Dixie Biker Illustrated Road Trips

Marrying Boots brought tears to my eyes; the births of

our children and grandchildren brought tears to my eyes; our

kids' graduations brought tears to my eyes; the marriages of

our daughters brought tears to my eyes; the deaths of loved

ones brought tears to my eyes. Last month, (August 2002) the

passion of one man for motorcycles, and the dedication of his

friends and volunteers, brought tears to my eyes.

What can I say? I'm an emotionnal guy and this is is a first

for me. And I don't know how to write about it. I met a total

stranger. I listened to his stories. I felt his passion. I looked

at, listened to, felt, and smelled inanimate objects that he had

brought to life. I never thought motorcycles could bring me to

tears. I left his shrine with tears in my eyes, y'all. It's that

simple. Really.

I've experienced outrageous joy while ridin' - the kind that

makes ya just wanna scream out while cruisn' down a country-

by-way somewhere. I've experienced total happiess with our

friends on the road; the peacefulness of sharin' road stories around a camp fire or in a bar with others that feel

like we do about ridin'. These elicit emotion. Warm memories. Good thoughts and feel good pages in life's little book of memories. They don't bring tears of joy or passion. Dale Walksler, a man I'd never met, made me cry with absolute joy and disbelief. Here's the story, briefly. It's the story about our meeting and my epiphany.

Me and Boots stole about seven days in August - while many of y'all readin' this were in Sturgis - and made a little trip to the mountains of North Carolina. Articles by Inkslinger and Wile E had gotten us to thinkin' that maybe it was time to take a trip to the Smokies (that article is here). Boots had spent many a summer vacation there as a child and we wanted to check out those places she visited then plus get in some quality time together. The magazine is so drainin' it's hard to talk, think or do much of anything else. This was gonna be our chance to do that.

When we checked into our hotel in Maggie Valley, NC on Wednesday, the manager said, "Oh, you're bikers, huh?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Is that good or bad?" I replied.

"Oh, that's good. We get lotsa bikers. Good

ridin' country. Here. These are $2 off coupons to

the new museum that opened up last month. It's

called Wheels Through Time and they have some

motorcycles. It's about a mile down, on the right. "

"Hey, thanks. We'll check it out," I replied

cheerfully while thinkin' to myself, "Oh, boy. Just

what I wanna do in the mountains - spend a couple

of hours checkin' out a bunch of cars and trucks

that are all painted pretty. A bike or two thrown in

to justify the name."

It's not something that Boots and I spend a

lot of time on. We'd rather be out ridin' and see an old 45" rigid or Knucklehead or Panhead or 74 FL or something and engage the owner in conversation. That's the museum pieces I like - the owner can tell you stories about the ride. I'll listen for hours. Boots? She'll drink beer, shoot pool and get some shit goin' while I'm engrossed in conversation listenin' to road stories.

Well, we actually stopped in at Wheels Through Time on Saturday morning - I saw this pretty ol' red Indian someone had ridden in - but we never went in and checked out the museum. We went for a pretty ride through the mountains instead. Well, that evening we went to dinner and while we were waitin' on the front porch, Boots with her longneck and me with Jose and OJ, up rode seven or eight people on old Indians with a couple of Knuckleheads behind them. I noticed license tags from NC, Tennessee, Virginia, and SC. I also noticed no trailers! Cool. We began shootin' the shit.

Someone asked me, "Hey, have y'all checked out the museum yet?"

"Nah," I said. "I'd rather talk to y'all and watch you ride off on real

museum pieces than look at something behind ropes and glass."

"Dude - you gotta go and check

this place out. I ain't shittin' you. Tell

Dale the Indian guys sent you."

The next morning, Sunday, Boots

and I packed up to get on the road

home. As we pulled out to head South,

I mentioned to Boots, "Honey, what

the hell? Let's check out the museum." It really doesn't matter what time we get in tonight."

Boots, rolling her eyes, replied,

"You wanna eat breakfast first?"

"Nah," I said. "This won't take

long, I'm sure. An hour, tops."

Four hours later we still hadn't

eaten. Around Noon, Jeff, GM of the

museum, offered Boots a beer cuz I

was still talkin' with Dale, engrossed

in the history of the bikes and his

obvious passion for 'em. Plus it didn't

look like I was comin' up for air any-

time soon. I betcha Boots was won-

derin' if she should call the motel back

and reserve a room for that night!

The reason it took hours, you wonder? Dale doesn't have a "few bikes thrown" in to justify the museum. He has over 220 motorcycles from over twenty different manufacturers. And he knows the history and the stories behind every bike. And the best part? 90% of the bikes run, y'all! No shit. How do I know? Ha - I'll tell you how I know.

As I'm standin' there admirin' a vintage Harley V-twin from the early teens and a pre-teen Indian, someone comes up, taps me on the shoulder and says, "You like it?" I replied, "Of course, I like it." "Well hold on a second," he says. "I'll be right back."

The dude comes back with a lil ol' gallon gas can and, while extendin' his free hand to shake my hand, says, "I'm Dale. Lemme tell you about the bike." He proceeds to tell me about how he got it, where it's been, etc. All the while he's puttin' in gas, messin' with this and messin' with that. Advances, decompression, etc. As his story winds down, he says, "Here, get on and start pedaling."

I nearly shit when he said that. I started pedalin' and damned if that bike didn't fire up right away. Unbelievable. Ran just like it was born yesterday. Rumblin', smoke fillin' the place.

And it wasn't just that bike. He's got bikes from manufacturers I've never heard of; bikes from all over America - they're all American bikes. He's got a collection of Evel Knievel's bikes (which I didn't even get to see on this trip. They're on the second floor and I didn't make it up to the loft!) , old Sportster racers (my favorite Harley model, as most of you know. I may ride other models but I'll always own a Sportser, too.), and bikes from marques I never knew existed. He's got board track racers; hill climbers; military bikes; bikes built before Harley-Davidson was even founded. He's got a bike called a Traub in fantastic condition that no one's ever heard of. It's got a stamped tranny cover and engine casings so it wasn't a

"built at home one-time wonder." He's researched it since it was found behind a bricked up wall and still can't find out anything else about it. But you can bet your ass it runs. He fired it right up.

People, in ones and twos, came in while Dale was showin' me/us around. He walked around the museum showin' different bikes, tellin' us the stories behind the bikes and asking people randomly to pick out a bike to start. While startin' it and while it was runnin', he'd tell the story or history of the bike. I was speechless and dumbfounded. It brought tears to my eyes. Unbelievable is what it was. Just like I said ealier - it was an epiphany for me. To see those bikes, which most of us only

get to see in coffee table books; to hear 'em

come to life; to sit on 'em and feel the vibration -

man, it's more than I can put into words. We'd

need a poet or songwriter to put to words what

I was feelin'. It's one of those days I'll never

forget.

I got a media kit from Dale before I left,

much too soon for me, but Boots was on my case

to get on the road, and I'm gonna include some

of that here. Most of what I'm writin', though,

comes from my conversation wih Dale and Jeff.

Dale's enthusiasm and encyclopedic knowledge

was better 'n any ol' media kit, anyhow.

Basically, Dale doesn't have a museum -

he's got the History of the American Motorcycle.

And it ain't in no damn book. It's touchy-feely

and it runs. He divides his collection into nine categories:

Veteran Bikes. 1903 - 1928

Military Bikes. WWI and WWII

Art Deco Bikes. 1928 - 1939

One of a Kind Bikes.

Board Track Racers.

Post War Bikes. 1946 -

Hill Climbers.

Speedway Machines

Special Interest.

"Man, you got something unbelevable here. I'm astounded and, as a journalist, I got all kindsa questions for you. More 'n I could cover in a few hours, though. I bet you get all kindsa questions and comments like mine, huh?"

"Yeah, I do," Dale said. But I love answerin' em. Here's the three I get asked most:

"Which is the oldest motorcycle?"

"A 1903 Indian discovered 80 miles from the original Springfield, MA factory."

"Do any of the motorcycles run?"

"This is the Museum that RUNS! 90% of the machines are in operating order. The 1917 Henderson, for example, was used to break the eighty year old Trans Continental record in 1997. The 1936 experimental Harley-Davidson nearly won the 1995 Great American Race, losing by a one second margin."

"Which is your favorite motorcycle?"

"The one I rode last."

Yes, y'all. Dale gets 'em runnin' and then he rides 'em. Not for a block, not for a couple but til he gets tired or ridin' 'em. It's his transportation. A unique individual and a walkin', talkin'

Dale hooked this kid for life. He'd come to visit that day with his dad and Dale said, "C'mere. Ya wanna get on?" The kid was dumbfounded, as was his dad, but the best was yet to come. Dale put in some gas, fiddled with this an' fiddle with that and told the kid, "Start pedalin'. Don't be scared." The Elk started up immediately. I thought the kid was gonna piss his pants. I almost did.

historian on American motorcycles. Where in the hell did he come from?

Dale bought a basket case Harley when he was sixteen, got it runnin', sold it for more than he paid and found his life's work and passion. Back in the mid-seventies, when people were runnin' from Harley, Dale got a dealership in the pleasant little town of Mount

Vernon, IL. He was all of twenty years-old.

Ah, and then it started. He started buyin'

up all the NOS (new, old stock) layin' around.

Old dealerships were droppin' by the wayside

and they'd found a sucker willin' to pay some

money, not a lot, but something, for all the old

crap they had layin' in basements, in sheds,

or in back rooms. All that take-off stuff you

get rid of as soon as you buy your new bike.

Don't like the skins? Get new ones and put

the old tanks and fenders in the attic. Pipes?

Hell, no, I want some Samson Big Guns.

Gonna make me a custom bike. Well, Dale

bought all this stuff, only it wasn't Twin Cam

or Evo parts and such. It was stuff from the

Nineteen-Teens through the Nineteen-Sixties.

Now he's got it and you don't. So he's got all this NOS layin' around. Now what?

Hah, that's easy. He'd get the old bikes to go with the NOS he had. Bassackwards? Nope, not to Dale. Most people get a project bike and start to look for parts. Dale's got the parts - he gets the bikes! And then he makes 'em run. He actually had this museum next to his dealership in Mt. Vernon and word got out through the network about what he'd put together. He had a steady stream of customers, motorcycle buffs and enthusiasts that knew about his 'personal' collection. Now he's got a jen-u-wine, IRS approved, non-profit museum and it ain't in the network - now it's gonna git to you if we can help him out.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Jeff and Tracy and the slew of volunteers that've helped Dale get this

the rain, muck, mud and a worsening weather forecast for the rest of the week, he had to take off on Tuesday. We don't blame him. We had him set up outdoors under a pole barn. This is as he likes it since it allowed many people to get up close to the bikes, but, on the other hand, two of the bikes (above) are absloutely priceless and irreplacable. They're one of a kinds, restored to full runnin' order with all original parts and the original factory "Nile Green" paint. The Knuclehead prototype is the only one of it's kind. Anyhow ...

We know many of y'all're either new to

ridin' or just gettin'back to it after raisin' a

family, movin' to the 'burbs, doin' life and

now you're wantin' to get some of that rebel-

lious, younger spirit back. That's good.

We're glad you've got your smile in the wind.

Wanna see the roots of what you enjoy today?

Wanna be astounded by the passion of one

man for the American Motorcycle? Wanna

be blown away by the history of something

uniquely American? Take a trip to Maggie

Valley, NC (just a little southwest of Ashe-

ville). Be prepared to spend the rest of the

day listenin' to Dale's stories and hearin' him

bring these almost century old machines to

life. Believe me, if you're passionate about

your bike, you're gonna be astounded by Dale

and the Wheels Through Time Museum.

Make plans to head to the Smokies this Spring or Summer to see the whole collection. Pass right by Cherokee, ride fifteen minutes North on Hwy 19 and you'll find Maggie Valley. And the All American Transportation Museum. Believe me, it's worth the ride from anywhere.

To visit the on-line version of the Museum, click the logo below.

collection moved to the beautiful mountains of North Carolina from Mt. Vernon. They're pleasant as can be, helpful and just as enthusiastic as Dale. I reckon he's contagious!

By the way, they've also got a ton of memorabilia: toys, posters, billboards, oil cans, parts crates, bicycles, all kinda stuff. Way too much for me to list here. They've even got a cool ass car collection, but I ain't gonna talk about it. We ain't a car magazine.

Dale did manage to bring several bikes to Black Hills Saloon during Bike Week 2003 but, with all