Little Earl...

In the mid 1970's I lived on the east side of Detroit with my father. My younger brother would visit us on weekends. But only very rarely would we receive a visit from my older brother, my father's first born son we all had come to affectionately refer to as Little Earl.
On those rare instances we would hear the sound of his motorcycle approaching from a distance. Then he would appear. His shoulder length blonde-brown hair, his blue jeans and lumberjack shirt. With that unmistakable scent of the open road upon him. He was the very human embodiment of coolness and freedom.He would bring me stacks of motorcycle magazines, and I was the only kid in my class who knew that BMW's had a drive shaft. The glossy pages held photo after photo of  Norton Commandos, and Triumph Bonnevilles. I knew then what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be just like him.
He had gone across the country on his bike, and had many tales of his adventures including an exciting tale of a brothel with hideous wallpaper. Occasionally we would make tape recordings on the reel to reel.
He sang Buddy Holly's Rave On, A song I had never heard before. growing up in a house where my father, Earl senior preferred Frank Sinatra, and swing era music to the rock and roll of the day. I was 14 before I surreptitiously joined the Columbia tape club, and finally got to listen to Jethro Tull, and Frank Zappa. Jim Croce, and Jackson Browne.
Little Earl was the opposite of our father. A free spirit. An explorer. Soon he would head off again walking the bike to the end of the street so as not to bother the neighbors, and finally he would disappear into the night. It would be years before I'd see him again, but he was, and remains my hero. It was him who introduced me to the love of motorcycles. An enduring love that has grown over the years to a full blown obsession on my part. It's in my blood. And every time I hear a motorcycle, I think of him and smile.