music career success.

Before roaring off on said music career, Whitesides was a nationally ranked freestyle skier and BMX racer. Swapping his earmuffs for earworms, he went on to lend his voice for backing vocals to the Swedish hard rock band Talisman fronted by Jeff Scott Soto, and played some guitar for NKOTB’s Danny Woods. Whitesides has his own studio where he produced recordings for the comedy rock band Throwing Toasters and bass master Seth Horan, among others.

Until recently his bread and butter was scoring video games and film trailers, and creating anthems for various sports (notably “Do You Want to Play,” for the NFL and NHL) and TV shows (“Nightwatch New Orleans,” “Top Golf,” and Dwayne Johnson’s documentary series, “Hard Corps”).

Sounds like a sensory smorgasbord, right? It kind of is, but the main theme of his musical style is this: Nobody sits. His repertoire is a lush and expansive romp covering a wide swath: techno-dance and retro pop, acoustic and power ballads, and high-energy modern rock.

“I take influences from everything around me,” says Whitesides. He credits his artistic open-mindedness to a music teacher who once told him: “Mediocre artists steal from one source. Great artists steal from many.”

“I’ve held to that maxim,” he says. “No two of my songs are ever exactly alike. And no two people will generally compare me to the same artist. That becomes a Catch 22, but I’m okay with it.”

Whitesides, who claims he didn’t start talking until he was two, has plenty to say on his latest single, “Touch.” I listened to it and it’s tasty; you should too. Then I read his bio. That’s where I learned he’s a New Yorker who’s into bikes. Yo — what’s not to like? So I asked if I could interview him. He said yeah. Here we go!

Touch shoot, from Twitter

Q What’s the story behind Google refusing to advertise “Touch”? Is that specifically “Touch (Explicit)”? That was the best version! I love the Borg dancers.
A The official response was that the content of the video was “Too Adult.” It was for the clean version. I didn’t even bother to try advertising the explicit version. The weird thing is, no one is naked.

Q Your newest song, “Thump Thump Thump” — is it out yet?
A It is not out yet, but will be soon. It will be on Spotify!

Q How many/what kinds of instruments do you play?
A Technically I play about six. But I can pretty much play any stringed instrument in some fashion. Guitar, vocals, bass, mandolin, ukulele, percussion. I futz around on piano, drums, and kazoo.

Q What’s the most memorable gig you ever played?
A One time a group of drunk lesbians jumped up on stage and proceeded to grind all the members of the band. This was after they formally announced themselves while jumping on the bar in the back of the venue. It caused quite a ruckus and was entertaining for the audience. I did have to get them offstage once one of them nearly broke my teeth when she knocked the mic stand into my mouth while I was singing.

Q When you were younger, did your parents believe you’d make a living with music, or did they unsubtly push you in other directions? (Can you tell I hang out with musicians too much?)
A My parents never initially questioned my desire to learn to play. Actually, they supported it, probably because they were both artists of their own right. Commercial illustrator, and interior decorator. The one requirement was to attend college and get a degree. So I did. Then I went to music school. [Berklee College of Music and Musicians Institute] While they’ve never come out against it, there have been times when my mom has questioned if I should continue. The typical subtle hint type of stuff.

Q Major influences?
A Anything and everything I’ve ever heard influences me, for good or bad. While learning to play, I did focus on guitar god-type players — Hendrix, Satriani, Vai, Tabor, Wylde, Bettencourt. Once I graduated from music school, I started concentrating more on song writing. That’s a whole different ballgame from being an awesome guitar player.

Q What’s the best advice you ever got?
A “Never quit.” However, there was a teacher at music school who did say: “Never get a day job! You’ll get too comfortable and music will become secondary.” Sure enough, many friends from music school did end up getting day jobs, got comfortable and quit. I took that to heart. Never got a day job.

Q Share some things on your bucket list.
A Win the WSOP Main Event. Mountain bike the Rockies from Canada to Mexico. Start an annual New Year’s Eve event. Tour all 50 states with my music, then tour the world. Restore an old car. Learn to fly a plane.

Q What kinds of bicycles do you own? Specifics, please. Bike junkies here.
A I have a Specialized mountain bike and a Cannondale EVO road bike. I also have a JMC Black Shadow BMX bike that I used to race as a little kid. The big kid in me still likes to ride it around now and then.

Q The skiing — were you on the national team? Pro sponsored? Spend any time at the Olympic Training Center? (The caf slop! Cement beds! Prisonish WCs… Asking for a wistful ex-USAC official.)
A As a skier I was nationally ranked but never on the U.S. team. I had some sponsors over the course of my competitive skiing career. I’ve been to the OTC, but not to train. I wish I had made that level — I missed it by 1/10th of a point, one place out of making the team.

Q What kinds of goodies do you bake besides brownies and bread? Where did your love of kitchen arts originate?
A My most famous dish would be pizza from scratch. I make the dough, the sauce, and on occasion the cheese as well. I’m much more into cooking. My mom had my sister and I fend for ourselves by having us use recipes out of a children’s cookbook. Mom is an excellent cook too, but wanted us to be self-sufficient in the kitchen. A skill that has certainly impressed members of the opposite sex.

Q Got any pets?
A I do have a dog. His name is Dorian. Many people think he’s named after The Picture of Dorian Gray. He’s really named after a mode of the major scale — Dorian.

Q Desert island, five entertainment must-haves, any media.
1. A guitar, to allow me to entertain myself with writing songs.
2. An internet connection.
3. From #2, I’ll be able to watch movies.
4. From #2, I’ll be able to read books.
5. From #2, I’ll be able to listen to other people’s music. 🙂

photog: Brian Gerber

Jody spots the drone bringing his Amazon delivery.

Jody Whitesides’ website:
Jody Whitesides is on IMDB
Jody Whitesides on Twitter: @JodyWhitesides
Studio photographs © 2016 Brian Gerber
Twitter photograph © 2016 Jody Whitesides
Everything else here Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved


I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

The Lost Supreme: The Life of Dreamgirl Florence Ballard | Book Review


The Lost Supreme: The Life of Dreamgirl Florence Ballard
by Peter Benjaminson
Book Review © 2014 Sydney Schuster – All Rights Reserved

Whether The Supremes are icons of your youth or a legend you’ve recently discovered, don’t miss The Lost Supreme: The Life of Dreamgirl Florence Ballard. Author Peter Benjaminson skips no juicy details in this splendid biography of the group’s founder and most gifted member.


A former investigative reporter and author of the books The Story of Motown and Mary Wells: The Tumultuous Life of Motown’s First Superstar, Benjaminson delivers a seamless portrayal of the R&B luminary who zoomed from projects to stardom at 20, descended into alcoholism and poverty, then died tragically at 32 while attempting a comeback.

Benjaminson’s exhaustive research is impeccable. Every page of The Lost Supreme comes alive with intimate recollections from Ballard and the people who knew her best.

For lovers of showbiz backstory, The Lost Supreme has it all — Ballard’s harrowing rape by an NBA star; her manipulation by Berry Gordy and Diane Ross; the power struggle between the tinny-voiced singer and the throaty, sultry one; the ludicrous contracts; the catfights; the racist attacks; the bizarre meeting with the Beatles; Ballard’s ignominious ouster from the Supremes; the fortune stolen from her; and her unsuccessful $8.7 million lawsuit against Motown.

There are many wonderful quotes, too, like this gem from Ballard about the songs from the Supremes’ first single: “… both flops, but they were good flops.” And this zinger from Mary Wilson: “Whenever Diane would insist on a lead and then sing it, we would sort of look at each other and try not to laugh. She had this weird little whiny sound.”

There are other books about the Supremes, but only this one’s author has a musician’s understanding of R&B, a union spokesman’s understanding of contract law, and a Detroiter’s understanding of the inner city. All serve to illuminate the book’s narrative without overpowering it, as when Benjaminson describes the Motown sound: “This heavy beat was a natural connection between the African past and the mechanized present … African American tradition updated by the incessant pounding of the punch press and buffed to a shiny gloss by contact with an urban society.”

Benjaminson’s writing style is clean and direct but never boring, painting vivid images of civil rights-era America while elegantly putting Ballard’s successes and struggles into perspective. He takes great care to analyze the conflicting reports of certain pivotal events that, Rashomon-like, left fans and historians alike scratching their heads for decades. With a keen talent for juxtaposing quotes and events, he unveils interpersonal dynamics overlooked in other books on this subject.

The author’s wry wit keeps things lively. About Motown’s notorious owner who mixed and matched artists, writers, and producers with wild abandon, he writes: “Gordy hadn’t worked in a factory for nothing: he knew the value of interchangeable parts.”

In short, The Lost Supreme is can’t-put-it-down reading.

The exclusive input from Ballard is riveting. By allowing Flo to speak for herself (based on extensive one-on-one interviews just before her death), Benjaminson and Ballard distinguish fact from myth in the oft-romanticized central story of a beleaguered superstar who stood up to an exploitive recording industry. It all adds up to a remarkable history, brought to life by the people who lived it.

Available on Amazon.

Don’t miss Peter Benjaminson’s article in Rolling Stone about how The Lost Supreme got thisclose to becoming a movie!guitars

Copyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on Amazon

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

MARY WELLS | A Great New Bio About Motown’s First Superstar

Mary Wells: The Tumultuous Life of Motown’s First Superstar
by Peter Benjaminson
Book Review © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

It doesn’t matter how much you think you know about the music world. Mary Wells: The Tumultuous Life of Motown’s First Superstar is a revelation. Peter Benjaminson’s fascinating exposé about this underappreciated hitmaker is a roller coaster ride that will leave you breathless. I couldn’t wait to see how it ended, even though I already knew (or thought I did).

This is the first book written about megastar Wells, and Benjaminson’s third book about Motown (along with The Lost Supreme and The Story of Motown). Clearly a devotee of R&B, he takes special care to explain why this musical genre is so compelling. But this superb book is also a gold mine of historical anecdotes — some humorous, some flat-out shocking, from wardrobe malfunctions to family deathbed fights to celebrity shootings. Lovers of showbiz dish will relish the stories about a teenaged Stevie Wonder groping Wells on the Motortown Revue tour bus, and Wells telling a furious Diana Ross to get a girdle. Reliably, Benjaminson never shrinks from airing the dirty laundry of anyone, including Motown founder Berry Gordy, one of the most feared and loathed gods of the entertainment world.

Gordy was himself a frustrated musical artist about whom Benjaminson explains: “No one found his playing or his singing all that overwhelming.” Gordy was far more successful as a producer and napoleonic CEO. Under his influence, Wells abandoned what the author describes as her “gutsy, gospel-type” singing style for “innocent, vulnerable adolescent lyrics … over a high-production, harmony-heavy vocal and instrumental background best exemplified by [Phil] Spector’s `Wall of Sound.'”

Thus in 1960 Wells became the first superstar of Motown Records. Then Gordy teamed her up with legendary songwriter Smokey Robinson, who, as Benjaminson explains, “encouraged her to sing in a higher register…. She followed his directions, then added her own smooth, knowing coyness, like a layer of delicious frosting, right on top.” Their songs catapulted Wells to crossover superpower status, where the Grammy-nominated phenom spent three years repeatedly topping charts with hits like “My Guy” and “Bye Bye Baby.”

What happened next is truly tragic. Wells’s life became a toxic stew of bad business decisions, aborted career reboots, and volatile romances. For her there would be no movies or TV shows like white pop stars got, and no more monster hits — only indifferent promotion by record companies, industrial sabotage, and substance abuse, all of which ultimately destroyed her.

Great gobs of Wells’s misfortune derived from unscrupulous managers and predatory contracts (she was only 17 when she joined Motown Records). Drugs and booze just made it all easier for her to bear. Hers is a cautionary tale that Benjaminson delivers with the warmth and understanding befitting a star of her caliber. His bulletproof reporting is built on extensive research and interviews with scores of people in Wells’s sphere, spiced with ballsy observations like this one about Wells’s first husband (band leader Herman Griffin, who performed backflips and splits while conducting):

Something other than drugs, liquor, and music was soon occupying her mind. “The audience liked to look at him as much as at her,” said Pete Moore [of The Miracles]. Mary also liked looking at Herman Griffin.

I confess to being a long-time Benjaminson fan. As a scribe, his style is delightful. Take how he characterizes two of Wells’s songs as “enlivened by what sound like farts from a low-pitched tuba.” C’mon, what’s not to like? If he wrote a book about fly swatters, I’d totally read it — and underline stuff and scrawl margin notes and make my friends read it, too.

As an investigator, his digging is so exhaustive it wears me out just thinking about it. Plus, he has a gift for distilling the maddeningly complex legal constructs of music contracts so that the lay wonks among us can appreciate their insanity, too. And he nimbly puts into perspective the numerous and often conflicting contemporary accounts of what really happened to the people he writes about.

I especially enjoy his books about showbiz luminaries, and this one is his best yet. Here Benjaminson delivers a seamless portrayal of an industry that devours its young, and what it was really like for a gifted casualty like Mary Wells.

Available on Amazon.

Mary Wells
Dead SpotCopyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Enright Has Left the Building

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Thom Enright

Thom Enright. Know that name? Well, he’s a musician. Or more accurately, a musician’s musician. Three of Thom’s old bands — plus Thom himself, natch — will be inducted into the Rhode Island Music Hall of Fame tomorrow.

Thom’s a certified big star in New England. Maybe he’s not a household name where you live, but if you think you’ve never heard him play, think again.

He was a regular member (and MVP, some would argue) of numerous bands of historical significance: The Young Adults, The Duke Robillard Band, The Pleasure Kings, Tombstone Blues Band, Roomful of Blues, Shakey Legs, and John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. He was also a first-call guitar and bass player who performed on many Grammy-winning and gold-selling albums for Sony, Columbia, and Rounder. Thom worked with Bo Diddley, James Cotton, Robert Cray, John Lee Hooker, Paul Butterfield, Ronnie Earl, Hubert Sumlin, Jimmy Vaughan, Big Joe Turner, John Hammond, Jimmy Thackery, and Dr. John. You can read more about his career here, here, and here.

As an artist and especially as a friend, Thom was unmatched in grace and style. His wry wit was legendary. He was some kinda snazzy dresser, too. I wish I’d gotten to see 1970s Tombstone Band Jewfro Thom, and skinny-ties Pleasure Kings Thom of the ’80s.

Should time machines ever be invented, here’s the top of my do-over list:

✔ See Thom Enright perform “A Power Tool Is Not a Toy” in a kimono and fishnets.
✔ Buy Apple shares at $22.
✔ Kill Hitler.

Thom and I met in the ’90s during his blazers-and-berets period, after he joined Beaver Brown. JCBBB sax player Tunes Antunes introduced us. “You should meet the new guy,” he said. “He needs a fan.”

He didn’t really. He totally had that covered. But I was sold. Long after Thom departed JCBBB and well into his Barney’s-manager-lookalike phase, I was still bugging him for his gig sked.

He was cute. And funny. And he really could play the hell out of every kind of music. I am not exaggerating. I heard it all.

What I’ve been hearing for the past few days, though, is lots of Thom Enright stories. Here’s one of my personal favorites:

After one of his shows, he was saying his goodnights to everyone. I grabbed his guitar case and said, “I’m carrying this!” He looked at me sideways and argued half-heartedly (girls didn’t carry anyone’s guitars back then, except their own, if they had one). Realizing that resistance was futile, he laughed as we hauled his gear out to the parking lot. One of the band wives happened to see this. We caught her glowering at us (we were both very married to stay-at-home spouses, so this cartage business was simply unacceptable). We paused to speculate about the havoc we’d wreaked on her moral sensibilities. That took, like, two seconds. Then we waved at her and resumed laughing and gossiping and cramming stuff into Thommy’s car.

A prize in every box

For sure, everyone in The Biggest Little knows Thom. It got me out of a traffic ticket once, when I blew through a red light I didn’t see because I was looking at a map instead. The cop who pulled me over asked me where I’d been. I told him I’d just left a Thom Enright show. It was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

Whenever I went to any of Thom’s gigs, I felt like I’d won the nightlife lottery. One time his wife Olga and I alternated loud singing of our favorite Enright tunes with loud yakking about shoe shopping, which I’m sure the band really appreciated. She isn’t your typical band spouse, and it was obvious why Thom loved her. She came to his gigs often, presiding over a salon of sorts with their friends.

There were always interesting people who came to hear Thom play. His audiences regularly included music world royalty, and sometimes Hollywood’s. It seemed perfectly natural to see Duke Robillard, Bobby Farrelly, Paul Geremia, or Barry Cowsill at the bar.

But a lot of Thom’s admirers were just crazed fans. When he was a regular at the Narragansett Cafe and I was in my cowboy-boots-and-DA period, I always got followed into the ladies’ head by an angry Jamestown mob that thought I was some drunk guy stalking their women.

Me, I was just there for some dazzling musicianship. I sometimes had to battle my way out of a restroom for it, but I was never disappointed.

Some Thom history & trivia

Thom elevated every band he ever joined, and he was in a lot of them. I saw him perform with two national acts.

The configuration of JCBBB that included Thom was their best. He gave them an oomph — sometimes on guitar, sometimes bass — that was new for them, yet complemented their style perfectly. One night Cafferty broke a string and ducked offstage to replace it. The band had already started playing their barn burner “Runnin’ Thru the Fire,” so Thommy and Gary Gramolini covered Cafferty’s absence with a dueling guitars shootout. It was such a steaming hot can of whupass, the band kept it in the act.

Thommy eventually left JCBBB for Roomful of Blues, who were willing to perform and record his songs. His blues romp “Love to Watch You When You Go” was the big hit on Roomful’s eponymous album of 2001. The Enright era of the long-running franchise was a particularly successful one. Roomful was so much in demand that Thom had to leave, he told me (with no hint of irony), because the constant travel was killing him.

He started recording his own albums, and it’s too bad there weren’t more of them. Blue Teeth (1994) and Intoxicated (2005) featured original material, plus blues and rock standards stamped with his unique creative spin. Thom was a superb tunesmith. He could also take pop songs you’ve heard a million times — “Don’t Worry Baby,” “To Love Somebody,” “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” — and finesse them into something refreshingly new.

Reviewing Intoxicated for the Boston Phoenix, Bob Gulla wrote: “The lead title track stands out, with some wicked riffs and an edgy arrangement. If you want to hear what all the fuss is about, you can get Intoxicated here.

Intoxicated - Thom Enright

When he fronted his own bands, serious magic happened. That’s when Thom became a really good singer, too. He sounded a lot like Warren Haynes. I heard him wring the bejeezus out of “Crazy” — any vocalist’s nightmare — and was blown away. I congratulated him on it. And this guy — this honkin’ monster talent who could play everyone else under the table — said this: “Thanks. I’m still kinda self-conscious about it.”

I don’t know which was more amazing — the sheer scope of Thom’s talent or the fact that he never got a big head about it. He welcomed any opportunity to play. No club was too small. That’s what he lived for.

You know, the dude could’ve been a raging egomaniac and no one would’ve questioned it. But he wasn’t. Years ago he asked me to write him a press release. The original title was: All Meat. No Filler. Enright Delivers! He was embarrassed and changed it to something not so Mister Saturday Night. Actually, his title was much better: Plays Right. Sings Right. Enright.

And that was Thom in a nutshell. He towered over everyone in his field (literally and figuratively). Yet he was never a diva, not that I ever saw. He’d be so mortified by this post, he’d turn eighty shades of pink. Sweetest guy you ever met, always with a joke and some gossip, always glad to see you. Unless you were a ginormous dick, in which case good luck with that.

For those who weren’t, an evening with Thom was always fun. Once I asked him to sign one of his CDs for me. “Write something steamy,” I said. He wrote: “Hurl, baby, hurl, all night long!” Another time he asked me if I wanted to sing. Sing? Really? I’d never suggested that was in my arsenal of dubious talents. I was quite shocked and wildly flattered that he trusted me not to skunk up his gig. He admired my fashion statement that night — blinding white Varvatos Cons.

I wore them to his funeral. In 2008 Thom was diagnosed with a brain glioma and given six months to live. He died on February 20 after kicking its butt to hell and back for four years. He never stopped performing, nor being a friend to the many people who now have one more reason to admire him. There’s been a disruption in the force, and it’s big.

Text & Photo Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved.
Thom Enright album covers copyright © Thom Enright.
No, you can’t use them without permission.

No Degrees of Separation | My Date with Kevin Bacon

My Date with Kevin Bacon

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Anyone who lives in LA or New York (and I’ve lived in both) bumps into famous people all the time. Me, I’ve seen more famous people than the LAPD.

Most of the time I’m underwhelmed. When Walter Wriston was still CEO of Citicorp, I made him give me an office building. When someone introduced me to Elvin Bishop, I asked him why he was late. I ignored Nicolas Roeg at a party at my own house. I got stuck on a post office line behind Phoebe Cates acting all paranoid about people making an embarrassing fuss, but no one gave a crap. You get the picture.

Anyway, you know how, when you unexpectedly run into someone famous, there’s a beat or two during which you know you know this person but can’t remember why? Well, that didn’t happen yesterday when I was in the art supply store, shopping for crazy handmade papers with names like Mango:natural slate. The aisle was very narrow and I’m very wide. Someone who wanted the Marbled momi:volcano I was blocking said, “Excuse me.”

I looked up. Blow me down! It was Kyra Sedgwick. With her was her mate, hat pulled over his eyes and looking down, apparently hoping nobody would ask him to do the Footloose dance.

Go figure. One second I’m fingering weird paper with garbage mashed into it, the next I’m looking into the smiling face of The Closer. And, um, Mr. Closer. In a store that writers and actors totally don’t need, in a city where none of us lives.

Fun facts: She’s a tiny lady with a huge grin that lights up her whole face. He dyes his hair black so fans won’t recognize him (no problem — I’d totally hit that). My half of our conversation: “Uh, sure!”

So it’s official. I am now zero degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon. Everyone I know moves up five (except my friend Lew who knows Kevin’s sister, and my actor ex-boyfriend, a Kevin Bacon look-alike who lost every part he ever auditioned for to … Kevin Bacon). Plus, I have a big honking girlcrush on Mrs. Bacon. No one’s ever been so nice about telling me to get out of the way.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

The Phoenix and the Chicken | 1970 Triumph Daytona

I just loves me some old bikes! That’s why I used to write about them for a slew of now-defunct vintage motorjunk rags — Old Bike Journal, Classic Cycle Review, and others. It was truly a labor of love, because the pay truly sucked.

The piece you’re about to read was written in 1994. The photos here are from 17-year-old Kodachrome slides that used to be in color. Trust me, this bike is purple.

Anyway, this piece was never published because I wrote it for a magazine that went under just before I mailed it in. So wait no longer. Enjoy!

Text & Photos Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

A 1970 Triumph Daytona Gets a Second Chance

“You’ll never find it by yourself,” Ron Butler assures me over the phone. Is he talking about the Titanic? Shangri-La? Inner peace?

Nah. He means his house in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, where I’m going to check out his bike.

“Meet me at the Big Chicken,” he says.

The Big Chicken? Right.

So off I go on my mission, which is to inspect not large poultry but rather something closer to eternal life: Ron’s painstakingly restored 1970 Triumph T100R. It’s a shiny purple bomber resurrected from a rust-encrusted hulk. But before we get into that, let’s get you up to speed on this chicken thing.

Unlike Ron’s house, you couldn’t miss the Big Chicken with a busted Hubble. And what the locals call a chicken isn’t a chicken at all, but a rooster. A six-foot-tall rooster. It’s a major landmark here in Lebanon, but it would be equally distinctive anywhere.


As promised, Ron is waiting for me at the Big Chicken. It squats majestically on Route 322, perpetually trying to hatch a feed mill office. From there we proceed to Ron’s house, where several nice bikes live with Ron. When he’s not crossing your wires in his secret life as a phone network analyst, he’s out cruising blacktop on a couple of big Harleys or a Kawasaki triple.

But the undisputed star of his fleet is the T100R. Also known as the Daytona Super Sports, this unit 500 twin debuted commercially in 1967, the same year the works prototype won at Daytona. The production model was essentially unchanged from the racing version. Consequently, the Daytona holds a special place in history as one of Triumph’s first café racers.

Production continued through 1973, when Triumph abandoned the model as a result of financial woes and the whims of a buying public clamoring for big twins. The Daytona 500 was exported to the U.S. in smaller numbers than the 650 Bonneville and Trophy, making it a rare sight indeed in the colonies today.

Modest sales failed, however, to squelch the Daytona’s historical importance. Among its technological innovations was a radical new unit twin design. Unit construction engines per se weren’t new, having been introduced in 1957. But they’d been well-hidden beneath bathtubs until 1967, the year the new T100’s muscle was exposed for all the world to see. The next year a revolutionary hole appeared in the T100’s primary chaincase that allowed ignition timing to be checked with a strobe light.

The seven-year production span was a parade of firsts, including an oil pressure gauge and a rev counter. When turn indicators and idiot lights made their appearance, they were hot news in the motorhead world.

By 1970 the T100 had morphed into Ron’s version. At 83.25 inches long and 336 pounds, it’s a compact bike with a huge power plant, and so buff that it needs an eight-inch twin-leading-shoe front brake to manage all its fire-breathing horsepower. The spec is 41 BHP at 7,200 RPM; contemporary literature pegs its top speed at 120 mph or so (on leaded gas). When asked to verify that figure, Ron just grins and says his bike goes pretty good.

Fair enough. But no way would you believe it was unrecognizable a couple of years ago, little more than a decaying doorstop in someone else’s garage.

Back then, Ron says, “The engine was a deep red color from the rust” acquired from a decade of hatching dustballs. Complementing that was an attractive topcoat of pigeon dung.

Arguably the scariest part was prying the Daytona from its then-owner, an old-timer who claimed he was “saving” the bike — because it was so rare and valuable! Rare, certainly. Valuable? Maybe to pigeons.

“I mean, it was ugly!” Ron says, laughing now about the treasure he paid “a couple hundred bucks” for after two years of dogged persuasion. When he finally went to collect it, he says, “I didn’t even try to start it up. I kicked it over with the kickstart to make sure the engine wasn’t frozen up. But I wasn’t even going to try to get it going.”

Given the circumstances, “wasn’t frozen up” is compelling testimony indeed to the immortality of the 490 cc OHV motor that once kicked ass at Daytona.

Inertia and corrosion were only two of Ron’s problems. Before abandoning it in the dovecote, the T100R’s former owner had tarted it up with the wrong head and a single-carb conversion, and tossed the original dual Amal Concentrics. The mufflers were incorrect, the electrics were shot, and all the decals and badges were missing. Ditto any chrome that had ever safeguarded its metal parts. Assuming the speedo is original, it’s been a helluva long 18,774 miles.

Perhaps because Ron lives in the shadow of a leviathan pullet, it takes him a while to find a bright side to this chapter. But eventually he recalls something good about the mess he brought home: “I don’t think this bike was ever wrecked!”

He never doubted its potential or authenticity, not even after showing it off to a buddy whose response was, “What the heck did you get that for?!”

A good question. But when the bike going gets tough, the tough go to someone with a storeroom like a transit museum. In Ron’s neighborhood, that would be Hermy Baver, Jr., of Hermy’s Cycle Sales in Port Clinton, Pennsylvania.

Ron told Hermy the project was a piece of cake. “All Hermy had to do was completely dismantle the twin, fix everything, and then just reassemble it again to new condition.” See, men of vision are different from us mortals.

I call Hermy and ask him for any fond memories. “The bars were rusty,” he says after thinking for a while. “And the engine was cracked and had to be welded.”

The job took six months. Ron says the work order was seven pages long.

Fortunately, Hermy’s been around the block with old Triumphs. He dug up new rims and spokes, the correct head, a wiring harness, and stock mufflers. He reinstated the correct Amal carbs. Everything that was ever chromed, he replated or replaced. The hardest piece to locate? That was the styling strip atop the gas tank. Naturally, Hermy triumphed.

An interesting footnote to this restoration suggests hope for the spawn of Detroit. The Daytona’s paint and powder coating were jobbed out to a car dealership, Knopf Pontiac in Allentown, and executed there by master craftsman Jesse Britton. The worst-kept secret in Pennsylvania, Britton reportedly repaints more old bikes than Catalinas, and it shows. During deconstruction Hermy had found traces of the original purple paint on the underside of the tank, which Jesse replicated perfectly. And check out the hand-applied pin striping!

Ron says he fixed up his bike to ride, not show, and boy does he. Dusting the Big Chicken was never so much fun. And how does that Daytona run?

“Great! It’s brand new again!” says Ron. It looks brand new, too. “I’ll be riding it ’til I’m 95!”

Text & Motorcycle Photos Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Big Chicken Photo Copyright © 2011 DEBRA JANE SELTZER

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5. Thanks!

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.