Walla Beach (eBook)

Friday – Late Afternoon

As usual, Bear, Stewie and I made it up to Walla Beach early on that Friday afternoon, a few hours before the mad rush of tourists, cottagers, families and, of course, other bikers. It served us well because this time we decided to rent a cottage rather than camp out like we usually did. Since the few rental cottages always went quickly, being in Walla by 4:30 pm gave us a better chance of finding one that was available. We began inquiring at the best cottages first and, luckily for us, the nice landlord had one left. It just so happened that these were the biggest and newest cottages in Walla Beach. Each cottage sported two bedrooms, running water, electricity, an indoor bathroom, a living room sitting area, kitchenette, refrigerator, a large sundeck, outdoor fireplace and was fully furnished in a somewhat frugal way. With very little creativity, this very cool cottage could easily sleep six people comfortably which is exactly what Bear, Stewie and I had in mind. We paid our $30 cash ($10 per night!) and started to settle in.

We noticed that there was a much larger cottage to the left of our front door, about 30 yards away. As I was checking out our sundeck, I saw a large, mostly stock Harley Davidson motorcycle with black leather fringed saddlebags and ape hanger handlebars parked behind that cottage. It struck me in a strange way. To me, it looked like the owner was trying to conceal this monster Harley from sight. Why? Usually, bikers park their bikes right in front of the place they’re in and line them up like dominoes, but not this time. To me, it looked like a perfectly good and smartly decked out Harley Davidson motorcycle was being hidden behind this huge cottage right next door to us. Was it stolen? It bothered me, but not enough to dwell on. After all, it was the May 24th long weekend, we had just scooped the coolest place around and nothing but fun in the scorching sun sat simmering on our vast menu of possibilities.

In 1971, traveling with your favorite music was not an easy task. Remember, this was long before the invention of CDs, MP3 players or IPods. In fact, even cassette tapes were more oriented to home and perhaps, classroom use. Car owners could install stereo 8-Track tape players to enhance their usual mono AM/FM radio experience, but motorcycle riders were pretty well out of luck. Transistor radios were never loud enough to hear over the roar of our engines, so ripping down the highway with our favorite music blasting in our ears was a technological impossibility. This forced us bikers to become compatible travelling companions with the whoosh of wind slamming our faces and screaming into our ears. Shades and neckerchiefs helped, but they did nothing to solve our lack of music problem. We just had to wait. When our destination was in sight, of course, our music quickly supplanted the beastly breeze.

Knowing that we were going to do our best to rent a cottage that weekend, Bear had come up with a reasonable solution. He took an old, cube-like ‘close and play’ record player and gutted its excuse for electronics. Then he lifted the tube amplifier from his grandmother’s console radio and wired it to a single ten-inch speaker from a small guitar amplifier that was collecting dust in his mother’s basement. He drilled holes in the side of the ‘close and play,’ mounted the speaker and, voila, a powerful impromptu record player was born. Although the resultant sound wasn’t close to being in stereo, its impressive volume was acceptable compensation.

As I sauntered back around the side of the cottage on the raised sundeck, I heard cowbell pops and the opening chords of Leslie West’s vulgar guitar intro of Mountain’s Mississippi Queen blaring out of Bear’s music box. High fidelity it was not, but it was our music playing at our volume. Bear managed to lash his music box and six albums to the sissy bar of his ‘Snortin’ Norton’ chopper with long leather belts. To this moment, I clearly remember those six classic titles; Mountain’s Climbing, Deep Purple’s Machine Head, Jethro Tull’s Benefit, Mitch Rider’s Detroit; Steppenwolf’s first album and Grand Funk Railroad’s Closer to Home. Each album contained about seven or eight long songs and that weekend we played every one of them to death.

This music was all a prelude to the Sunday night rock concert that was held every May 24th weekend at the pavilion. Standing proudly on the beach at the foot of Walla’s main drag, the art deco pavilion dance hall hosted rock bands from all over Western Ontario and Northern Michigan every Saturday night on regular weekends, but on Sunday nights on holiday weekends like this one. The blast off concert was always held on May 24th weekend and this year, they featured Teagarden and Van Winkle with the Bob Segar System, a major recording band from Detroit. Tickets were fifty cents or you could watch the band while sitting in the sand for free. Their unique setup allowed the band to play on the stage inside the pavilion with a huge dance floor in front of them. But when they opened the huge balcony doors directly in front of the band, the music cascaded onto the spacious sundeck, over the sandy beach and far out into Lake Ontario. Patrons could watch and dance to the band inside the pavilion, sit on blankets on the beach or roam around. Vehicles were not allowed on the pavilion’s premises, so everyone simply strolled down to the beach to catch the vibes. As one of the major highlights of the weekend, making the scene at the pavilion was compulsory for us.

As Felix Pappalardi, the excellently creative bass player and vocalist for the band Mountain, started cranking out the haunting words of Theme for an Imaginary Western, the unmistakable sound of large motorcycles gradually drowned him out. All of us looked to our right to see six or seven loud bikes, with large riders and women on the back of some of them. We immediately noticed that these bikes were definitely not choppers. They were not decorated or positively modified in any way. Instead, they were stock bikes (straight from the factory) with parts removed rather than replaced with gorgeous chrome upgrades and other higher-end parts. Front fenders, mirrors, speedos, horns, some lights, mufflers and anything that was imagined as an unnecessary accessory had been removed. Often referred to as a bobber, this removal habit gave the bike a very rough and tumble, tough and dirty look that stood in stark contrast to the slick, shiny and sultry look of a chopper.

The lead bike was either a Norton Matchless or a 750 Norton Commando; it was that hard to tell. But as this bobber got closer to the front of our cottage, it became increasingly obvious that its rider would be nothing but trouble for us and anyone else who was foolhardy enough to cross his path. The rider’s name was Bill Elder, the toughest guy in our town. At the age of 25 or 26, Billy Boy (as he was known around town) had six or seven greaseball friends who worshipped every lock of his oilcan hair. They hung out at a pool hall located across the street from the drycleaners I worked at part-time. At least once a week, his gang of greaseball friends would sucker some stranger into going outside where a leering and laughing Billy Boy would be waiting with open arms and clenched fists. While his mindless moron friends goaded the stranger, Billy Boy would beat the living daylights out of him. At seven or eight to one, the fight was always over before it started.

Billy Boy, his greaseball friends and their ol’ ladies had made the jaunt to Walla Beach and now grinned greedily as they sat, engines idling noisily, directly in front of our cottage. We quickly surmised that they were not advancing toward us to get a better look at our choppers proudly lined up out front. No, they clearly wanted something else and I doubted it was our friendship. My stomach began to churn. My immediate guess was that they couldn’t find a decent place to stay. Because they had arrived so late in the day, every rentable cottage in the Walla Beach area was already taken. Instead of accepting their fate and heading over to the provincial campground, like most reasonable people would do, my guess was that Billy Boy the bully thought he would scare some teenagers into giving up their place. It just so happened that we were exactly what he was looking for and, hopefully, for all his grinning ghouls and ol’ ladies, ripe for the picking. With an aggressive wave of his hand, the rumble and growl of six or seven substantial motorcycle engines ground to a halt. Bill leaned back on the ample chest of his female riding companion and crossed his massive arms.

“Thanks! Thanks a lot, you guys!” started Billy Boy with his widest grin on full display. “It’s so cool that you remembered we were comin’ and reserved this cottage for us. Man, you guys are bitchin’! What do you think boys? Aren’t these guys the greatest?” On cue, everyone in Billy Boy’s party started loudly agreeing with him and hollering their approval while simultaneously enjoying an extra special laugh at our expense. Of course, since they had pulled this scam before, they knew exactly what was going to happen next. “So, c’mon you guys,” Billy Boy continued, “pack up your shit and get out of here ‘cause me and the boys have got some movin’ in to do.” Again, everyone laughed uproariously, except us. This time though, some of Billy Boy’s greaseballs started jeering at us, calling us names, and urging us to fight them for the right to keep the cottage. Billy Boy interrupted. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold it down you...