Goldenrod
I live for the CABE
It took 40 random (small vehicle) key tries to find one that opened the locked gas cap and then we duplicated just the end of that key. We didn't have to destroy the most beautiful cap we have ever seen.
By Ray Spangler
I have three restored Sportsmans that were assembled in the Winter so I never got to ride one. This Sportsman is not completely original because it was repainted in a non-Sportsman color. I purchased it from Don Vorwerk. Don’s father owned and operated a bike shop in Cleveland. As part of his father’s business, he sold Whizzer motorbikes and reconditioned and painted used motor bikes in the basement of his bike shop. This repainted Sportsman was given to Don when he was 14 and he rode it until he was 16 and passed his auto license. Don’s father had to close his shop in the late 60’s. He moved the remaining Whizzers and all his loose parts to a warehouse. In 1999 it was decided that it was time to sell all of this. A collector from California bought the entire lot. Don’s Whizzer was stored in his father’s garage. When Don arranged to move his father to his retirement home in Michigan, he took possession of his old ride. Each time Don moved, the Sportsman went with him. It was Don’s intention to restore the bike but it didn’t happen.
My name and general location were mentioned in the Daily Herald newspaper about our last picnic. Through the internet Don was able to find me. After calculating the amount of work and expense it would take to transform Blue into a reliable ride, he decided to sell the complete machine for cash. Following the usual trauma, expense and single can of WD40, Blue putted around my neighborhood wiggling its 1961 license plate like Old Glory over Fort Henry. It had Al’s fingerprints all over it.
Most of us have experienced a similar Lazarus moment; feeling iron moving under its own power after being just a rusty, in-the-way sculpture. It never gets old. Each of our bikes were once protected by someone with hope, patience and a faint dream.
Blue’s saddle bags are delicate with age but they have crossed six shooters stamped in the chrome buttons so I was seduced into a major repair job. They just reek of the 1950’s when I wore a little cowboy suit. I cried when the boots no longer fit. The rectangular rear leather seat hides some aesthetic issues and it may serve as a seat for a picture of my two youngest granddaughters. The thin, weird blue plastic seat was disappointing until I realized that it was just a seat cover protecting a perfectly preserved Whizzer Sportsman saddle. The lights now work with their new wiring. A long absent mouse stored birdseed up the tail pipe. It blasted out into the clean garage when the little guy
started for the first time. We couldn't clean it all out beforehand. With a little November choking, Blue becomes an energetic pony that wants to gallop after the first kick. Don and his grandchild can visit and ride the family heirloom whenever they want without the need to store it.
I gave the little fella a horn because, in Illinois, we have sheep in the meadow and cows in the corn.
While riding this bike, I realized that Whizzer was a motorcycle manufacturing company. Sportsmans are like models of larger motorcycles, but built in nearly accurate proportions. What courage the Whizzer executives must have had to make a miniature motorcycle for kids that was also designed to carry another kid.
When Indian stopped making bikes in 1953, only Harley remained. The child motorcycle market was left to the Japanese to later revive by importing small crotch rockets. We all know these facts but I acquired a fresh appreciation for the “Swan Song” Whizzer years and the old school thrill that Sportsmans still provide. Reprinted from the Whizzer National Newsletter.
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