Doug Boughton

Dropping Acid and Motorbikes

It was a hot day at the end of April in 1969. I was 19 and riding my nicely customized  Honda 305 Scrambler back home. I decided to stop at a bar to enjoy the air conditioning, downed one frosty, then hopped back on the bike. Fate is a strange thing: if I hadn’t enjoyed that stop, maybe the day would have turned out differently.

I had got my own hippie styled duds on, a Bell helmet with shaded visor, a tight T-shirt, weathered tight jeans, and a pair of fringed moccasin boots.

When I woke up, the Fire Department ambulance was already there. I knew what had happened; a station wagon made a left turn across my lane, there were skid marks from my brakes, but I probably hit her front grille doing 45 mph.

So now I’m in a hanging cast on my left arm for my broken shoulder and my broken left elbow, I’ve also got a cast on my broken left ankle. I’m pretty busted up, so it's gonna be a shite summer, but I learned to get around on one crutch.

I owned a Corvan delivery van that I bought off a fuel company. I still somehow still drove it for short trips, shifting the 4-speed with my right hand and using my knees to hold the steering wheel, along with an innertube over the clutch pedal so the cast on my left foot wouldn’t slip off.

I was kinda bored, but still went out, but since I wasn't on a bike, I can’t enjoy the season.  Mike Fitzgerald gave me a jingle - Fitz, we did the bikes together - and he says, 'Hey, mind if I borrow your van, me and another guy want to go race at the scrambles tomorrow and race.' I said, 'Only if I can go.'

They sat the cripple in the middle, the fckers, but it was a great day for me and my crutch. The scramble track was good; hard-packed dirt, twisty with a great chute before the jump, elevation changes. Plus,  chicks seem to dig a banged-up motorcycle rider.

When we got this other guy's bike in the van, Fitz introduced me, his name was, Franky Valente. He had a 350 Ossa Stiletto Scrambler, Fitz was riding the 250 version. So, this guy Franky is running his heat, and he takes off with a whiskey throttle, and hardly ever lets go of it.  I never saw anything like it; he may as well have been stretched over the seat like Rollie Free.  A captive of his right hand, the dude crashed hard on his second lap, and then did it again in the consee’ race! But, Mike was fast and got a second in his final.

So I ask Mike, 'What’s up with this guy?' Mike tells me 'Franky is a member of the Hells Angels, and he loves to race bikes, while he’s on acid.'

That explains everything, so we stopped at a cool restaurant to get some eats.  Franky was smart and a ton of fun. When we dropped him and his bike off, he says he’s got some beer, c’mon in.  A proper man cave, stuffed dead animals on the walls, real batch pad, in its most elemental form.

We’re having a blast, digging Johnny Winters, and the acid rock should have been a red flag, but I’m young and live to party, and now I’m tripping on a half of a real small pill called Orange Sunshine.

I was in my underwear and casts in the middle of the woods behind our house in a teeming rainstorm the next afternoon, when I finally came out of it. Found my way back to the house, got cleaned up, was watching TV when dad got home from work. Dad says, 'How was the race?' Hahah, 'Was fine, Mike got a second, yeah.'

Franky was killed at the end the summer from his own whisky handed throttle on his chopper while tripping, he was flying up the Taconic Parkway, which had stone tunnel overpasses.  He was probably seeing double and chose the wrong hole; they said it looked like he was doing at least a buck when he hit that stone arch.

It was only a matter of time, I guess. Outlaw lifestyle was never for me, but there is a lore to doing whatever you want to do, I just didn’t care for a lot of what they did. Yet, I’d find myself hanging with them here and there.

The Troy H.A. chapter was looking for me for a while; stupid on my part. They arrived at the Starlet, a go-go bar that was my hang; when the club walked in, it was loud, and I yelled to my buddy that the big bad Hells Angels were here, except just as I yelled that, the place went quiet, because the big bad Hells Angels were here. They all gave me a good look, along with everyone else, so as they getting seated and not looking, I went out the back kitchen door and around to my car, having told Leo, the owner, 'Nobody knows me.' Meanwhile, the FBI was after the Troy chapter for some criminal activity, and finally shut them down, so they were gone from the area, freeing me up to roam where I pleased, but def a lesson learned; when they’re around, just keep your big mouth shut and give them a wide margin.

Fast forward, I always wanted to learn guitar, and found I had a good voice, so I wrote songs and got good enough to entertain when given the chance. One of the songs I wrote was about Franky, to capture the outlaw deal. Plus, there are very few Harley songs, despite the fact that Harley has sold millions of their bikes, and they have a huge following, and certainly, a lot the attraction comes from their association with the outlaw community.

The Ballad of Franky 

He’s got tats on his body, got sleeves on his arms,
Some of them when was down on the farm,
He rides Milwaukee Iron, a 65’ Pan
And he only rides with the Harley clan

Silver plated concho’s on his boots and bags
Wears a cut so old, looks like an old rag
Got a primary chain wrapped around his chaps
That chain ain’t there to hold up his pants
He’s the real deal and ain’t no poser
Mess with him, and Franky is the closer

Now a Milwaukee mill will really run
No substitute for a Harley Davidson
She’s bored and stroked, taken out to the max
With a nitrous bottle when he wants to pass
Got a set of carbs from an old XKE
Competition mag’, Joe Hunt Company

When it comes to women, he’s got no lack
Got a bootleg woman who rides on the back
She takes care of him, don’t suffer no fools
A one-percenter, she don’t live by the rules
She’s mean and nasty, and she knows how to fight
And Franky’s been violating her old man’s copyrights

You’re never so alive, as when you ride close to death
A split second separates the quick from the dead
Flat out one night on the interstate
Tripped out on acid, he was tempting his fate
A light rain falls gently on his stone
“Franky was here, now Franky is gone”
Franky was here, now Franky is gone”

 

 

 

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by Doug Boughton

Willy, the Hot Redhead, and the Loaner Goldie

By Doug Boughton

To make a long story short, I got into bikes at the tender age of 13. By the time I turned 16, I was entering off-road races - scrambles and TTs - but only when I could find transport to and from the tracks. That changed when I befriended a National-level flat track racer...who had just gotten out of prison. Yeah, Willy Massey and his hot little redhead wife Suzy moved into the trailer next to us; it’s a long story.

Willy was the real deal, hard as nails anytime he needed to be, always on edge when he wasn’t around family, or with us young racers. Because he treated us like we were his age, being around him was an education in how to be an adult. But he never totally lost that criminal element, he had just grown more clever… plus he’d done 5 years already. He and Suzy allowed each other their unspoken sins, and he had a lot of them…a lot.

Of course you want to know how he ended up in the slammer: when Willy was a young and wild punk, he was in a 1%er motorcycle gang. I think he used to get really hammered with them, but after his prison stint, never. Someone in the club had the bright idea of stealing a safe from a local business: they backed a stolen tow truck right up to the business late one night, and busted the window to get inside. Once in, they wrapped a long chain around the safe and back out the window to the tow truck. Then they gassed it, and blew a huge hole through the side of the building. But they didn’t stop somewhere to lift the safe up, they just dragged it down the street, like no one’s gonna notice. They drove right to their clubhouse garage and pulled the door down, leaving a nice long scratch in the road for the cops to follow. Not the brightest bulbs.

When Willy and Suzy moved into his brother’s trailer, he brought along a Parilla 250 Wildcat Scrambler. At the time he was racing TTs and scrambles in the Amateur class, and a lot of them: it’s the perfect place to be for most of us, as National Expert is another world. God smiled on me because he had an extra slot on his race trailer. Willy became my bad ass Uncle, who transported me and my stripped down Honda 160 to events. During those drives, and generally hanging around him, he taught me so much about motorcycles and life. Willy was no longer racing flat track, but was still campaigning a Gold Star using another rider: he had blown out his knee on a sandy corner at the original Daytona beach track, and could no longer race that discipline.

Eventually Willy quit all his racing, but still wanted a daylight street bike, so he converted his full race Daytona Gold Star into a street bike; he dummied up some lights, and put a license plate on it. By that time he'd moved into a proper house, as he had a well-paying job as an ironworker. If I came over and mowed his lawn late on Sunday, he’d let me borrow his Goldie, so I could ride it during the week when he was busy at his job.

The Daytona-spec motor had a very high-compression piston, and the Competition magneto was locked at full advance. If you tried to kickstart the beast, you paid, so I always parked the Goldie on a hill, or if none was available, I had to beg for a push. It always fired right up.  One day I was down in Troy, New York, putting some money in my meager bank account. There were no nearby hills, so I needed help, and spotted this big biker type dude walking by. I asked him for a push and explained to him that the Goldie wouldn’t start using the kicker: it had to be pushed.

Well, he said he rode a kickstart Harley, and called me a pussy. Then he said he’d start the bike for me. I said, 'be my guest.' He lumbered onto the bike, rose up from the seat, and came down with a mighty swing of his leg, rolling the throttle as he followed through. Ptooeee! It was like the bike hawked up a huge lugee; he went flying off and landed on the ground, then the bike fell on him, hahahah. I helped get the bike off him; he stood up and said 'Get on kid, I’ll give you a push.'

I stayed friends with Willy until he died; he gave me all his photos and so on. These images are mostly from the late 1950s, when I was just getting out of high school. Willy was what Hollywood was selling to the public as a leading man, but he was the real deal.   It was always like we were making a movie when he was around; kind of epic. I honestly don’t miss him though, because he’d just show up, get in your face, and want to go ride street bikes fast. In later years he would keep up with me on my ’93 Ducati Monster while riding an ex-cop Harley Dyna that was stroked and bored. He had a lot more mass to stop when we passed a line of cars, and used to curse me out if I caught him up short. Then all of sudden, he could be gone for years before you saw him again. In fact, he may not even be dead…

 

 

 

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by Doug Boughton