An insidious disease

During one of my more lucid moments I recalled a period of time when my childhood was brought to the fore, when a distant relative returned something to me that I did not know existed—an old and very used Lionel train set.

The story goes that in 1937, for my 10th birthday, my parents thought the train set would be a great gift. However, I treated them like mere toys (to my dad’s disgust) and they were packed away. Eventually he gave the complete set to his brother for his kids, my cousins.

My dad, being the firstborn, had three siblings, who in turn raised families. The train set was passed along down the lineage, being enjoyed, battered, repaired, augmented and treasured.

By the late ’50s, I had my own family, a home with a basement, a son, and suddenly, a Lionel train set. It was an untidy mix of “O” gauge, standard gauge tin plate along with some American Flyer.

This ties in with motorcycling, for they are both insidious diseases that eat away at your reasoning, your wallet and any free time that you thought you had.

Before long a large train board started expanding to encompass all available space and intruding on my motorcycle saddle time. However, the Train Collectors of America held two large meets yearly in York, Pennsylvania. The exhibit filled the massive West York fairgrounds, which was not far from our beloved H-D plant.

What an excuse to take a weekend ride!

In my searching the huge stocks of the vendors and collectors, I kept finding odd toys, like the old cast-iron Hubley motorcycles, old tin plate motorcycles, etc. They wound up in my saddlebags, or were carted back to Noo Yawk by friends that were also collectors or vendors.

After a while, additional shelving groaned with their weight. When my two kids moved out, the extra bedroom was filled with toy motorcycles on shelving and in glass showcases.

Like I said, it’s a disease, and my long-suffering wife understood my addiction. I wasn’t the town drunk, a womanizer or a gambler. I was either at work or in my toy room(s), or involved with the motorcycles, especially when we got involved in off-road trail riding.

Then, some dozen and a half years ago, some avid collectors emptied my shelves, cases, cabinets, basement and attic, restoring my alleged sanity, and, coincidentally my coffers. All that remains as proof are some faded, tear-stained Kodak prints, an 8mm or 16mm film, and the desire to relive those Good Old Days.

And talk about pictures. On one of my forays, somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania, I was looking for a large flea market that boasted a goodly number of toy dealers. It was a bleak, chilly and drizzly ride in a small town that was unfamiliar with no pedestrians to ask for directions. I squinted at street signs through rain-splattered goggles, suddenly spotting one that brought me to sudden stop.

Grabbing my camera, I stopped to take a photo of the sign. That attracted attention. Cars stopped, drivers got out, pedestrians suddenly appeared, and questions were asked. Taking my helmet off, I explained that I fit that sign to a “T.” The crowd burst into laughter, and some matronly lady took my camera and posed me by the sign, then kissed my cheek for brightening her day. I mounted the Harley and left to a farewell chorus of beeping car horns.

Like the Pennsylvanians say, “You’ve got a friend in ________.” Sadly, I don’t recall the name of that nice town.

And it’s all the fault of a ’39 45 Harley. Lucky me!