One of the "Guy Things" of our era for those who could afford them--or who would work and save up to get them--was WHEELS.  A guy with vehicular locomotion was someone to respect.  If the vehicle had FOUR wheels, he could expect to do well in the dating game.  

Nevertheless, two wheel vehicles were pretty cool if they were motorcycles.  Back then, motorcycles were not used to transport girls, but rather to ride on the open road.  Bikers planned expeditions that, today, would earn extra academic points in school.  But, back then, ridin' to places like Shiloh National Park was one of the open road adventures to be enjoyed for the thrill of the ride.

I made up the name of Ralph Emmons' car for the caption.  For all practical purposes, car color selections were Black and Black.  That's not actually true, since I remember red and yellow body/black fenders and, even dark blue colors on some cars.  My brother had a brown Chevrolet that he was constantly working on with Dad--good preparatory work for an engineer-to-be.

I understand from Ron Newborn that Ralph put a lot of work into his car, too.  You can see the gleam on the exterior skin and the wide white sidewall tires, but what you can't see are the rebored engine and the equipment he added to make this vintage car a "souped-up" vintage car--a "real mean machine."

Can you guess how much car aficionados would pay today for a vintage car like this beauty that belonged to Jimmy Todd during our high school days?  I'll bet he loved his car as much as he seems to in this picture. . . what affection is expressed by that warm and tender hug?  His eyes are even closed!  Cars like this one were very popular in the parades held on special occasions in Sheffield--like Homecoming or Veteran's Day.

See, this is how popular jalopies were.  Important portraits utilized them as props.  You can also see that choices other than Black were available, although this choice may have been available through the local or backyard automobile paint shop.

The jeep was especially popular--our version of the HumVee, a useful military vehicle popularized in the civilian arena by the military contractor who wanted to diversify its application and maximize his profits.  At any rate, this novelty car had its younger fans--Monteen McNeese and Wilson Morris (center).  Dossy White sits on his jalopy's fender, and I can't remember the two on the ends.

Farley Vaughn and his BSA motorcycle

Talk about "vintage!"  This BSA Bantam probably predates our high school years, because of the fender style.  I remember when Farley acquired the bike.  He was like a proud parent.  It had a matte olive green, very military appearance.

Farley related two biking stories to me on a recent get-together.

The first one is about the day his wife, Tommie, became an avowed non-rider.  On an open road in the country, he leaned into a curve at 35-40 mph, thinking this would be an easy turn.  There were woods on the right and open field covered in blackberry bramble on the left about 20-30 yards off the road.  About half-way into the turn, Farley began to realize that this was not a 30 degree or a 45 degree or even a 90 degree turn.  It was a full 180 degree hairpin!  At that speed, with the bike leaning almost on its side, the arc of the path moved across the "Do Not Pass" solid yellow line, edging towards the edge of the asphalt of the oncoming lane.  Finally, they left the road, crossing the grassy shoulder, full-blast into the brambles.  When she finished picking thorns out of her entire body's surface, Tommie announced the end of their riding partnership.

The second story tells you how important The Ride is to a biker.  The group that Farley rode with during high school planned a ride to Shiloh National Battlefield, but he had been having brake problems.  These plans were made late in the afternoon for the next day, so he didn't have much time to correct the problem.  No problem for the avid biker who could take apart and put together the entire bike if he had to!  He spent the evening removing the old brake pads in preparation for a quick installation of the new pads he would get first thing the next morning when the cycle shop opened.  As luck would have it, tho, they didn't have the right size pads in stock!  Did that stop our biking enthusiast?  No way!  The group put him in front as lead rider (probably to keep him from running them down from the rear).  He said that he could control the down-speeding by gearing down to lower gears and, then, applying shoe leather to pavement to finish the stop.  At the end of the successful ride he pulled up to his home that night with no injuries or crashes, but his shoes' leather soles were thinner than Italian designer shoes.

BSA: Birmingham Small Arms was England's largest and for a time, the world's largest motorcycle manufacturer. The company began in 1854 as a joint venture of a number of small Birmingham, England area gunsmiths to supply armaments to the British forces during the Crimean War. The progression to build bicycles came in the 1880's as a result of a decreased demand for firearms. BSA's motorcycle business started in 1903 building re-enforced frames to hold an imported 2hp engine. The first BSA to roll off the line with all of its parts produced in-house was a 498cc side valve engine in 1910.

BSA had a relatively strong racing presence prior to the Second World War. All racing activity was put aside during the War but resumed afterwards to give the company consistent racing results which had eluded them beforehand. Racing success equals strong consumer sales and the motorcycles were considered very reliable and a good value for the money.

Me, Louis Buettner, and my Sears Scooter.  Did you notice those high-top shoes?

I had a paper route for the Birmingham Post-Herald during my first years in high school.  Early in the morning before daylight, I rode my bicycle the 12 blocks down to the Greyhound Station on Nashville Avenue.  The bus usually had already run, and the papers were there waiting for us paperboys to collect, find our spot on the rough wooden tables, and start folding.  We had to make the tight little squares that were for throwing--no rolled papers or plastic bags for us.  After packing my paperbag with the rows of neatly folded newspapers, I headed for Brewer's Cafe, run by my Aunt Louise and Uncle Red.  There, I would breakfast on scrambled eggs, fried bacon and Maxwell House Coffee--"Good to the last drop."  

After that I started my appointed rounds.  Not every store in town or house on every block took the Post-Herald.  I learned quickly to get the doors and houses straight, because, if I sent one to the wrong place, I would get a call from the manager by the time I got back home, and I would have to make the trip across town to deliver a paper to the irate customer whom I had missed.  We paid for every paper we folded and took with us on our delivery rounds, and we got to keep whatever we could collect from the customers on Saturday Collection Day.  That way, we paperboys paid for both the incorrectly delivered paper and the one that we had to take to the customer we missed.  Delinquent and deadbeat customers were carried for weeks (paperboy eating the cost of each paper).  We dared not cut off a customer because he or she was only a month or two behind.  They just might take pity on us and pay us what they owed sooner or later.  I'm sure there was some lesson in life that was learned from this one-sided economic arrangement, but I always seemed to come out $7 to $15 dollars a week ahead.

That allowed me to save up the $65 for a big red Sears Cushman Scooter that I got as soon as I could qualify age-wise for a motorcycle license.  No sexy Vespa was my Cushman.  Actually Vespa didn't come out until 1960, so my heavy, oversized scooter may have been the latest in 2-wheeled transport.  It made my life considerably easier.  The paper route went faster.  I had more time to get ready for school.  I could go anywhere on this red giant.  My most memorable event involving my big red scooter happened every day at the end of my paper route.  Dr. Littlepage was my last delivery up on Park Boulevard.  He offered me a $1.50 tip each month if I would put his paper behind the screen door that protected the back door of his home.  The rear of the house was accessed via a winding gravel driveway that passed the 2-story carriage house/garage.  He owned two Dalmatians, one of which slept at the top of the outside steps that went to the second floor of the carriage house.  The other dog slept up against the screen door that I had to open to put the paper in its designated place.  These two dogs were trained to eat paperboys.  As soon as I disturbed the one at the back door, he would wake up barking and snarling.  That brought the one at the top of the steps bounding down to get in on the meal. 

After several unsuccessful attempts to get the paper in the prize-winning spot, I devised a plan that led to my unbitten survival and the collection of the prized tip for the rest of my career as paperboy.  I had an empty canvas paper bag which I would partially fill with the road gravel of Park Boulevard.  I would leave the scooter motor running and cautiously creep up the driveway and back sidewalk until I loomed over the sleeping dog.  With my hand on the door handle of the screen door, I would wind up and WHOP the unsuspecting dog on his rump with the bag full of gravel, pull open the door, drop the paper behind the door, and skeedadle  back to my scooter, gun the motor and take off.  The howl of pain from Dog No. 1 must have given Dog No. 2 a brief pause of concern or confusion, because he never headed me off like before.  But, he was close enough behind me that my safety was never a sure thing.  After a year or two of this same routine each day, I would occasionally find the dog at the door awake and waiting for me, but it was about time for me to quit the paper route and go to work at the Colbert Theater.