When I built my chopper, I also helped my girlfriend's brother, Mark, build one of his own. Mine was a lot cooler — but they were both great bikes, and both drew plenty of attention. Mark and I shared the rent on a two-bedroom house in Fullerton, CA, halfway between my work in La Mirada and Cal State Fullerton, where I was taking classes at the time. We rode together often, though we had different days off, so there were plenty of solo rides too. Both of us worked the swing shift — four to midnight.
One evening Mark took a friend, Steven, out for a loop — San Juan Capistrano, down through Elsinore, back up to Fullerton. Somewhere north of Elsinore, his bike broke down. They walked to the nearest phone, and Mark called me at work to see if I'd come get them. I wasn't giving up my earnings for anybody — it was only a couple more hours anyway.
As soon as I punched out, I was headed for the Ortega Highway, one of my favorite roads at the time — fourteen twisty miles rising up from the coast, then dropping back down to Elsinore Lake in another five. From there I picked up county road 15, a dark one-lane stretch that's now I-15, four lanes each direction. It didn't take long to find Mark and Steven sitting on the shoulder.
We checked the bike over and found the problem: every lug bolt holding the brake drum to the drive sprocket had worked loose and scattered somewhere along the highway behind us. I had no idea what I was up against, and even less idea how to deal with it.
We talked it over and decided our best shot was to ride north, find a farmhouse, and borrow a rope. A few miles up we spotted a porch light that looked promising — then started having second thoughts about knocking on a stranger's door at two in the morning. A man who answers his door at that hour with a shotgun in hand isn't in a lending mood.
So instead, we peeked in the back of a station wagon parked outside. There, coiled up and brand new, sat a hemp rope.
We borrowed it. We never did get around to the returning part.
Back with Mark, I tied our bikes together to tow him home. His last words before I pulled away:
"Don't go over twenty-five miles an hour!!"
It towed just fine at sixty-five. Nobody so much as looked twice — not even the CHP officer handing a performance award to some other midnight traveler as we merged onto the 91.
Back home, Mark started in about going way over twenty-five.
I told him I couldn't say. My bike didn't have a speedometer.