Four Wheels are Better Than Two
Cruisin’ and Bruisin’ with Drew Mashburn
Irksome. Yeah, that's the word I'll use to describe my feelings about the thousands of young kids gettin' to zip around on their E-bikes on public roadways, trails, paths, and elsewhere. When I was a teenybopper, I wasn't allowed to ride my mini-bike out on public ways made for vehicular travel. And, let me tell you, I know my mini-bike was slower than any E-bike that's ever been produced.
FAR LEFT: Drew, Mark Madsen in the center. Drew at mini-bike riding age; Drew and Mark at tree-fort-building age, headed to Snow Camp with the Ojai Presbyterian Youth Group.
The Mini-Bike Days
1960 STREET MAP SHOWING HENDERSON AIRFIELD AND MIRROR LAKE FROM AIRFIELDS-FREEMAN.COM
When I was a lad of twelve years old, my parents had a home built on South Rice Road that pretty much overlooked the long-gone VC Sheriff's Department's Honor Farm Jail. That jail was where Ed's Recycling, the Ojai Raptor Center, and other organizations are now located. Woodland Avenue did not run from North Ventura Avenue (AKA: Hwy. 33) to South Rice Road back then. Nor did the Ojai Oaks Village mobile home park or the Ojai Woodlands condo complex, both presently on the south side of Woodland Avenue, exist. In fact, they were, unwisely, built over the natural vernal pool called Mirror Lake. None of the homes existed that are on both sides of the stretch of Woodland Avenue that is east of South Rice Road. Nor did the Mirror Lake housing tract exist back then. It's on the north side of Woodland Avenue.
You ask, "Drew, what year were you only twelve years old?" That would be in 1963. You know, back in the days just before mopeds became popular. You ask, "Drew, what's a moped?" My answer: go to your search engine and find out. You ask, "Drew, you actually know what is —and how to use — a search engine?" Bite me!
SEARS MINIBIKE AD CIRCA 1960S FROM FACEBOOK
Anyway, back to my mini-bike. It was the first motorized vehicle I ever owned. It was well-worn when I bought it from a Mira Monte neighborhood boy a few years older than myself. The frame was painted dark blue and it had a matching, flat, barely-padded seat that I could have a buddy ride behind me on. Behind the seat was a fairly large gasoline tank painted bright yellow. I kinda dug the dark blue/bright yellow combo. It was powered by an already old Tecumseh brand four-horsepower engine that I had to wrap a pull-rope around the camshaft jobber to start.
Sometimes that rope, which had a handle on one end and a knot on the other, would whack me when it came off as I was starting it. Man, that stung! There was a small-diameter gear on the engine, and a pretty big-diameter gear on the rear wheel. Of course, the two gears were connected by a chain. The gear ratio provided a lot of power, but made the mini-bike pretty slow. I was too, shall we say, mechanically challenged at the pre-pubescent age I was to know how to install different gears for more speed. Maybe that was a good thing!
LATE-60S AERONAUTICAL CHART SHOWING HENDERSON AIRFIELD FROM AIRFIELDS-FREEMAN.COM
So, due to a lack of speed, I just putted around the numerous dirt paths through the old English Walnut tree orchards that were situated where the Mirror Lake housing tract is now, adjacent to the old Henderson Airfield. The airfield was located where the Ojai Villa Mobile Estates mobile home park is now. Its entrance is off Baldwin Road (AKA: Hwy. 150), and its east side runs along the Ojai Valley Trail that parallels North Ventura Avenue. Oh, back in my mini-bike ridin' days, the Ojai Valley Trail was the Southern Pacific Railroad. Of course, I also rode over in the big open field between Mirror Lake and South Rice Road. I may have been "Born to Be Wild," but I rarely snuck my mini-bike out onto the streets because the Sheriff's deputies and the CHP officers really disapproved of it. Dang it!
Eventually, Woodland Avenue was extended from South Rice Road to North Ventura Avenue. Then a developer purchased the property where the Mirror Lake tract is now. Road graders and other heavy equipment knocked down all the old English Walnut trees and a bunch of lovely oak trees. Some of the oaks were humongous — like the one in which my buddy, Mark Madsen, and I built a tree fort. But, that's another story for another time. I sure wish today's tree ordinances were in effect back then; those old oaks would still be standing proudly. Anyway, the heavy equipment built housing pads at different levels. The dudes running it didn't realize it, but they were creating some really nice small jumps for my mini-bike, and for the neighborhood kids to jump with their bicycles, many of them "Sting-Ray" models. I never had one of those cool bikes. I had an English-made three-speed bicycle with a front wire basket that could dang near carry a VW Bug. At least I had my mini-bike, and the heavy equipment built up a really steep hill about twenty feet high. My mini-bike was slow, but it had no problem climbing that hill! It could even do it with a buddy riding behind me.
I had my mini-bike for around three to four years. Even though my mini-bike riding days were about sixty years ago, I still have really clear, fond memories of zipping around on it. It gave me kinda a sense of freedom, bumping along the dirt paths in those long-gone English Walnut orchards — especially in late spring, when the grass was tall and deep green, the trees were all leafed out, hardly anybody was around, the sky was deep blue, and the weather was warm. I was beginning to learn to be alone, and quite comfortable with myself. But, that's another story for another time.
The Yamaha 80 Days
PHOTO: EBAY. REGARDING MODELS: WE’RE DOING OUR BEST
The reason my mini-bike riding days came to a halt was that a few of my buddies had bought small motorcycles. Mike Payton bought a yellow 1960s Yamaha 80cc (that's cubic centimeters). I dug it! So I began lookin' around for one. This was in 1966. I wound up buying a red 1961 Yamaha 80cc. I was fifteen years old when I got it, but didn't have a learner's permit or a driver's license, therefore, I wasn't able to legally ride my little motorcycle on public streets. Back then, at fifteen and a half years old, you could get a learner's permit from the California DMV. With a learner's permit, you could use the motorcycle on public streets, but only with a fully licensed driver on board, or by riding alone — you couldn't have an unlicensed passenger with you. Fine with me. I didn't want Mom or Dad riding with me anyway. How embarrassing. I wanted to drive it alone.
Devil’s Gulch
Drew on his 1961 Honda 80cc motorcycle at 16 years old, in the front yard of his parents' Mira Monte home (1967)
Prior to bagging my learner's permit, I kept riding my motorcycle where I had ridden my mini-bike. Like I mentioned earlier, the railroad was located where the Ojai Valley Trail lies now. My buddies and I would ride our motorcycles between the rails and over the ties under them. It made for a rough, bouncy ride, but the cops never stopped us as long as we got off our motorcycles to cross streets the railroad crossed. We'd use this method to ride to Devil's Gulch.
Today, if you're driving south on Highway 33, just before reaching Oak View, there's a large metal sign on the right that says "THE OAK VIEW." That sign sits right on the edge of a deep chasm. That's Devil's Gulch, created by the earth uplifting and pulling apart to form a rift. But, that's another story for another time. The GREAT thing about this chasm is that it provided an area for hill-climbing on our motorcycles. Back when my buds (Mike Payton on his Yamaha, Doug Schmelz on his grandpa's Honda 90cc trail bike, and others) and I first began riding there, there was really only one trail. It ran through the thick brush, steeply down a hill to the bottom of the chasm, then back up a steep hill on the other side. I'm sure it was an old wild critter trail. The Hanline family lived nearby, in the Barbara Street tract, and I'm pretty sure they were some of the first, if not the first, to hill-climb at Devil's Gulch — and pretty sure it was the Hanlines we saw riding there who lured us into giving it a shot.
UNION PACIFIC RAILROAD AT DEVIL’S GULCH. PHOTO RESTORED FROM OJAIHISTORY.COM
Over the years, Devil's Gulch got extremely well known to other motorcyclists, and more and more hill-climbing trails got established. Eventually there was hardly any vegetation left, and motorcyclists had carved climbs running from the bottom of the chasm up to the large dirt turnout that's still there today along Highway 33. Motorcycles would roar up those climbs, then fly through the air at the top before landing in the turnout. Though fun, I must admit it wasn't safe, what with the highway traffic and the multitudes of spectators watching from the area. I don't know how many years the hill-climbing was allowed, but it was finally shut down for good — probably to the relief of nearby neighbors who'd had to put up with all the dust and noise.
Licensed to Drive
At sixteen years old, I got my California driver's license by taking my test at the DMV in Ventura, which used to be located at the end of the Telephone Road offramp on the right side. I think that building is Calvary Church now. I took the driving part of my test in my parents' 1959 Ford station wagon. It was pretty dang big. Of course, I was required to parallel-park it between a couple of tall standards. I put that sucker squarely between them the first time I gave it a shot. I looked at the DMV tester. I could see written all over his face, "You lucky little shit!" So, getting back to the point... I bagged my driver's license and, therefore, could haul a passenger with me on my motorcycle... Girls! Yeah, baby!
Yeah, the motorcycle attracted a few of the female persuasion. It definitely wasn’t my somewhat pimply face. It was always a good thing to be toolin' around with a pretty girl wrapping her arms around my waist. Eventually, I learned how to get dates without the use of a motorcycle. But, that's another story for another time.
I could go on and on about all the things I did on that little Yamaha 80, and all the places it carried me. Like, I could tell you about Doug Schmelz and me sliding our motorcycles under a barbed-wire fence to sneak into Lake Casitas. But then you'd know Doug was a low-risk lawbreaker like myself, and I don't want to start any rumors about Doug. Yeah, I pulled off a few capers involving my 80, but nothing noteworthy. It mainly provided hours and hours of fun, transportation, and a ride to Nordhoff High School from my Mira Monte home.
The Chevy Pickup Days
Drew with his 1949 Chevrolet pickup, parked at his parents' Mira Monte home. Note that Drew is wearing desert boots, very stylish at the time. (1968)
While I still had my Yamaha 80, I bought my first automobile when I was almost seventeen years old. It was a 1949 Chevy pickup with lots of good-sized dents, in red primer. I bought it from Mike "Okie" Robinson — I think I gave him a whole $150 for it. It wasn't much of a looker on the outside, but Mike had applied some trick-lookin' adhesive shelf paper to the door panels, and installed bitchin' barefoot pedals on the gas pedal and dimmer switch. You ask, "What's a dimmer switch?" It's a switch on the floor that you stepped on to actuate the high beams. A few times, I loaded my motorcycle into the bed of that pickup and took it up into the mountains to ride.
Eventually I sold the motorcycle to Gene Moser's son. Gene and I had worked the Soule Park Golf Course maintenance crew together. But, that's another story for another time. I kept the pickup into my senior year (1968 to 1969) at Nordhoff. By that time it had the worst knock in the engine of any engine I've heard to this day. I got $100 out of it, but the guy who bought it made me throw in two used tires, too.
The Bug Eye Days
Drew in a selfie at 18 years old, his "Bug Eye" sports car in the background in his parents' Mira Monte home garage. (1969)
During my senior year, I bought a super-clean 1961 Austin-Healey "Bug Eye" Sprite sports-car that my Uncle Keith Loomis told me about. He and Aunt Betty lived in Skyline Estates in Oak View at the time. I was about to buy a 1950s Singer sports-car from Gary Krause, who lived in Skyline too. But as soon as I saw the Bug Eye... sorry, Gary!
SIMILAR TO DREW’S AUSTIN HEELY, FROM BRING A TRAILER
The Bug Eye is an English-made car, sometimes called a "Frog Eye." I paid $700 for it and bought it from the second owner, and it didn't have many miles on it. It was dark maroon without a single dent, its paint sparkling. It was a convertible — perfect for Ojai Valley weather! It came with a white top, a black top, and a black tonneau cover. It had a chrome luggage rack on the trunk. It ran like a top! I thought my little Yamaha 80 attracted girls. My Bug Eye was, most definitely, a chick magnet.
I drove that little sports-car all over California. One of the best places I drove it was California's curvy, twisting, super-scenic coastal Highway 1 — that road is made for sports-cars! I could tell you lots about that extremely fun little car. But, that's another story for another time.
I ended up trading it to Gary Bellamy for his 1968 BSA "Victor" 441cc motorcycle. Gary really wanted the Bug Eye something fierce, and I was tiring of it, having had to repair the transmission a couple of times — in fact, Gary and I fixed the tranny together before we made the trade.
The BSA
SIMILAR TO DREW’S BSA, FROM AUTOEVOLUTION.COM
The BSA was such a nice ride! It had really low miles on its single-cylinder engine (sometimes called a "lunger"). It was a street bike — fenders, a headlight, a taillight — and simply too friggin' nice to take out into the wilds and risk ruining its super-clean looks. It was amazing how much compression that engine had goin' for it. It had a kick-starter, and I had to pretty much jump on the pedal to turn the engine over. It would beat much larger motorcycles out of the hole. You best be hangin' on tight to the hand-grips when you romped on it from a dead start, or you might find yourself sittin' on the pavement while the bike jammed down the road unmanned!
My best bud at the time I owned the BSA (AKA: Beeser) was Rick Askam. Rick was an artist with a beautiful head of long blond hair that trailed down to his waist — many women woulda killed to have his hair! Rick had never ridden a motorcycle larger than a Honda Trail 90, and he'd crashed that one, but he dang near begged me to let him ride my Beeser. I really didn't trust him with it, but I relented. We were at his mother's Meiners Oaks home, on a really quiet, low-traffic street. Rick climbed onto the motorcycle while it was running. I told him it was tremendously more powerful than the Trail 90, so I asked him to take it slow; just putt it up and down the street. I stepped back to let him give it a shot. He romped on the throttle! Down the street he went at about 60 MPH, did a U-turn, then zipped by again with his three-foot-long hair standing straight out behind him. He wouldn't look my way as I frantically waved for him to SLOW DOWN! He whipped up and down the street that way about six times, then pulled up onto his mom's front lawn, where I'd taken refuge. Rick never looked at me. He got off the bike, set it on its kickstand, and walked right past me, saying over and over, "God damn! God damn! God damn!" Half-pissed off as I was, I found it hilarious too!
Drew MASHBURN, (1971)
The 1970s
VINTAGE HONDA BROCHURE, PINTEREST
Somewhere around 1971, I moved into one of the old cabins at the Ojala Resort with my buddy Mike Earnest. Ojala was located a few miles up the Maricopa Highway outside of Ojai. My wheels at that time were still my BSA motorcycle. I hadn't been up there but a few months when the clutch gave out on the BSA — it was an English-made bike, and I found it quite difficult to source a new clutch. I had a girlfriend who lived in Ojai, and her mom loaned me an old Ford camper van so I could get back and forth from my job at Soule Park Golf Course. But there was a day I couldn't use the van, and my BSA was still in need of a clutch. My roommate, Mike, suggested I use his 1960s Honda 250. He didn't need it, since he was way into the hippie lifestyle that existed at Ojala at the time. Many of the residents didn't work much, like Mike, and were, let's say, way into sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. I think I was the only one there who went to work on a regular schedule.
As I was about to head out to work on Mike's motorcycle, he told me the front shocks were stuck in place and wouldn't move like they were designed to. No worries! Off to work I went. That afternoon, on the way home, I stopped at a market and bought several cans of dog food for Mike's dog — I not only supported Mike, but his dog too. The least I could do, what with him loaning me his bike.
I don't recall why, but I decided to cut through the Arbolada housing tract to get over to the Maricopa Highway. I had the cans of dog food bungee-corded in place behind me. As I was about to make a right turn, I noticed an elderly couple walking toward me along the edge of the road, which lacked a sidewalk. Out of courtesy, I swung way wide to avoid them, and in doing so, ran across an old street drain in the middle of the intersection. It was recessed about six inches into the asphalt, which hadn't been sloped down into it — basically a deep pothole. Remember, the front shocks were broken. When the front tire dropped into that drain, there was such a jolt it jarred both my hands off the grips. I was already leaning into the turn, and it sent me toward the oncoming-traffic side of the road. Fortunately there wasn't any traffic, but the Arbolada's roads are lined with large, tall rocks that basically form a curb. I wasn't sure I could make the turn, so I laid the bike down on its right side just before both tires slammed into the rocks. That threw me forward over the bike, my head coming directly into contact with an oak tree trunk.
This was back before motorcyclists were required to wear a helmet. I rarely wore one, but that day I had it on, along with a bubble face mask — dang good thing, too. When I came to a rather abrupt stop, the motorcycle was still running, the cans of dog food scattered everywhere, and the elderly couple gawked at me with their mouths wide open. About three days before this accident is when the law went into effect that you could no longer ride a motorcycle on public streets with only a driver's license — now a special motorcycle operator's license was required, and I had yet to get my tail down and get one. I didn't want the cops to show up over it, so I picked up the motorcycle and left the dog food behind, and the elderly couple wondering what in tarnation was happening.
Post-Arbolada motorcycle accident photo. Note the big Band-Aid on Drew's chin as he plays with his little brother, Neal, in their parents' Mira Monte home living room. (1970)
As I drove through the rest of the Arbolada, I noticed small dark spots forming on my clear, blue face mask, and couldn't figure out where they were coming from. Once I got to the Maricopa Highway, I felt wet on my chest, reached up, and felt the spot — it was blood, streaming from my split-wide-open chin. Long story short, I wound up in the emergency room at Ojai Hospital. As the doctor was stitching me up, I asked him how bad I'd injured my chin. He replied, "It won't keep you out of the movies!" The next day I woke up so sore I couldn't lift my arms much above my waist. It hurt to breathe, and there wasn't a spot on my body that wasn't stiff and sore — I'd never been in that much pain before or since. From the experience, I had the clutch on my BSA repaired by a Santa Barbara motorcycle shop, then sold it right away, and never bought another motorcycle. The helmet was all scratched up by the gnarly, rough oak bark, and the face mask was scratched clean through.
My next vehicle was a super-clean 1964 Chevrolet half-ton pickup. It was a great little truck that I did all kinds of cool things with... but that's another story for another time, and I'm still tryin' hard to get into the movies.
