Erich von Neff: 1952: Half Moon Bay to Pescadero:The World’s Fastest Bicycle Sprint

erich10

The World’s Fastest Bicycle Sprint

By Erich von Neff

There are those that say it was the fastest bicycle sprint that there ever was. Since no official time was taken this certainly can be questioned. And there is the tendency to believe that an earlier era had some of the “right stuff” that the present lacks. Then, too, there are very few left who remember it. And most of these can be found holding forth in waterfront bars, such as Schlegels.* So it can be fairly asked: Why even bother to mention something that may be no more than a myth?

Well, as will be seen, there really may be a reason to believe that it really did happen. Let us, then, examine the facts if this can be done dispassionately.

It all began inauspiciously enough at the Half Moon Bay to Pescadero Race held on Columbus Day of 1952. This annual event which had its origins in the fringes of pre-consciousness, as even those old timers in Schelgel’s Bar will grudgingly attest, for even they cannot remember when it first started.

Louis Meyer who was maitre d and part owner of Bardelli’s in San Francisco had donated a 1938 Bentley sedan as the first and only prize.

A customer had died, leaving the Bentley for his tab, which, in any case, an all too honest brother had paid. So Louis Meyer decided to donate the Bentley, not that he couldn’t have kept the Bentley and enjoyed driving it. But Louis Meyer had been a professional cyclist in France, and had even placed tenth in the Tour de France; which was very good indeed since, he had been a team domestic to Nicolas Frantz.**

Because of the prize, this race would be no mere formality. Club teams and riders would be pulling for their own leaders; and classification groups would do their best to stay away from one another, though some cooperation would nonetheless be necessary.

The staccato and presto, presto of Italian could be heard grating against the booming voices of Norwegians and Germans. None of them modulated their voices. Possibly, their trades–longshoreman, slaughterhouse worker, merchant seamen, brewer–caused this exuberance, or more likely, these occupations were a sign of their zest for life itself.

Still when Lido’s Duesenberg drove up there was a brief lull, then presto, presto, “Mach schnell, Hans (quickly, Hans)” their exuberant dialogue resumed.

Men in wide brimmed sombreros flanked Half Moon Bay’s Main Street. They looked intently at the Bentley which was parked in front of Pete’s Cafe. Lido’s blonde mistress had driven it down from San Francisco and was still in the driver’s seat.

Little time was wasted starting the race. Each class rode in a circle near the starting time snaking out behind the rider who was nearest it when the starter’s gun went off. Precious seconds were saved that way, rather than starting out en masse and then sorting themselves into a pace line.

Lido stood near the Bentley chomping and smoking his cigar. There was grumbling about the handicapping, but we all know it would be useless to complain to Lido. At 8 a.m. on the dot, he fired his 38 Smith and Wesson in the air. Novice Class rode off. Shortly there was another pistol shot for Class C, another for Class B, and finally Lido discharged the remaining three rounds for Class A.

We snaked out behind Jim Manning who happened to be the rider nearest the starting line. The pace was lung bursting from the start. Whopping handicaps had been allotted at Louis Meyer’s insistence. We would have to work together with a will if we were to have even the slightest chance.

And so we barreled down Main Street leaving the Bentley, the sombreros, Lido, and the blonde well behind.

“Via, Via,” the men beneath the sombreros yelled. Soon we turned off onto Highway One. We rotated pace with surprisingly little disagreement nor did anyone say anything to Gus and Vince Gatto when, as usual, they refused to take their turns.

We rolled on, averaging close to thirty miles an hours. I will have to admit though that my brain cells are now numb to the memory of the details of our progress between Half Moon Bay and Pescadero. Basically it is a blur of spinning cranks, and the recollection that at the time I wished that each of those revolutions would be the last. Those still holding forth in Schlegel’s Bar will certainly agree.

During all this time we did not catch sight of any of the groups ahead. Until just over the crest of the last hill before Pescadero. In front of us were Classes B, C and Novice. And, in front of them, was the finish line painted across the road next to the turnoff to Pescadero. It looked as if each of these groups were rolling along fast enough to stay away.

There now transpired a series of events, though seemingly of minor significance in themselves, were to affect the pace of our sprint: At this moment, the Highway Patrol escorts from Pescadero came roaring up beside us. Their sirens b egan to scream, psyching us up, though, in this, we had no more than the groups ahead. The Bentley zoomed by driven by the blonde, Lido sat next to her, puffing on his cigar. This apparition transferred energy to all of  us. Then, too, there was the crowd, mostly made up of Italian, Portuguese, Mexican and Filipino farm workers yelling for their favorites, “Gatto, Delgardo, Mesina, Guido…”

The sirens continued screaming mixed in with the din of the crowd. Our pace now matched that of the motorcycle escorts as we charged after the Bentley and the groups ahead.

Finally we converged in a massive pack of about 100–a case of almost perfect handicapping. In this melee it was a case of every man for himself. The sirens and roar of the crowd almost obliterated consciousness as we zoomed across the finish line.

The crowd began to yell, “Gus, Gus.” And this time there could be no doubt, for Louis Meyer had made sure there were some Frenchmen among those picking first place.

Gus Gatto dismounted from his bike to be kissed by the blonde, and receive the keys to the Bentley from Louis Meyer.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” one of the Highway Patrolmen said to some of the riders. We remained silent. Of course, we did not know our speed. Did it make any difference now that the race was over? “You were going sixty miles an hour.” The other Highway Patrolmen nodded in agreement.

The fastest sprinter goes forty-two miles an hour and this is under ideal conditions on a board trace. Even allowing for some inaccuracy of the speedmeters, our speed was fast indeed, and it must be remembered that close to thirty speedmeters read almost the same.

Although it is true that the motorcycles created a draft, there was a tailwind, and there was psyching up effects of the blonde and the Bentley. But more than these factors was the near perfect synchronization of more than a hundred riders, that resulted in four groups chasing each other in a frenzy until the final few seconds of the race.

Later, at the Columbus Day Dinner in Pete’s Cafe in Half Moon Bay, some of the riders asked Gus how he had won.

“Remember that Highway Patrol motorcycle, the one in front of the pack,” Gus said as he ate Lasagna. “I sprinted right for it. Sort of took a bead on it. Like when I was in anti-tanks under Patton.”

We ate more Lasagna, celebrating Columbus Day. Sicilians became Italians, if very briefly.

Gus drove the Bentley back to San Jose. Not long afterward, the Half Moon Bay to Pescadero Columbus Day Race was dropped from the racing calendar.

For those of us who were in it thoughts of that last race are revived by mellow spirits on Columbus Day.

“Was it really the World’s Fastest Bicycle Sprint?” Those old timers holding forth in Waterfront bars, such as Schlegel’s will give you argument enough. Though there will always be some who claim it as no more than a myth.

*In San Francisco

**Winner of the Tour of France, 1929.

The Myth Track: an original bicycle story by Erich von Neff

“The Myth Track”, an original story by Erich von Neff

erich

“It seems suspicious to me,” Reinholt Reinhardt said. Murphy  Sabatino’s   board track* has been shut down for a few years. There’s a six-day race at the Madison Square Garden in New York and the Gattos go back there and clean house. The New York Times said that they handled the track like they’d been riding one every day.”

Jesss Shinn took a puff off his cigar, then he looked up at the photo of Rita Hayworth on the wall. Jess spoke slowly.

Remember when there was some money missing at the bank. It wasn’t much, and your boss said that you can;’t expect the books to balance exactly.”

You went over the books anyway and found that a little  bit here and there had been shaved off, but when you added it up 50 grand was missing.

Reinholt crossed his right leg over his left revealing a white sock. Nervously he pulled his right leg down slightly.

“Unfortunately it was my boss who was cooking the books. He’s sitting in a cold wet cell in San Quentin right now.”

“Your instincts were right. Something was fishy,” Jess observed.

“Unfortunately so,” Reinholt replied taking a deep breath and thinking of how he didn’t like putting away a fellow banker especially one he had shared a beautiful redhead with at Sally Stanford’s brothel.

Jess Shinn slowly spun the front wheel of a Sieber track bike that was upside down in the repair stand.

“Yes, it takes plenty of time on the boards to win a six-day race  and you’re wondering where Gus and Vince got it.”

“Let me tell you a secret,” Jess said, rubbing his fingers against the tire of the spinning wheel. There’s a board track in a barn in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”

“Are you sure?” asked Reinhol now uncrossing his legs and sitting on the edge of his seat.

“I thought something was something was funny. But this?”

Jess reached in the tool cabinet.He took out two brandy glasses and a bottle of Korbel brandy.

“Always warms the stomach, ” he said.

“Look, guys, come in this shop and they talk.”

“Anyway it was almost a month ago. I’m sitting here when I hear the front door open. I look and see Dave Staub ** and DanKaljian. They walk over to my rack of team race jerseys. I sit here smoking a cigar. I can’t help but hear Dave say”

“We’ll smoke those guys at the Searsville Lake track. We’ll train m secret.  Tomorrow we’ll drive down to Dewey Maxwell’s board track in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”

Dan replied: “Are you sure you’ve got the training fee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

After a little while they picked out their jerseys and paid with a check.

It’ll probably bounce Reinholt joked as he sipped his brandy.

“I suppose this explains things,” he said, looking up at the photo of Rita Hayworth. “You know after my affair with Marlene Dietrich, Rita phoned me: ‘Listen big boy, she said. ‘You rode her. Now you ride me..” Well  I go over to her house and….”

“Have some more brandy,” Jess said, hoping to loosen Reinholt’s tongue.”

“Let’s see. Where was I? As  I was taking off my socks, or was it my trousers.”

It was the last leg of a San Francisco wheelmen ride. It had started at the Round House restaurant on the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge, gone over Corte Madera hill, then White’s Grade, and on to Nacasio for lunch, then back again, through the Presidio and along Lincoln Boulevard.

Sprints were run at road signs along the way. These sprints would depend on the mood of the pack. A city limits sign or a road sign would be sprinted to, several miles and signs might pass, until tension would build up in the pack and some obscure sign would signal the next sprint.

So it was that Rickey Tan had sat on George Wolf’s then Harold Kirkbride’s then Oscar Juner’s wheel and nipped the field at the Storey Road sign. Everybody now sat up in their saddles; the pace slowed to a crawl.

As the pack passed some old horse stables on our left, Oscar pointed and said, “It’s down there someplace.”

“What’s down there?” Just horse stables. ” Harold observed.

“No. No. In one of them there’s a board track built for the ’36 team to train on.”

“Bull.  Come on, let’s ride down there,” George Wolf challenged.

“No. No. There’s too many M.P.***s which was true for at that time they were all over the Presidio in their jeeps.

“Red Berti was on the ’36 team. A track was made in secret on one of those horse stables to challenge Hitler’s cycling track team. Red Berti**** rode it once, then the army closed the track though I hear if you join up you can use it now.

“Are you a recruiter? Henry McWhirter****.” Sixteen years have passed. It’s a bunch of rotten boards or worse.”

“I’m no recruiter,” Oscar replied quietly. “I speak the truth.”

The pack rode on in silence. Oscar was no recruiter. He had seen much bloody action in World War II. He kept it to himself except for the horros of a concentration camp he described but did not name.

There was a board track down there someplace. Red Berti of the Unione Sportivo Italiano in San Jose had ridden on it, and perhaps if you joined the army.

There were other sightings of a board track. Some of them quite close.

Ron Arms of the San Francisco Wheelmen majored in math at Stanford.* **The semester had ended and now summer. Ron lazed around until his mother, good German woman that she was, insisted that he go to work.

“Work, It is good for you, Ron.”

But Ron thought differently. Work. He knew what his good German mother meant by that. Sweat. A better idea he would take a test for math aid at the Ames Research Center in Mountain View.

“Ron,” his mother asked all too soon, “When are you going to work?”

So he told her about the test.

“And when is the test?”

“In six weeks.”

“And the results?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tomorrow we go to work.”

At four in the morning Ron’s mother shook him awake.

“We go now.”

And off they went in the old Hudson to 16th and Mission Street where an old rickety bus was parked near a fireplug. Rough looking men were boarding it.

“Here is work Ron. Your lunch and your streetcar fare home,” his mother said as she gave him a bag lunch and some change. The Hudson drove off. Reluctantly Ron boarded the bus. “Stand up boy,” someone yelled. There were only so many seats. Ron stood up as the bus took the old Bayshore Highway to San Carlos, down an old road and finally stopped in front of a plum orchard. “Out. out, ” a heavy-set man with a freckled face yelled.

The freckled faced man split them up into work gangs each with a ladder. Then they picked and picked and picked. Work. Work. “Work is good for you Ron,” his mother always said.

Day after day, different orchards. Different men. Some of them told not to come back. Work. Work.

With this as a reality check of the bottomless pit into which a failed math major could fall, Ron applied himself very hard that fall semester. There were still the weekend San Francisco Wheelmen rides however, and so it was at a rest stop at the Old La Honda Saloon*****that Ron told this story as we drank bottle after bottle of Wieland’s Beer.”*****

“It was working with this wino. Well, more of a lush than a wino ’cause he’s drinking bourbon. We’re picking plums when some fat foreman yells, ‘Lunch, you bums.’ I break out mom’s salami sandwich. He’s drinking bourbon and eating some plums. He starts talking about World War I.

‘When I was in the trenches we ate rats or any goddamn thing.’ Feeling sorry for him I break off some of mom’s salami sandwich. He wolfs it down. Never even thanks me. He continues, ‘I think I saw Hitlter. Could’ve bayoneted the sonnabitch.’

I’m beginning to wonder about this guy when I hear a rumbling in the orchard across the road from ours.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A bike race at the track,” he answers matter of  factly.

“What?”

“You know like at the Madison Square Garden.”

“Like at the Madison Square Garden?”

“That’s right, a team race.”

“Bull.”

“Don’t believe it. Let’s go over there.”

He starts walking and I follow. Soon we come to a clearing in the adjacent orchard.

“See, just like I told you.”

“Damn if he isn’t right. There’s a board track.” A team race is going on. I recognize Nick Magi, Louie Rondoni and a few others. We stand though we could sit on the wooden bleachers like most of the other pitchers. Soon there’s the bell lap for a sprint. Fruit pickers should out in different languages. But my partner takes the bell as a signal to go back to work. I try to explain but off he trudges and I follow.

“Where is this track,” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I could find it again.”

“You’ve had one too many, ” Oran said.

“No, it was thee. I could reach out and touch it.”

“Here, reach out and touch a Wieland’s beer.”

“Okay. But I saw it. I could reach out and touch it.”

Joe Lauricella stumbled out of the Old Spaghetti Factory in San Francisco’s North Beach. Bt instinct he headed up to the artist John Newman’s pad above Marie’s Art Gallery******* on Grant Avenue. Thankfully the front door was open as usual. .By sheer will he pulled himself up by the bannister whenever his legs gave out on the steep stairs.

The apartment door swung open. Did John open it? Joe could not remember. He flopped on the couch and he began to dream. Blondes, brunettes and redheads danced the hootchie-coottchie as Joe sat in a large armchair dressed in a white toga; and now they began to dance a lively Charleston. Joe was still sitting in his armchair only now Joe was above the banking of a board track, looking down on them. The crowd was roaring,  Joe gave thumbs-up and that signaled the bell lap which was also the phone. 

“John,” Marie, the landlady shouted. “I told you no friends overnight. ” “Listen, Joe,,,” John started to say.

“I know. I know.” Joe replied ass he hauled himself  off the couch, made his way down the stairs and into the cold night.

A few weeks later at a San Francisco Wheelmen meeting at Oscar’s American Cyclery.*****John Parks had just finished collecting the 50 cents a month dues and now came the good part, donuts and a bull session.

Joe could hardly wait to speak.

You know the track everybody’s been talking about? I saw it.”

“Yeah,” George said skeptically.

“Where is it? In the Presidio? In the Santa Cruz mountains. Where?”

“I can locate it. I can locate it.” Joe replied confidentally.

“Tell us where?”

“I can see it now, Joe said, closing his eyes. “It is in my mind.”

——————————————

Image from Swann Galleries, click here

bike
——
Murphy Sabatino’s board track was located in San Jose.
Santa Cruz Mountains in San Jose
Board track: Training on such a track was also known as secret training
Dave Staub was U.S.A. National Junior Champion in 1955.
Searsville Lake Track: a quarter-mile hard banked dirt track next to Searsville Lake near Portola Valley, 1957.






Below definitions and the meaning of some of author Eirch von Neff’ story.

Murphy Sabatino’s board track in San Jose.
Santa Cruz Mountains in San Jose.
Board Track: Training on such a track was also known as secret training.
Dave Staub was U.S.A. National Junior Champion in 1955.
Dewey Maxwell’s board track was a quarter-mile hard banked dirt track next to Searsville Lake near Portola Valley, California, 1957.
MP stands for Military Police
Red Berti of San Jose was indeed a member of the track cycling team.
Henry McWhirter beat World Champion Frank L. Kramer in a match sprint at the Sacramento Velodrome circa 1910. He was also trained to by the Wright Brothers and was an early Alaskan bush pilot.
Rpn Arms majored in math at Stanford under Professor Harold Levine, among others.
Taking the bus to a plum orchard: My friend Alfred Schuhmacher’s brother, Patrick, took such a bus to the fruit orchards in the 1950s. Fist fights on the bus were the norm.
Old La Honda Saloon: Oran Arms, Ron Arms uncle was the bartender and owner
Wieland’s Beer made in San Jose and now out of business.
Board track seen by Nick Magi and Louie Rondoni: Hugh Enochs Senior of the old New Century Wheelmen claims he saw such a track.
Marie’s Art Gallery on Grant Avenue in San Francisco: Marie owned the apartment house and the art gallery. The art gallery was run by George Pennguel and his wife. Information supplied by Jane Witaker of the United States Post Office, Rincon Annex, June 2, 1998.
Oscar’s American Cyclery: In the early 1950s track cyclists really did talk about such a track. Supposedly it was in San Francisco’s Presidio, the Santa Cruz Mountains, the Santa Clara fruit orchards or in their dreams.

Erich von Neff: Second Place (A Bicycling Story)

Note to Erich: I may be out of sequence using this story now. Am I? I hope not. Because the living room was turned a hospital room, all my stuff kept getting moved around, and there are so many papers to get back in order. Ugh. No fun.

 

SECOND PLACE

An Original Story by Erich von Neff

erich10

“Racing’s getting too predictable,” Lido said. “Gussie Gatto wins the sprints. Don Peterson and Les Williams win the team races. Rickey Tan wins the criteriums.  It changes around. But little.”

Lido sat on an old orange crate in the back of the Gattos brothers’ grocery store on Taylor Street in San Jose. Mack Sharpy and a few of the other boys also sat on orange crates though of lesser height. They nodded in agreement.

“Now take this here Saint Mark’s day race in a couple of weeks. It’s about twenty-five miles. Right?”

“Right boss. Right.” Mark Sharpy agreed.

Lido lit up a cigar and looked around the room. “Now, how’s a guy going to make a buck betting with a  bookie when the outcome is pretty well known. Rickey Tan will probably clean up. Or, if not him, somebody equally well known.”

“What we need is a real, real long shot.”

Lido put his cigar down and reached down and reached over and grabbed an apple from a barrel and took a thoughtful bite.”

“Now we needn’t play too fair.”

Nobody said anything nor did heads nod. Foul play was only too well understood.

Lido at the apple, then another, and all sat there listening to him chomp, chomp, chomp. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Suddenly a light bulb went on in Lido’s head.

“I’ve got it. Here it is.”

The boys sat on the edge of their orange crates.

“Anybody know of an older rider, not in too bad shape, who has false teeth?”

Silence. One could never tell where Lido’s furtive mind might lead.

“Sure,” said Chung Wo. “There’s Hans Krause and he definitely has false choppers. He used to race in Berlin before the war, but now he races part time, mostly in San Francisco. 

“No problem,” Lido said. “You’ll drive him if necessary.”

Lido put the cigar back in his mouth, stood up, and began expounding. No one chomped any apple. Not a sound could be heard. 

“Now,  boys, here’s my plan.”

Hans Krause was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a Wieland’s  beer after a hard day working  as a longshoreman on the San Francisco waterfront,  and an even harder afternoon on a training ride with the New Century Wheelmen at the Old Stadium Velodrome in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. The phone rang and Hans reluctantly put the Wieland’s down.”

“ja.” Hans answered, a cold voice said, “You’re going to get some more false teeth at Dr. Specker’s,” and be ready with your bike and riding clothes on the Sunday of the Saint Mark’s Day race for you’ll be in the deep freeze. ” Then click the receiver down on the other end of the line.

Hans could feel that this was for real and he better do as he was told, and what the heck, he could use another set of false teeth.

Hans continued to train, checked over his Durkopp and took an old Red Devil’s  jersey out of his closet given to him by Alfred Letouner. It had always brought him jum juk.

On the Sunday morning of the Saint Mark’s Day race a black shiny Buick pulled up to Hans Krause’s house. There was a lump in Han’s throat as he stepped toward the door. He had his Durkopp on his shoulder and carried his racing clothes in a canvas bag.

No one was now at the door, but two men were waiting beside a black Buick. He walked down the steps apprehensively. The rear door was opened and Hans climbed in. His Durkopp was put in the trunk and  they were off to San Jose.

Not one word was spoken until they reached the starting line on a nearly deserted roadside outside of San Jose.  The course which has now been nearly obliterated by development was twenty five miles, in one direction only over the rolling hills west of San Jose, near Uvas Dam Road.

The usual riders were there. Gas Gatto, Pete Pizza, Nick Maggi, Louie Rondoni, Rickey Tan and others.

With little fanfare, Amateur Bicycle League rep Joe Canciamilla fired his starters pistol in the air and the riders were off. Their legs churning their fixed gears, and trading pace up and down the rolling hills, watched occasionally by cows lying on their bellies, peacefully chewing on their cud. The sprinters, of course, did as little work as possible and all seemed to be going their way.

Around a mile and a half to go near a turn with a grove of trees Hans Krause surged away. The pack hardly showed concern thinking quite correctly that Hans Krause would shortly blow his cork.

As soon as Hans Krause rounded the turn, just as according to Lido’s plan, he saw a man dressed as a farmer standing there, and a Duesenberg driven by a blonde stopped a little ahead. Hans quickly spat out his own false teeth and the “farmer” him a new set which he quickly inserted. The Duesenberg started up and gradually increased speed. Soon Hans could feel tension on the wire that was attached to his new set of false teeth and the bumper of the Duesenberg. The blonde was accelerating slowly, gradually and all was according to plan.

The pack was completely taken by surprise when they rounded the turn and saw Hans speeding away, but little did they know.

For half-a-mile or so, Hans was towed, his legs churning his fixed gear. Then just ahead he saw a black form.  No.No.Yes.Yes. It was a bull and it was starting to cross the road. Hans Krause clenched his false teeth in his mouth until the last second, then he opened his mouth. The false teeth sailed out of his mouth, pulled by the wire, then like a whip with a sharp tip his false teeth lashed against the ribs of the bull.

The bull stood there stunned for a brief second and Hans Krause sped by attired in his Red Devils jersey. So this was the tormentor. The bull charged down the road after Hans whose legs found new life that they had not had since the last six-day race in Berlin long ago.

The Duesenberg drove by the finish line with the blonde driving and Lido sitting next to her smoking a cigar with a resigned look on his face. And behind him tethered on a long wire was a pair of false teeth. People looked, blinked their eyes, then looked again. Was this some kind of marriage ceremony or what? A couple might drag tin cans behind their car; but false teeth? Perhaps there was inner meaning here which eluded everyone. Some heads nodded as if they knew, then others and others. Why, yes, yes, of course. Of course what? No one knew. No one asked.

This vision had hardly passed by when another soon appeared. A cyclist is an old Red Devil’s jersey being chased by a bull.

The bull seemed to gain on the cyclist. The cyclist sped away from the bull. Back and forth they went. Until near the finish line the cyclist gave one final burst, the bull thundered across the finish line after him, but soon the bull whether it was tired or no longer interested slowed down, stopped, let loose a load of excrement in disgust and slowly ambled toward a nearby field.

The pack was soon in sight, and there was a mass sprint which Rickey Tan won, but he was most definitely third.

Lido was surprised to hear the crowd cheering, “Hans Krause. Hans Krause.” Lido turned around and there he was crossing the finish line, frantically pedaling  just ahead of the  bull. Lido couldn’t believe it. Hans was first. Hans was first. He hadn’t lost after all.

Soon Joe Canciamilla was passing out three envelopes. For first place: one envelope to Hans Krause with a $100 dollars inside. For third place: one envelope to Rickey Tan with $25 inside.  For second place: one envelope with $50 inside. “I’ll just take that,” Lido said quickly grabbing the envelope from Joe’s hand. ‘That bull’s a friend of mine. I’ll see that he gets it.”

As Lido and the boys were walking back to the Duesenberg with the waiting blonde, Frank Sharpy said: “You got brains boss. You got smarts, telling Hans to wear that red jersey just in case something went wrong.”

“Yeah, like I always got a backup plan. I’m the brains of the outfit,” Lido said pointing to his head. 

“You sure are boss. You sure are.”

—————-

About the author:

Erich von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research students at the University of Dundee, Scotland. Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. he is a member of the Poetes Francais and La Societe des Poetes et Artistes de France.

 

 










Don Martinich: The cyclist with a rumrunner or two in the family

June Morrall (JM) to Don Martinich (DM)

Thank you for the fascinating email! I had no idea there was so much cycling around here. I would love to know more. I did eat at Pete’s Cafe a couple of times before the building vanished….how I wish I had had the experiences you had. How did you get the photo?

DM: I grew up on the Peninsula. My parents, my sister and I moved to sunny San Carlos in 1944 from the foggy Sunset in SF.  Eventually we ended up in Menlo Park.  After graduating from Menlo Atherton HS and diddling a bit at CSM I spent 4 years in the Coast Guard.  Around the time I got out I became highly interested in European bicycle racing and the bikes themselves.
DM: Living along the edge of the northern portion of the Santa Cruz Mountains, it was the obvious place to ride. The coast side of The Hill had a lot of lightly trafficked and scenic roads so it was also a natural place to ride.  I ended up joining the local cycling club, Pedali Alpini, where I found many riding partners and a little organized competition.  Back then our races weren’t sanctioned by local authorities so the coastal roads were ideal locations.  We did time trials near San Greg[orio] and had a road race up and down the coast called the Tour Del Mar.

DM: The photo of Erich [ von Neff] is from a time trial we held in April of 1964.  After the the time trial several of us repaired to Pete’s for a spaghetti lunch.  That’s when I snapped the foto of Pete.  By the way, I was so pleased to find Steve Lubin’s article on Pete’s on you site.  Steve and I used to ride together quite a bit in the mid-60’s. I have family living on King’s Mountain so I decided to come down from Davis to watch the Tour of California come up Tunitas Canyon last Monday.  Who should I run into after 40+ years, but, Steve!  Erich came up in the conversation and it was Steve who suggested that I contact you.  Actually, I would have probably done that any way.  The photos that I took of the time trial are going to be part of a web page on vintage cycling I am working on. I will send you the url when I get it up.

(JM): And why are you called “Dutch?” There was a famous “Dutch” Alves in Half Moon Bay.

DM: The name “Dutch” was given to me by a friend in high school and it just stuck.  I’m not Azorean like the Alves family but my father was born on an island along the Dalmatian coast.  There are similarities between the two cultures.

JM: What’s your rumrunning connection? I would be honored, truly, if you tell me more.

DM: My father, who grew up in North Beach from 1912 on, had apprenticed as a machinist and became a journeyman in 1920, just in time for prohibition.  He had a partnership in a saloon for a while and then some people he grew up with got into the import business.  They bought several WW1 surplus boats and would buy imported liquor from Canada from off the ‘motherships’ that hovered out beyond the 12 -mile limit.  They would pull into coves in dark of night and offload to small dories who would come in through the surf and unload on the beach.  People with trucks would be waiting at the designated spots and drive the liquor back up to SF at night and hope to avoid the feds and highjackers.

DM: It all sounds a bit dangerous to me but these guys were all in their early 29’s.  I remember my Dad mentioning Pedro Point, Moss Beach, and Martin’s Beach as landing sites.  Imagine braving that surf in the winter!

JM: Erich von Neff  is a special writer and I enjoy posting his work.

DM: I loved Erich’s race down the coast story.  It had a real magical quality to it. I wish there were more.

—————–

“On the elusive Erich von Neff” By Don “Dutch” Martinich

 

Ms. Morrall

First. I’ve enjoyed your web site immensely and have dawdled away many hours there. I’ve particularly enjoyed the cycling articles of Steve Lubin and Erich von Neff, both contemporaries of mine,  I spent many hours back in the 60’s cycling “over the hill” and often lunching at Pete’s Coffee Shop, or, was it Cafe?  I ran into Steve Lubin this week while watching the bike race up Tunitas Canyon and he positively id’d this photo taken by me back in 1964 at a cycling time trial held near San Gregorio.  I can assure you that Erich’s cycling credentials are impeccable. So, here’s the photo.  

erich

I have also attached a photo of Pete working in the kitchen of his establishment.

petescafe

Very best wishes and keep up the good work!

Don “Dutch” Martinich

The Six Day Race, Paris, 1938: Story by Erich von Neff

erich[Author/Poet Erich von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman.]

Les Six Jours au Vel D’Hiv
Paris 1938

Par Erich Von Neff

Table des Matieres

Prologue

Day One

1. Fat Henry

2. The Hundred Dollar Prime
3. The Sprint
4. Triumph
5. Yeah Babe
6. The Jam Is On
7. The Lap
8. At the Cabaret du Chat

Day Two
9. The Hop Sing Tong
10. Willy the Whale
11. Madame Yang’s
12. Insight
13. The Gatto Brothers
14. The Right Price
15. The Tire
16. Against All Odds
17. Retribation

Day Three
18. Letourner and Guimbretiere
19. Up a Notch
20. The Gap
21. Their House
22. Over the Top

Day Four
23. A Big Prime
24. The Bets Are In
25. Let the Good Times Roll
26. Later Inside the Horch
27. Fini

Day Five
28. Not So Fast
29. Center Stage
30. The Prefect of Police
31. To the Morgue
32. The Scorpion
33. Awakened
34. Thunder
35. Fang Marks Were Left Behind
36. The Transient Hotel
37. A Floating Memory
38. The Silent Fan
39. We’ll Blow the Joint Apart

Day Six
40. The Morning After
41. Get Wise
42. A Damn Good Idea
43. Lights Out
44. At Knife Point
45. Then Flash
46. The Scene
47. This Bullshit
48. Scram
49. The Lament
50. Hey
51. Time is one with Wing
52. Rendezvous
53. Twilight of the Gods

Prologue

Les Six Jours au Vel d’Hiv, 1938

Pearls around her neck
Champagne down her throat
A cheer for Letourner –Guimbretiere
And a wild fling with the American team*
Steps into her Delage
Roars down rud de Rivoli
Paints the town red
Pulls up to the Cabaret Chez Regine
A jazz band and a revue
Throw her head back
Champagne down her throat
Les six jours
Les six jours
A cheer
A cheer
Les six Jours
Au Vel d’Hiv
*Oscar Juner & Bobby Walthour

The Teams*
1. Australia: Reggie McNamara and Hubert Oppermann
2. Belgium: Rene Boogmans and Marcel Boogmans
3. England: Reggie Fielding and Syd Cozens
4. France: Alfred Letourner and Marcel Guimbretiere
5. Italy: Gus Gatto and Vince Gatto
6. Holland: Piet van Kempen and Ernst Muller
7. Germany: Hans Krause and Werner Miethe
8. Luxembourg: Nicolas Frantz and Marcel Ernzer
9. Norway: Knut Knudson and Edward Kasputis
10. San Francisco: Willy the Whale and Tony Chocolate**
11. Switzerland: Frieddie Zach and Ernst de Buhler
12. USA: Oscar Juner and Bobby Walthour, Jr.

*Some teams are fictitious; some teams have been re-teamed
for this race.
Reference: “Six Days of Madness,” 1993, Ted Harper.
**Based in the Afro-American six-day cyclist of the time, Harry Hollis.

Day One

Fat Henry

Fat Henry and the boys sat above the north banking of the Vel d’ Hiv
With him the blonde babe, Vivacious Veronica
Delages, Isotta-Fraschinis…and Hispano-Suiza* limousines
Pulled up to the Vel d’ hiv.
Beautiful women entered escorted by fat rich men.
The riders rolled around the track, lap after lap.
And sprinted for the primes
While Bunk Johnson’s Band played “Moose March”
“This I like. This is my style,” Fat Henry said
As he guzzled a beer
And with that he reached for his wallet

*Delage, Duesenberg, Isotta-Fraschini, Hispano-Suiza, Horch, Packard, and Pierce-Arrow were classic cars of the era.

The Hundred Dollar Prime

Fat Henry rolled up a hundred dollar bill
And handed it to the usherette
“Give it to the chief referee.”
“For the next prime,” Fat Henry said.
“Also tip off Letourner and Guimbretiere”
And with that he put ten dollar in her red garter belt
Bunk Johnson’s Band* played “Down by the Riverside”
While Vivacious Veronica jiggled her breasts and rolled her buttocks
Heavy set men turned their heads and puffed on their cigars
The laps whirred by at the Vel d’ hiv
Through the haze of cigar smoke, beer and jazz
Vivacious Veronica was very much in tune

*A New Orleans jazz band of the era, one of the best.

The Sprint

“A hundred dollars. A hundred dollars.”
“For the next prime,” the referee announced.
“Ten laps to go. Ten laps to go.”
The pack thundered around the track
With Willy the Whale* well tucked in
And Letourner in the lead
And Juner on the pole
The crowd shouted for their favorites
“Come on, Willy, Come on.”
“Hans, Hans, Hans.”
Hey, Hey Letourner. Pour it on.”
Throaty Annette yelled
While Fat Henry lit up a big cigar
Bunk Johnson’s band Band played “Panama”
Pour it on. Pour it on.” Throaty Annette yelled
The bell clanged. One lap to go. One lap to go.
Letourner around Hans, Willy and Juner
Letourner, Letourner. Yes, Letourner.

*Hazily based on an American Six Day Rider of the era.

Yeah Babe

“Let’s have some real action,” Fat Henry said.
And with that Fat Henry put up $1,000 for the next team to gain a lap
Vivacious Veronica gave him a kiss on his puffy cheeks
And pressed against him with her breasts
While fingering her pearls
“Yeah, babe, more pearls, but first I gotta make a deal
With One Eye Joe at the Cabaret du Chat.”

The Jam Is On

What would have passed simply
As lap stoled on a field tired from the sprint
Now became a jam in earnest
One would feel the electricity in the air
As Willy the Whale picked up his partner Tony Chocolate
His black legs whirling
In full pursuit the pack thundered around the boards

The Lap

“Tony Chocolate, Tony Chocolate”
The cry went up
Bunk Johnson’s band played the “Muskrat Ramble”
Josephine Baker* leaned over the banking
Rooting for the black and gold
Of Willy the Whale and Tony Chocolate
The San Francisco Team
The gap widened with each lap and exchange
“The “Bolden Medley,” Josephine Baker, the Black and Gold
Tony Chocolate, Willy the whale closing on the pack
Frenzy, a lap gained by Tony Chocolate and Willy the Whale
Josephine Baker dancing to the Muskrat Ramble
Other women dancing, men swilling beer
“My kind of action” Fat Henry said chomping on his cigar
“Because of you,” Vivacious Veronica replied.
“Because of a thousand bucks
Because of a thousand bucks.
It’s as simple as that.”

*Known in Paris as La Baker

At the Cabaret du Chat

The boxer Pig Iron sat with his latest.
The flaming redhead Throaty Annette.
Judith Piaf had just finished singing, “La Vie en Rose,”—and now
On stage the chorus girls kicked up their heels, revealing, revealing.
To the tune of a seedy jazz band.
In walked Louie the Weasel.
He had parked the Duesenberg outside.
“Gotta see One Eye Joe,” he said to the hat check girl.
She pointed with her breasts toward the back door.
Louie gave the knock. Two short one long. He was frisked as he walked in.
Joe and the boys were playing poker.
“Making a bet for Fat Henry,” the Weasel said pulling out a roll.
And a folded piece of paper.
One Eye Joe put his cigar on the table.
He took the cash and put it in the safe.
“I gotta phone a couple of guys,” One Eye said.
“I gotta make sure things happen. I gotta make sure things turn out right.”

Day Two

The Hop Sing Tong

Sitting above the south banking

Beneath dim lights

Sat the shadow figure of Chang Wo

The reputed head of San Francisco’s Hop Sing Tong*

Singsong girls and damsels in distress sat on either side of him

Behind Chang Wo were more shadowy figures

“I like the Black and Gold,” Chang Wo said solemnly

Shadowy figures nodded agreement

“It would be a disgrace if the San Francisco team lost”” lost”

“Indeed boss. Indeed.”

——

* Roughly, Chinese “mafia”

** A country, state, and city could have a team.

Continue reading “The Six Day Race, Paris, 1938: Story by Erich von Neff”

Feb 16: HWY 1 “CLOSED” FOR BIKE RACE

bike

(Just saw the highway sign–I think it’s the 16th but that is a Monday. Somebody correct me, please.)

Have you read Erich von Neff’s bicycling stories from the 1950s?

Please click here

 

(

bikepix2

(Image: “The winners of the last six day race in Los Angeles in 1937. Bobby Walthour, Jr. & Oscar Juner.” Courtesy Erich von Neff)

An Ocean Shore Ride, 1952: Story by Erich von Neff

An Ocean Shore Ride, 1952

As you pass Romano’s Restaurant*, going south, you will notice, on the spit, the remnants of a road which is now slowly sliding into the sea. But, as some of us, at least, will remember, it was not always this way.

The Ocean Shore Railroad had rumbled along those curves., hugging the cliffs, and, then, when it had defaulted in ’20, the Old Highway One followed the line. Well, for the most part.

Rumor has it that a starlet had driven a Cord off the road, an apparent suicide. Undoubtedly other cars had gone over the embankment. But it is the young and beautiful whose death tends to stick in the mind.

On an overcast winter morning we had rendezvoused at the Old Velodrome near Tenth and Market Streets in San Francisco. We proceeded down El Camino, and had swung over via La Honda to the coast.

We must have looked like throw backs in time preparing for the 1929 Berlin Six Day Race, or the New York Six.

Our silk jerseys, while perhaps not as colorful as those of today, reflected our ethnic origins or hometown, and not some anonymous plastics or cosmetics firm for which we had no use.

They sported in woven silken letters: Unione Sportiva Italiana, Deutsches Velo Klub, Norsk Sykell Klubb, Pedali Alpini, San Francisco Wheelmen, Belmont Bicycle Club, … .

We rode track bicycles with fixed gears, breaking with leather gloves that had been reworded by Italian shoemakers**, who had also put on our cleats.

Effeminate men, or worse, — we believed — road bikes which were not allowed in races even on the road, those of who who toured rode our track bikes even then.

Our track bikes had German names like Durkopp, Bauer, Schuhmacher, ,,, , Or, if they were an American marquee, they were made by men who looked like clones of Lem Motlow on the Jack Daniels label.

They, — Oscar Watson, Ken Winkie, Dewey Maxwell, Pop Brennan, — smoked cigars and brazed their machines beneath 55 [ed. 55 degrees] velodrome bankings.

Riders like, Willie the Whale, weighing close to three hundred pounds, tested them, riding motor pace on the track. The bikers were fitted with Durkopp or BSA hubs and cranks, the rims were made of laminated wood.

There were about thirty of us. The blue colors of the Unione Sportiva Italiana dominating the field of jerseys. Our cranks churned nearly the same cadence as we all rode nearly the same low winter gears, between 66 and 72 inches.

The wind shipped our legs. We inhaled air heavy with ocean spray. I followed Oscar Juner’s Durkopp jersey. Oscar and his partners, Nick van Male, and Peter Rich had raced at the Six Day Bike Race in San Francisco’s Civic Auditorium, and were now racing on Murphy Sabatino’s portable board track at the San Mateo County Fairgrounds.

We had passed Linda Mar and were now heading around the spit that lies south of Romano’s Restaurant. Beneath us the waves pounded the rocks. Ahead of the Durkopp jersey were other jerseys. Some of them I could not see through the fog.

One after the other, ominous shapes of riders drifted past me as we rotated pace.

We had rubbed our legs with Sloan’s liniment. They felt like fire at first. This subsided, then they were numb to the cold.

The pace slackened only slightly in the wind. We rotated more to maintain the momentum of the pace, than to insure that each of us took egalitarian distances. For instance, John Parks at six feet nine inches had enough wind in his face; he therefore, took shorter pulls at the front. Some, like Bruno and the Gatto brothers yelled oaths in Italian, when they felt the pace was not to their liking.

Riders swung off and rolled back to the rear of the pace line. The Durkopp jersey disappeared. I now took my pull at the front for about ten or twelve seconds, as I said, shorter pulls meant the momentum of our pace could be maintained even in thick fog and a head wind. Though this idea seemed on grate on Dan Kaljian who had formed his ideas of labor on his father’s farm near Avnik Armenia. When Dan took his turn he muscled the handlebars as if he still had a shovel in his hands.

The wind howled in my face as I tucked down for my pull at the front. I tore into the wind, yet was a particle in it.

Supposedly you do twenty percent more work at the front, but in the shifting head wind, it seemed as if that figure was greatly undeestimated.

I rolled off leaving the Norwegian sprint champion, Fred Fisk, to battle the wind. At some time in the latter part of the ride Fred had failed to hook John Parks’ wheel. At six feet five, reasonably Fred wanted to pace behind someone taller. At times I could hear him behind me cursing and swearing in Norwegian.

For John, of course, there would be no such pace line options.

I caught my breath now safely tucked in behind the Durkopp jersey again. Thankfully Dan Kaljian had suggested we warm up at the Boots and Saddles Bar in La Honda. Most of us had several belts of Christian Brothers brandy or Jack Daniels***. John Parks and Fred Fisk had vied each other for the attentions of the blonde. But, eventually, the ride had to resume, and she was left behind, but not alone.

Later in the ride we had refilled at Pete’s Cafe in Half Moon Bay.

I sucked more ocean spray and Sloan’s liniment into my lungs. We passed the spit . . . now slowly sliding into the sea, remnants of the curves still hugging the cliffs.

Beneath us, below the pounding waves, was the Cord.

—-
*Linda Mar, California, near San Francisco
**Such as Rosario Raieri of Balboa Shoe Service in San Francisco
***By Bartender and owner Oren Arms

An Ocean Shore Ride, 1952

As you pass Romano’s Restaurant*, going south, you will notice, on the spit, the remnants of a road which is now slowly sliding into the sea. But, as some of us, at least, will remember, it was not always this way.

The Ocean Shore Railroad had rumbled along those curves., hugging the cliffs, and, then, when it had defaulted in ’20, the Old Highway One followed the line. Well, for the most part.

Rumor has it that a starlet had driven a Cord off the road, an apparent suicide. Undoubtedly other cars had gone over the embankment. But it is the young and beautiful whose death tends to stick in the mind.

On an overcast winter morning we had rendezvoused at the Old Velodrome near Tenth and Market Streets in San Francisco. We proceeded down El Camino, and had swung over via La Honda to the coast.

We must have looked like throw backs in time preparing for the 1929 Berlin Six Day Race, or the New York Six.

Our silk jerseys, while perhaps not as colorful as those of today, reflected our ethnic origins or hometown, and not some anonymous plastics or cosmetics firm for which we had no use.

They sported in woven silken letters: Unione Sportiva Italiana, Deutsches Velo Klub, Norsk Sykell Klubb, Pedali Alpini, San Francisco Wheelmen, Belmont Bicycle Club, … .

We rode track bicycles with fixed gears, breaking with leather gloves that had been reworded by Italian shoemakers**, who had also put on our cleats.

Effeminate men, or worse, — we believed — road bikes which were not allowed in races even on the road, those of who who toured rode our track bikes even then.

Our track bikes had German names like Durkopp, Bauer, Schuhmacher, ,,, , Or, if they were an American marquee, they were made by men who looked like clones of Lem Motlow on the Jack Daniels label.

They, — Oscar Watson, Ken Winkie, Dewey Maxwell, Pop Brennan, — smoked cigars and brazed their machines beneath 55 [ed. 55 degrees] velodrome bankings.

Riders like, Willie the Whale, weighing close to three hundred pounds, tested them, riding motor pace on the track. The bikers were fitted with Durkopp or BSA hubs and cranks, the rims were made of laminated wood.

There were about thirty of us. The blue colors of the Unione Sportiva Italiana dominating the field of jerseys. Our cranks churned nearly the same cadence as we all rode nearly the same low winter gears, between 66 and 72 inches.

The wind shipped our legs. We inhaled air heavy with ocean spray. I followed Oscar Juner’s Durkopp jersey. Oscar and his partners, Nick van Male, and Peter Rich had raced at the Six Day Bike Race in San Francisco’s Civic Auditorium, and were now racing on Murphy Sabatino’s portable board track at the San Mateo County Fairgrounds.

We had passed Linda Mar and were now heading around the spit that lies south of Romano’s Restaurant. Beneath us the waves pounded the rocks. Ahead of the Durkopp jersey were other jerseys. Some of them I could not see through the fog.

One after the other, ominous shapes of riders drifted past me as we rotated pace.

We had rubbed our legs with Sloan’s liniment. They felt like fire at first. This subsided, then they were numb to the cold.

The pace slackened only slightly in the wind. We rotated more to maintain the momentum of the pace, than to insure that each of us took egalitarian distances. For instance, John Parks at six feet nine inches had enough wind in his face; he therefore, took shorter pulls at the front. Some, like Bruno and the Gatto brothers yelled oaths in Italian, when they felt the pace was not to their liking.

Riders swung off and rolled back to the rear of the pace line. The Durkopp jersey disappeared. I now took my pull at the front for about ten or twelve seconds, as I said, shorter pulls meant the momentum of our pace could be maintained even in thick fog and a head wind. Though this idea seemed on grate on Dan Kaljian who had formed his ideas of labor on his father’s farm near Avnik Armenia. When Dan took his turn he muscled the handlebars as if he still had a shovel in his hands.

The wind howled in my face as I tucked down for my pull at the front. I tore into the wind, yet was a particle in it.

Supposedly you do twenty percent more work at the front, but in the shifting head wind, it seemed as if that figure was greatly undeestimated.

I rolled off leaving the Norwegian sprint champion, Fred Fisk, to battle the wind. At some time in the latter part of the ride Fred had failed to hook John Parks’ wheel. At six feet five, reasonably Fred wanted to pace behind someone taller. At times I could hear him behind me cursing and swearing in Norwegian.

For John, of course, there would be no such pace line options.

I caught my breath now safely tucked in behind the Durkopp jersey again. Thankfully Dan Kaljian had suggested we warm up at the Boots and Saddles Bar in La Honda. Most of us had several belts of Christian Brothers brandy or Jack Daniels***. John Parks and Fred Fisk had vied each other for the attentions of the blonde. But, eventually, the ride had to resume, and she was left behind, but not alone.

Later in the ride we had refilled at Pete’s Cafe in Half Moon Bay.

I sucked more ocean spray and Sloan’s liniment into my lungs. We passed the spit . . . now slowly sliding into the sea, remnants of the curves still hugging the cliffs.

Beneath us, below the pounding waves, was the Cord.

—-
*Linda Mar, California, near San Francisco
**Such as Rosario Raieri of Balboa Shoe Service in San Francisco
***By Bartender and owner Oren Arms

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

About the author:

Erich von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research students at the University of Dundee, Scotland. Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. he is a member of the Poetes Francais and La Societe des Poetes et Artistes de France.

1950s: The Unknown Blonde: Poetry by Erich von Neff

The Unknown Blonde

By Erich von Neff

We had drunk San Miguel in Pete’s Cafe in Half Moon Bay*
Joe Lauricella climbed in the Lancia Aurelia**
and I on the passenger side
“—- going straight back to San Francisco,” Joe said
“Let’s put this car through its paces.”
We climbed up to Skyline Ridge Road
and soon began a wild descent down Page Mill Road
“Joe I’m going to heave,” I said
Joe stopped, the door opened,
and San Miguel poured out of my mouth
We continued, the headlights peering into a light fog
Then, suddenly an apparition. Or reality?
A blonde woman in a red evening dress walking awkwardly in high heels
Joe slowed the Lancia, then stopped
I got out. There was a tense silence
She hesitated a moment, then climbed in
I shut the door quietly
Joe continued driving though he was no longer Manuel Fangio***
Questions raced through our minds
What was she doing on this road in the middle of the night?
It was a good six miles to the nearest town
And why the party house and high heels?
“Where to Miss?” Joe asked
“Palo Alto,” she answered in a determined voice
Joe drove and she directed him like a taxi driver
“This street. Straight. Turn left here. Stop.”
Joe stopped in front of a house with the lights out
She walked up the pathway and was soon inside
We sat there a moment, each thinking: What happened?
Had her boyfriend put her out?
Or had she slapped his face slammed the door of the car,
and said, “To hell with you,” and walked down Page Mill Road
damn glad to be on her own
And what would she have done without us?
Walked on I suppose
We drove back to San Francisco, now more sober
We have fogotten the house
But we remember the blonde hair and the red dress in the fog
An apparition in a drunken stupor.
——
*Half Moon Bay: A coastal town 25 miles south of San Francisco [for Erich’s readers in France.]
**Lancia Aurelia: A two-door “fastback” with bodywork by Pininfarina
*** Manuel Fangio: 1954 Formula 1 World Champion
——–

About the author:

Erich von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research students at the University of Dundee, Scotland. Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. he is a member of the Poetes Francais and La Societe des Poetes et Artistes de France.