It's the early 1960's, and the towns of South Eastern Ohio--Wheeling, Steubenville and Pittsburgh--are home to many first and second generation immigrants from Ireland, England and all of Europe, who have found work in the American coal and steel industries.

In the world of motorcycling, Japanese motorcycles are mopeds, BMW's stately touring bikes with odd Earles front-ends, and Ducati Twins are a decade away. Horex, Vincent, Enfield, NSU and Indian are still seen, but only about once time seach summer. With the exception of the occasional Triumph, BSA or Norton, Belmont County, Ohio is an all-Harley world.

In my hometown of Flushing, there are thirty or so Harleys; a lone Vincent in nearby Morristown, an Ariel Square Four in Bethesda and a host of Triumphs and BSA's in Steubenville. Cushman Super Eagles and Lambretta scooters are numerous, but even in the small displacement classes, Harley's Hummer out-numbers all the others combined.

Deshongs Triumph in Steubenville (rated a two light bulb shop by most) and a small garage in Mingo Junction that sells Nortons (rated one-half light bulb) are the sole source of non-Harley bikes, literature and encouragement in the area.

My personal situation was a typical for a Senior in high school. I played most of the sports and spent an equal amount of time pursuing girls in all the nearby towns while riding my Lambretta 125.

Lambretta scooters were made in Italy. Mine was a three speed with a drive shaft and painted a handsome white. It was also fun to ride and sure beat walking from town to town for evening meetings with girls. The Lambretta 125s major flaw was not being able to pull the Harley Hummers on long, level straight roads--a situation my dad would not accept nor tolerate: "How could a Lambretta not be faster than a Hummer?" my dad uttered over and over again in Italian. Italians and Irish in particular were not held in high esteem in the Ohio Valley at that time and the Lambretta's inability to beat an American bike or scooter became first a matter of personal pride, and then an obsession for my father.

One winter day a box arrived from Italy. It was the first package I had ever seen mailed from overseas. This small package would change my life forever by being the first link of the chain starting my interest in motorcycles. Having been sworn to secrecy, I was allowed to view the contents of the box. It was a small oval metal object, finned on one side and highly polished on the other. There was a single sheet of paper enclosed with small drawings and the writing was Italian, not English.

"What was it Dad?" I asked.

"A racing head for the Lambretta!" dad proudly proclaimed. "This will put those Harley Hummers in their place, once and for all. No way an Italian scooter was going to get beat by any Harley Hummer!" The following spring the Lambretta had picked up 9 mph, topped out at 65 mph on the Donnerville straight, and flat-out left behind every Harley Hummer and Cushman Super Eagle in the county.

What followed though was a full scale parents "bike war," lasting two years. In the Fall the parents replaced the Hummers with two Harley CH's. The CH was a rowdy, mean machine that was debatably the fastest stock machine available in 1960.

The "hopped up" Lambrettas fate was sealed and it was quietly sold during that winter. Dad consoled me: "We'll put the money away for something special." I believed him, because he had that same little smile I saw when he opened the box from Italy containing the Lambretta "racing head."

Near Christmas, I was up in the attic looking for ornaments and under the bed in my parents room I spotted some motorcycle magazines from England and Italy. I had strong visions of a new BSA Super Rocket. Christmas day brought a jacket and a nice time, but no mention of a motorcycle until our baseball coach stopped for a visit. During his stay, he casually mentioned considering instituting a new rule for the upcoming season "not allowing anyone owing a motorcycle to play on the baseball team." Mother agreed saying "motorbikes would never be allowed in the family as long as she was here". When Dad did not respond, my motorcycle outlook went from optimistic to impossible.

Late one evening in the spring my sister handed me the phone saying the caller was Mr. Bryant from Columbus. Mr. Bryant asked my height, weight and my shoe size. "Why" I responded? "Your dad asked me to hand make you a special pair of baseball shoes," he responded. Next evening at supper I asked dad about the shoes and he simply said, "yes, the shoes...we'll go to Columbus to pick them up next week." "Columbus," mom exclaimed! "Yes, only person that could do the job I needed done," dad said as he finished his salad.

Not knowing anyone who had ever been to Columbus, the speculation was it would be at least a three hour trip on the new Interstate. Mom packed a huge picnic basket for us, but to me the trip did seem to last forever as dad smoked the entire trip and I was sick when we drove through Groveport. "Look a motorcycle shop, want to stop here and take a break" he said. "Great, I need to get out of the car", I replied.

It was a BSA shop and much nicer than any English bike shop I had ever seen before, a 10 light bulb rating. We walked in and were greeted by an older man with a light hair and a rosy complexion who introduced himself as "Red." He and dad went into the back shop. Upon returning Red asked me to follow him and check something out.

"What do you think," dad said? I had never seen anything like it before even in pictures and could not respond. What could you say about a motorcycle ten foot long with knobbies and a four foot long swing arm. Red sensed my bewilderment and proudly said "Number one hill climber on the East Coast, you know..." No one said anything for a while, then Red looked at me. "Your dad called one night and told me you had a problem with Harley CH's in your little town on the river. And we thought you might be interested in this," he said, lifting the cover off a BSA Gold Star Road Racer.

It was beautiful and unlike anything I had ever seen before except in magazine race photos. Large gas tank, low bars, megaphone, single seat, alloy rims and even the safety wiring had that mean, purposeful look. Close examination revealed no visible ignition or speedometer, but a multitude of adjustments on the handlebars. I noted the worn Technical Inspection Sticker from Daytona.

"You won't need any keys; I sort of figure if someone can start it, they can have it" Red said, as he belted out a healthy laugh. "You won't need any speedometer either, with those CH's behind you all the time, why would you care how fast you're going?"

"This is mine dad?" I asked.

"Yes, if it does what Red promised and you like it."

"What about lights?" I asked them both.

"Slim will have them on in a second for you... just don't worry." dad replied. Slim assembled the head and tail lights. He then tested everything to make sure it all worked.

"Now boy, pay attention here and we'll go over how to start this bad guy," Slim said. I listened, but really did not understand all the new terms like compression release and spark retard, but dad just nodded his head and kept saying "O.K" As Slim walked over to open the shop outside door, he told us about redoing the motor and keeping the revs down to 3500 for at least 5 tanks of gas.

Slim set all the controls and with one kick the Gold Star fired; exploded actually to be more accurate. Windows in the back of the shop rattled and dad and I both stuffed our hands over our ears. Dad had that special smile again, only much broader. Slim warmed the bike up and finally handed it to me and just said "this is so much different than anything you have ever ridden before nothing I can tell you will help. Just do the best you can and if you stall it, don't call us." I noticed for the first time he had his own version of "the smile."

The racer stalled instantly when I let the clutch out. Slim restarted it. Stalled again. Finally, on the third try I was heading down the road and into town. Into town.... I screamed, silently inside my half helmet!!! Why did I turn this direction !!! The Goldie responded to my sudden U-Turn decision with slow, strained low rpm exhaust thuds and massive front wheel lurches. Finally, I was headed out of town.

I waved to Red, Slim and my dad as I went by the BSA shop. The road cleared and the bike settled down to a constant 3000 rpm in third. I had time to think about what was happening. The excitement of it all, thrill and pride in my father suddenly all became just too much. Five miles out of town, I pulled over to the side of the road and cried.

As I reached for the shop rag Slim left in the crevice at the rear of the tank, the racer stalled again. My small grin lengthened to "the smile" just like dads when he opened the box from Italy. I coasted down the hill, dropped the clutch and the Goldie slowly accelerated away. My thoughts were "this will change everything." How little did I know how much this day really would change the social side of my life forever, because from this point forward most of my life long friends would be motorcyclists.

Stopping again on another hill, I slipped the Goldie on the stand and walked away to view it at a distance. True the CH's were brutal looking machines, but they did not possess the pure functional purpose of design of the Gold Star Road Racer: due warning to uncommitted possible buyers and other bike riders that this bike was serious. It was all I could ever wished for and more. I sat down along side the road, stared at the racer and cried again.

Another successful bump start down the hill and "we" headed back to the dealer. Power impressions were not favorable as I short shifted the bike at 3500 rpm just like Slim said; but we would deal with this after the motor was broken in if it was really a problem. Handling was slow at the modest pace I was riding. Again, I hoped this would come around at higher speeds, after all the bike still displayed that faded Daytona Technical Inspection Sticker. All so new compared to the Lambretta, so wonderful, so unbelievable and all too soon I was back at the BSA shop.

As I pulled in to the dealers parking lot, no one showed the slightest interest that I had survived my first Gold Star ride. Everything had simply returned just the way it was before we arrived. A customer pulled in on a new Super Rocket and did not acknowledge the Gold Star or me as he walked into the shop. Dad came out of the shop and read the starting instruction to me from a piece of paper Red had given him. He also had an owners manual, shop manual, racing number plate set, a small box of jets and ignition parts.

Slim followed with the stock muffler, stock tank, new racing rear tire and a set of 15 spare sprockets including the "Isle of Man" gearing.

After loading the Olds with the spares, Slim checked the oil level and primary chain tension a final time. He topped off of the gas tank from a racing fuel filler and concluded "your as ready as you'll ever be kid". He grabbed my arm said slowly "son, there's no Harley that you'll ever have to worry about, but if you really want to hurt them, keep'em on the back roads in the turns." Slim set the rear shock springs to the weight I told Red on the phone, then started the Goldie for the last time. We were ready for the journey home.

It finally occurred to me there was never a question of whether or not we were going to do this. After all the planning he had done over the winter dad had no options, nor did he want any. Dad looked at me and said "ready to go home" and at that moment I realized this was better than a dream and I was to ride the Goldie the 120 miles home. This was really happening.

I asked him "what about the baseball shoes?" "Maybe next year," he replied. We both laughed.

Traffic in Groveport was not a problem on my second ride; just kept blipping the throttle so the racer didn't stall. I checked myself out in the reflections of the store window and liked what I saw. "We" looked like the road racing photos I had seen in the English magazines and I was happy.

On the interstate the Goldie felt a little less intimidating. As each power pulse moved through the entire bike, I felt that this bike would never let me down. The tack moved up in down in jerky movements rather than a smooth sweeping arc. The little bar end mirror did warn of something behind and dad's 1955 Olds soon became recognizable from the other vehicles as the large "white blur." Children would wave as their parents cars passed and I waved back. I was proud Albert Barone was my father and happy he was here with me.

The new Interstate exited traffic into Zanesville as it started to rain. A policeman waved me over to him with his night stick at the main red light in town. Dad parked the Olds and the policeman walked up and asked if he could talk to us about..... the BSA. Dad and I exchanged looks and both said simultaneously..."sure."

No hill to coast down and let the clutch out this time. Could it be worse than a kick start in the rain? Starting instructions dad had written down were no avail and the next kick resulted in Gold Star dealing real punishment by crushing my arch through heavy logging boots. Finally, the policeman said he had seen "them" started at races by someone pushing and the rider letting the clutch out in third gear, as he jumped on the seat.

First attempt resulted in a ten foot skid mark as the policeman and dad had to take a breather from pushing and rest. Dad said "pull the bike back until it stops itself, then pull the compression lever in and kick the bike over just a little and we'll try it again" He got on the Gold Star and did all the adjustments and next push bump start try it started immediately. The policeman wiped his brow and waved goodbye. It was the first and last time dad would ever sit on the seat of the Gold Star.

The remaining miles home were without event, but I just could not resist a downshift to third and a brief spin to 4500 rpm as I passed a truck up a long hill. Still, the Goldie did not seem like a road racer or world beater, but sure was a major step up from the Lambretta.

The ride through town went unnoticed by all and when we reached the house Dad told me to take the bike down back "behind the garage" and clean and wax it, while he went in to talk to "Grace" ....(my mother).

Surprisingly, mom came out of the house to view the Goldie and pronounced it "pretty for a motorbike," then left to check the her flower garden, as if nothing special had happened.

A few minutes later one of the neighbors came over to visit with Dad. Bud was the brother of one of the parents that bought their son a CH. He studied the Gold Star front to back and finally said the infamous, "start it up."

During lunch dad break on the interstate dad and I had gone over the starting drill. I knew it off by heart by now. Dad walked to the back of the bike explaining all the racers details. Bud followed along and just listened. I lunged down on the kick start and surprisingly given the events in Zanesville with the policeman just a few short hours ago....the Goldie started first kick. The blast from the megaphone had Buds cap air born and into the garden ten feet away. Dad laughed. Bud picked his hat up and muttered a long "whoaaaa."

Raaa Raaaaaa; Raaaaa Raaaaaaaa; Raaaaa Raaaaaaaa... the note from open megaphone immediately froze all human and animal movement throughout the neighborhood. For a brief moment in time after the engine stopped... it was totally quiet unlike anytime before. Nearby neighbors commented years later they had been really been struck deaf for a few minutes by the Goldie that afternoon. Mom rushed out of the house fearing we all had been injured or worse.

The "line in the sand" had been drawn, and it had the round Gold Star emblem in the middle.

According to Dad, we still had some big problems to fix before the racer could be ridden everyday. He had calculated the gearing was just too "tall" for the hills of South Eastern Ohio and my weight .... whatever that meant.

Actually, what this really meant was that "we" were going to spend at least two evenings in the garage together fixing the problems. Spending time with my father while he worked on any mechanical project was dangerous for bystanders and very boring since no one was allowed to touch anything except occasionally hand him a tool. "Stupid Limeys" became the second most frequently used term at our house until all the racers problems were fixed to his satisfaction.

The gearing was easy and I thought we would be ready early, but next came the "hand made" primary gasket. Dad declared this necessary because of the oil all over floor of the garage. He said loudly "the old gasket was no thicker than cigarette paper, stupid limeys." With the touch of a true craftsman and perfectionist, he made a gasket from material he brought home from the dragline. The next evening the floor had no new oil and he BSA primary held oil for the first time ever.

I hand polished all the aluminum on the cases and the rims with a gritty paste dad made up and the results were worth the hard work. He checked the timing, set the valves and checked the float height...again all terms I did not understand. I lubed the BSAs "limey bicycle cables" using a little trick he showed me with a balloon filled with oil.

The word of the BSA Road Racer spread rapidly and was the talk of the town. The Harley guys did not ask any questions nor acknowledge interest, but the fact the Gold Star was not ridden two weeks after it was purchased started some nasty rumors that it actually did not run at all.

Two Saturdays after the trip to Columbus, the racer was wheeled out of the garage for all to see. The CH guys stopped and just stared. Dad smiled a lot that day.

The following week, I went to the other side of town to visit a friend of mine. In front of the store near where he lived was Joe Campanizzi and his 1952 Harley K.

Joe was not one of the town Harley intimidators, but sort of a short, heavy white version of Flip Wilson. "Seems to sound a bit slow when you go by" Joe said. "I have to break the motor in before going any faster," I responded.

"How much longer before its broke in" he asked. "After this tank of gas in run through it will be ready " I said. "What's one gallon gas, it either runs or it doesn't ...go on up the road and run her past so I can see what she'll do" he said to me and the small crowd that had gathered in front of the store. I took the Goldie up the road and turned around then waved to him. He half raised his hand and casually motioned it toward him.

I let the clutch out slow and then hit the throttle wide open. The Goldie almost jerked the bars out of my hands and the megaphone blared. As I speed shifted into second and the front got just a little light. A speed shift to third had the Goldie going way too fast as we sped past Joe, his mouth now ajar with a cigarette stuck motionless to his lower lip. A little further down the road, I had to let off for the train crossing......... raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. The Goldie slowed and all was finally quiet and normal once again.

I turned around, then waved to Joe as I rode by. No need to stop, nothing else to say. He had not moved facial muscle since the first time I went by a few minutes before.... just stared... he knew everything he had ever known about motorcycles had just changed.

I took a tour around town and headed home only to pull in the driveway just as Sheriff Todd was leaving. "Think we should be just a little more careful and not let something like that to happen again," dad said. The smile was not present and the matter was never mentioned again.

Later that month I rode to the corner downtown where the Harley guys kept watch in the evenings and stopped to talk everyone. This really was not an "us versus them deal" because some of the Harley guys were fathers of friends of mine and a few even played football on the high school team with me. At dusk, one of the old 74's fired off a foot long fire beam out of the exhaust as it was being started. Everyone laughed, good trick, but as we were all to find out soon; not good enough.

I thought about drifting down town hill for the easy bump start, but with all the Harley guys watching, a better strategy would be to pray and go for the kick start, then roar up through town as my parting shot.

All levers set, the racer saved the best to last and shot a two foot long flame out the GP carburetor throat as the kick starter was run through. Quite the sight at dusk that night to be sure. Shocked, we all were, but I acted as if it was planned just to top the routine Harley exhaust flame trick. It worked almost too effectively, as I pretended to tickle the float, but actually was checking the inside leg of my jeans for fire damage or worse. Again, all was silent in the presence of the Gold Star Racer.

Upon departing, I starting off in second and gradually built the revs all the way through town with the shift to third held off until the Goldie and I peaked the long hill and headed home.

I realized the more I rode with the CH's that if I was make the "big" pass it could not be on a long straight away. Though I was confident that I could pass and keep slightly in front, this it was not the convincing move that would put the Harleys in their place once and for all. What I was looking for was a situation where the CH's were accelerating, but had to slow for the first of many turns. This would favor the Goldie, just like Slim had told us when we picked the bike up in Groveport.

That weekend on a ride, the opportunity came as a large truck slowed us as we headed out of of New Athens toward Cadiz. The short straight where we passed the truck was followed by fifty or so hard and difficult turns. The CH's passed the truck and I passed the truck and them at the same time. The Goldie was now on full song and in front heading into the miles of turns. We were on plan, but could we stay ahead?

Brake hard, then downshift....raaaaaaaaaaaaa... megaphone blaring, at the apex of the first turn, its was wide open again to the next turn. The Goldie did not waiver from the chosen lines, all felt perfect. Brake hard, then downshift....raaaaaaaaaaaaa... megaphone blaring, at the apex of the second turn, its was wide open again and into turn three. I could still faintly hear the CH's, but did not have time to check the mirror.

Three miles later, I was finally able to glance back to see the CH's about a half mile back, but still at speed trying to cut the ever increasing distance between us. No Harley that day would get past not even the Orange and Black factory road racers. I caught the blur of the worn Daytona Inspection Sticker still on the Goldie going into the last turn and thought no matter what happened there old friend, you were the winner here today. The big "pass" had been made and the parents bike war was over in five short miles.

I pulled into the water hole outside Cadiz, pushed my goggles back and took my off my half helmet. My heart was still beating fast and just for a brief moment it was difficult to breathe normally. All was quiet for a minute or so and finally I could hear the CH's far in the distance. When the CH's finally arrived the Goldie was parked and I was stretched out under a tree, as if I had been there a week or so, even though it had only been a couple of minutes. We all shared a cool drink of water; the Goldie was center stage, as all the Harley riders gathered to take a real good look for the first time.

Years later, I realized nothing in life would awaken all my senses like that ride. It was the third Gold Star strike on the Harleys that summer, this game was over and all the Harley guys knew it.