Steel Shoes and Family Ties

My dad’s father, my grandfather, Glen Barnes, had a bicycle shop before the war, and Dad said that he took the worn-out Scout in trade for a new bicycle. The bike sat until dad came back from serving in an anti-tank unit during the Battle of the Bulge in Germany. Like many soldiers who fought, Dad never talked about the war. It was only the stories he told about racing that I grew up with. I learned who all his competitors and friends were, about what bikes they rode, how and where they crashed, and where they won. But Dad never bragged about where and when he won. He never told me much about those times. It just was not his way. I only learned how good a rider he was much later, thanks to my mother Dorothy J. Barnes’ diligence in taking pictures and keeping a scrapbook of their journeys to dozens of racetracks around the Midwest.

Turns out my dad was a nationally ranked Expert TT rider. Dad, Mom, my half-brother “Skip,” and my uncle, Clifford Barnes, his accomplished tuner, went to the races about every weekend during the summer, and then worked at Dad’s small Indian dealership in Wooster, Ohio, during the week. Dad always gave high praise to my uncle Cliff for making his 1929 Indian 101 Scout “run so good,” and how he could always “keep up with those other guys and their newer bikes.” I always knew those “newer bikes” were Harleys, of course. The rivalry between brand owners was then at its peak. Uncle Cliff had replaced the 101 Scout’s stock cylinders and pistons with those from the later Sport Scout model, put on a “Y” manifold and a bigger carburetor than the original. The 101s were known then as Indian’s best handling machine, and my dad must have helped build that reputation, as he always did well; he won most of the TT races he entered in 1946 as a Junior and many in 1947 as an Expert.

Life took the checkered flag

But “life happened.” That made Dad hang up his steel shoe. Mom’s first husband was a B-24 bomber pilot and was killed during WWII. They had one son, Roger “Skip” Saurer who never met his natural father. After the war, Dad married my mom and adopted Skip; then I was born in 1949; followed by a set of twins, Carole and Darrel Barnes, born in 1952.

So, then my dad had four kids and a wife to take care of. And finally, dad received a letter (that I still have) from Ted Edwards, Indian’s representative on the AMA’s Competition Committee, that ruled his 1929 Indian was “too old” to be raced in professional competition anymore, and they would not be renewing his racing license with that bike. Since buying a new bike was out of the question, dad quit racing and “got a real job” at a local factory building bookmobiles.

He gradually sold all his bike shop inventory to pay the family’s bills. The last bike to go was his beloved Indian 101 Scout racer. I can still remember it going out of the driveway in the back of an old pickup truck in the late 1960s.

The best years on two wheels

And my dad always remembered that day, too. For the next 25 or so years, he complained about selling his “101,” as he called it. Finally, Mom had heard it so much over the years, she contacted the fellow to whom he had sold the bike, and yes, he still had it. Or what was left of it. It was under his mobile home. In the dirt. His kids had disassembled it and stuffed it under there. All the sheet metal was rotted away. Just the frame, wheels, and the engine were left. Mom bought the pile of rusted parts without Dad’s knowledge and gave them to him for their 40th anniversary. That began a ten-year restoration project for the three of us to get the 101 Scout back together. The decision was made to restore the Scout as a street bike, instead of a race bike, so dad could eventually ride it. This was all done during pre-internet days, so you know how difficult that was. In addition, we did not know anyone with the necessary skills to do the restoration work. We finally found Jeff Javens in New Philadelphia, Ohio, who was willing and able to take on the job of rebuilding the bike. During this time, I had gotten old enough to ride my Honda Superhawk, then race a Honda XL100, then a Yamaha MX100, then a 250 Bultaco Astro. My mom and dad always went with me to the races. Always.

Dad had joined the “Indian 101 Club” and the “All-American Indian Motorcycle Club,” and that is how we found out about the annual LaGrange Engine Show and Indian Meet in Wellington, Ohio. Going there with him once, and I was hooked for life on Indians! We would haul his now-restored 101 there, and he’d take the Saturday morning ride with the other guys. These were some of the best years of our lives.

Sadly however, Dad got a brain tumor in early 1995. They gave him just six months to live. My friend Steve Doyle and I took him to see our last motorcycle race together in Norwalk, Ohio. We pushed him around the pits in a wheelchair, since he could no longer walk much. He got to shake hands with George Roeder, Sr. who we always rooted for, after Indian racer Bobby Hill had retired, of course. On the way home from Norwalk that day, we saw a Bultaco Astro (checkerboard paint model, no less) sitting alongside the road for sale. Without hesitation, we doubled back, and I bought it for $700. It was the very same model that I had raced extensively back in the 1970s. But this Bultaco just went into storage since I was dealing with Dad’s illness. He passed away later in 1996, shortly after Fathers’ Day of that year. I have to say that was the worst day of my life. He had been my best friend, role model, and a great father. He was only 75. My age now.

Comeback at 48

As time went on, I quit racing, got married, worked, bought a house or two, etc. During that time, I read about an organization called the “American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association” (AHRMA). They were sponsoring vintage motorcycle races featuring bikes too old for pro racing anymore. And they just happened to be sponsoring a half-mile race that summer in Ashland, Ohio, only 30 miles from where I lived. And I just happened to have that Bultaco Astro sitting in the corner of my shop! So, in 1997, I recruited a good friend of our family, Marvin Zollars, who knew Bultaco motors inside and out. He helped me race-prep the Astro. Together with Zollars, my dear mother, and a group of friends, we went to the Ashland County Fairgrounds AHRMA half-mile. While I only finished mid-pack that day, I was hooked, and had started a comeback to racing at age 48.

My friend/tuner, Steve Benson and my wife Debbie Barnes always went with me — just like my Uncle Cliff and my mom went with my dad back in the late 1940s. We went everywhere we could find an AHRMA race, from Daytona, to Peoria, to Davenport, me wearing my vintage Bates leathers that still fit. And wearing none other than my dad’s original steel shoe.

So, there I was, doing what my father did — racing an old motorcycle when modern bikes were the rule. Dad raced a motorcycle 20 years past its prime, and now so did I. And when I think about it, that fact could make my father, Donald W. Barnes, “The Father of Historic Motorcycle Racing” couldn’t it? Well, at least it does to me. At the very least, he was a “pioneer” in the vintage motorcycle racing sport that so many love today.

The dream of racing an Indian

My best year was 1999, finishing third nationally in my class. But that only whetted my taste for a bigger bike. Turns out that was a mistake, as I got hurt badly in 2000, hitting the hay bales while riding a stock-frame Yamaha XS650 at a Cumberland, Maryland, race. To add insult to injury, while I was unconscious in the emergency room, doctors cut my vintage Bates leathers off with a pair of scissors. After a few days in the hospital with broken ribs and a punctured lung, Deb drove me home. That Yamaha 650 was sold in a hurry, and the Bultaco Astro went back into storage. No more racing for me, I told myself. I’d certainly ridden enough laps around a dirt track, I surmised.

But then again, there was one thing I had not done that I always wanted to do: race an Indian motorcycle like my father did. I especially started thinking about that after I met an older gentleman, Lloyd Washburn, from Port Clinton, Ohio. He had raced an Indian Sport Scout professionally in the late 1950s, and for a time was the New York State flat track champion. And Washburn just happened to have a 1940 Sport Scout sitting in his shop! After a year or so of begging, I convinced dear Lloyd to sell me the bike, with one condition: that he and his wrench Roger Balas would help rebuild it and be there to watch me race. Thanks to them and Steve Benson, we built a beautiful AHRMA-legal 1940 Indian Sport Scout race bike, and I got to run it for a few years, carrying out what I always wanted to do: race an Indian, just like my dad did.

And I really liked riding the Scout on the track. Compared to the Bultaco, it was like riding on a rail. No slips and it sounded like rolling thunder. But then in 2006, a bad street bike crash on a 1937 Indian Chief ended that comeback, and I finally hung-up Dad’s and my steel shoe. But hey, in my mind, I’d done everything I wanted to do, at least in motorcycle racing. I didn’t become a professional Expert, but I did get to race an Indian, just like my father did. And I can still walk today, thanks to two new knees and one new hip. The following years went by swiftly, and I sometimes wondered if I was living more in the past than I was thinking about tomorrow. Racing is like a drug; when you stop, you’ll always miss it. It never goes away. The buzz is irreplaceable. Or so I thought.

A racer turned grandfather

Life happened to my dad, and then it did for me too. My wife’s daughter had a son, Rider, and I became a grandfather. Not just any grandfather, but a full-time guardian to an autistic five-year old grandson. He’s now 13, my wife and I have full custody, and at 75, I’m the father figure in his life. I’ll be 80 when he graduates high school! I remind myself often, “it is what it is, and it ain’t all bad.” Now, I’m living what many of you experienced years ago: raising a child. There is good, but at 13, it feels like there is more bad. Still, I won’t escape from this role. He calls me “Poppa” and my wife “Memaw.” And I’m learning what most of you all already know — there’s no rest as a father, and things you once knew and loved start to fade away.

Like all fathers must do

But then about five years ago, there was a magnificent day. It started slowly with me having coffee on the couch with Rider, who had woken up early and was watching “Paw Patrol.” He eventually leaned against me, and my heart filled with love. After breakfast and a struggle to get him dressed, we made it to church on time. Watching him run ahead to the entrance, shaking hands with the greeters, always fills me with pride. After church, we came home to a delicious breakfast Debbie had made, just like in the movies. I took a quick nap while she spent time with Rider, then we put on winter coats and headed to my workshop. There, mostly due to Rider’s urging, I pulled out and began to work on a battery-powered Razor minibike that I had bought at a yard sale the previous summer. It took me about an hour to install the new throttle assembly I had gotten months ago. But when I tested it, I only heard a “click,” and couldn’t figure out why the 24-volt motor wouldn’t spin the rear wheel. Frustrated, I announced my failure to Rider, who came over from whatever he wasn’t supposed to be tearing apart, and he stared at it for a moment. He calmly told me to “take the plug out of the wall and try it.” Sure enough, that worked! There I was, ready to give up and go back up to the house, but instead I slapped high-five with Rider and praised him for the insight far beyond his years. “Where did he learn that,” I wondered.

After I oiled the chain and took the bike off the lift, he was excited to try to ride it. But I insisted we go up to the house where he could change out of his good clothes and put on a helmet and gloves, which are mandatory for us. With the excuse of doing a “safety check,” I rode the little thing up to the house. With me on board, it hardly went as fast as a walk. Meanwhile, Rider ran up to the house and announced his intentions to his grandmother, who found him proper clothes and an old coat to wear. Back outside I helped him put on his helmet, including fastening those pesky D-rings. “Rider, you’ll need to practice doing this yourself,” I said, and he totally ignored me. He just wanted to ride. Debbie came outside with her camera as Rider climbed on the little bike and took off down the driveway like a shot, not even putting his feet on the pegs or my telling him where the brake was. After a few screams from Deb and me, he circled back and we frantically gave him instructions, none of which he heard or cared about, of course. Then he sped off again, took the sharp turn by the wire fence that goes down to the shop, and never slowed down. After a few moments, he rode back up with the biggest grin on his face. He told us he had “only crashed three times, but it didn’t hurt.”

I’m standing there all choked up with happiness. Watching my six-year-old grandson doing laps of our property on his mini-bike; putting his foot down to “save it,” and circling around trees like he’s been doing it for years. The riding skills he learned on his little knobby tired bicycle worked very well on this new motorized toy. The kid seems to be a natural, slows by instinct, and rarely uses his brakes. Absolutely no fear. Dear wife Deb looked at me and said, “look what you’ve created,” and I almost burst into tears. We love this kid. With all he went through before we got him, with all he puts us through now, and everything that we are going to go through in the years to come, we love this kid!

Now, I realize many of you have gone through similar heartwarming experiences with your own children — whether it was with motorcycles, basketball, music, fishing, or something else meaningful to you. But for me, this was a first. I never had kids of my own, and now I’ve got one. And he rides a dirt bike! (Not to mention that he also wants to be an electrician or a brain surgeon). But he rides a dirt bike! A couple of years have passed since that day, and I bought him a 50cc Pantera dirt bike. We’ve taken him to a youth motocross, a hare scrambles, and then a short track to see what suits him best. While he did fine in all, I have come to believe that if he wants to race motorcycles, it will be his choice, not mine. I remember that my father never pushed me to race, even though it was something he loved. But he was always there to support me, and I’ll be there for Rider if he chooses that path. Right now, he seems more into computers and online gaming, but it still thrills me to see him jump on his dirt bike and ride around the farm, just like my father did when I was a kid. Happy Father’s Day! MC