I've met many people in my life. Some are more memorable than others.
Thirty years ago I started riding motorcycles. At the time I didn't know other bikers so I went out and looked for some. I started hanging out at a biker bar in Valley Stream ("The Clubhouse"). The bar was conspicuously rough and seedy. Patrons engaged in sex in the basement, drunks got rip-roaringly intoxicated every night of the week and pool games sometimes ended in fistfights. I always arrived on my bike wearing motorcycle gear, announcing my enthusiasm for motorcycling. Often I traveled in very cold weather, conveying my commitment to living like a badass. Patrons frequently insisted on going outside to inspect my motorcycle "'cause only a lunatic would ride in the ass of Winter."
Before long I befriended the owners, all of whom belonged to a local motorcycle club. After many late nights drinking, tossing darts and shooting pool I developed good friendships. They, of course, steered me toward their M/C which I joined. After probation (several group rides and club meetings) I was admitted to the club. After the first year I got an award for "Most Enthusiastic Member." Two years later I was elected club President and, the year after that, was re-elected for a second term.
One of the owners, Rich Culmone, became my closest friend. I enjoyed Rich for his rare combination of social deviance and personal generosity. His background is full of eccentric employments and activities. Rich's demeanor is tough and intimidating, yet he's a sweet guy at heart. If you are his friend, as I am, there is absolutely nothing he won't do for you. Rich will take a bullet -- or shoot one -- to protect you. Plus Rich's girlfriend (later wife) Roberta is cheery and delightful.
Since I was new to motorcycling there was plenty I didn't know. Rich taught me gobs about riding and how to be a biker. By example and through advice he rapidly transformed me from a tyro to an old hand. He taught me about biker culture, outlaw clubs, what "81" means, and how to deal with criminals and low-lifes. This was all new to me.
At the time I rode locally every day but hadn't been on any long trips. My first was initiated by Rich and it was a huge learning experience. Rich was planning to ride by himself from New York to Montana to attend the annual BMW Motorrad rally. I could squeeze eight days off work so I decided to join him, traveling as far west as I could in four days (which turned out to be North Dakota) before turning around and coming home alone. I covered 4,000 miles during those eight days, passing through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Canada and North Dakota.
The trip was amazing. My first surprise was when we were leaving: Rich said we had to make a quick stop so he could "get some bullets." Bullets?! Rich bought ammo which alerted me to the fact he was "packing" on the trip.
A second surprise was crossing the longest suspension bridge in the world: the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan. We arrived at the bridge in a windy rainstorm just after the sun had gone down. Minutes later bridge operators lit a sign saying "No Motorcycles" due to the hazardous conditions but we were already on the bridge-span. Wind was so strong that it pushed our bikes sideways toward involuntary lane-changes. I could barely see the road but was aware that the outer guardrail was lower than my motorcycle. Riding with white knuckles I spent eternity wrestling with the likely possibility of being blown off the bridge and falling thousands of feet to a watery death. Later, after getting to the other side, I stopped at a gas station and mentioned this to an old woman at the counter. She said "Yeah, we lose a few cars off the bridge every year."
Riding across the bridge Rich was sure I was gonna die. He worried my family would blame him for putting me, an inexperienced rider, in that dangerous situation. Rich cares for me and would have felt terrible watching me get blown overboard to a watery death but, in truth, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. We were stuck in a real "ride or die" quandary.
After four days on the road with Rich I returned home by myself. The first four days prepared me to solo-ride long distance. I didn't have the guts to do that when we started; Rich gave me the necessary confidence and aplomb. He helped me grow into a long-distance motorcycle rider.
I've stayed friends with Rich ever since then, even after he and Roberta moved to Las Vegas. He returns to New York to visit his daughter and includes seeing me during those visits. A few years ago Rich, like me, started suffering health problems which forced him to give up motorcycling. His charm, however, never disappeared. We joke on the phone and chat about old times, the club and fellow biker-buddies.
Thanks, Rich, for the kindness you've shown me. Keep the rubber side down, buddy.
