In the spring of 2013 I was at an autograph session in Downers Grove, Illinois, when a heavily bearded man who looked like he had just walked out of the Tennessee woods said to me, “I know you love motorcycles and we would like to build you a bike.” The man wants to build me a bike, who am I to refuse? We spent twenty minutes talking. His name was Dylan Moller, he said, and he was the director of innovation for a company called American Wrench. American Wrench, I was to learn, designs and builds beautiful custom rides. He gave me his contact information. If it was a real offer, why wouldn’t I accept it? In my life I’ve owned or ridden many different bikes, but no one had ever made an offer like this one.
Coincidently, a wonderful bronze sculptor named Douwe Blumberg, from whom I had bought several pieces, called and told me he had been thinking about sculpting a real motorcycle. He wanted it to be art deco, he explained, with leaping horses in front. He intended to build it on a Harley frame. “Douwe,” I told him, “this is amazing. You’re not going to believe this, but two weeks ago a guy told me he wanted to build a bike for me. Why don’t I get the three of us together to talk about it?”
Douwe Blumberg and I met with Brian and Kevin Sirotek, the owners of American Wrench, in Lexington, Kentucky. We sat around a table discussing the design, and everybody began to get excited. This really was happening.
A few weeks later Douwe decided he preferred to work on his own project and withdrew. But the Sirotek brothers had become intrigued with the challenge of building an improbable motorcycle, an exotic bike unlike anything ever built. Well, sure, I was all for that.
They decided to build a motorcycle powered by a 500-horsepower Cadillac engine.
That sounded good to me. I could feel my passions revving up: 500 horsepower! But as long as we were designing it, I told them I wanted it to be a three-wheeled covered bike, so it could be ridden in any weather. It also had to have a passenger seat as well as storage space for luggage and other supplies.
The design concept was incredible. It was named the Rivet. The brothers described it as a “Landjet.” Their intent, they wrote, “is not only to draw attention to the pilot and the vehicle itself, but to showcase the art and craft of hand-built machines, done in the spirit of keeping America’s ‘routes’ alive … [and] blow the minds of everyone who sees, pilots or experiences it.”
I couldn’t wait to get on that bike and ride. In fact, the concept was so exciting that I suggested, “I have a great idea. Let’s ride the bike from Chicago to Los Angeles. It’s twenty-four hundred miles. We’ll take a week in the summer and really enjoy it. How bad can that be?”
They shared my enthusiasm. “We’ll do it with you. We’ll get some other people and really make an adventure out of it.”
Okay. Great. And never one to miss an opportunity, I said let’s enlist the American Legion and raise funds to help pay college tuition for the children of fallen heroes. The American Legion was trying to raise $20 million. We certainly weren’t going to raise anything near that, but we could raise many thousands of dollars and generate a tremendous amount of publicity for the fund. This concept began to grow, and then got bigger. Everything multiplied. It was like being on a show: We would climb to the top of the mountain and leap off. In reality, I wasn’t going to climb to the top of any mountain, much less jump, but we were in the midst of our fantasy and we continued adding layer upon layer.
The plan was to take this amazing bike, which was now based on the design of the great B-17, halfway across the country accompanied by as many as thirty riders, including Vietnam and Afghanistan veterans. Along the way we would schedule events at American Legion posts in seven cities to raise thousands of dollars.
And then I broke the news to Elizabeth, who looked at me lovingly and said sweetly, “Are you out of your mind? You’re eighty-four years old and you’re going to drive a motorcycle through the desert in the summer?”
I could barely contain my enthusiasm. “And you’re going to drive with me!” I said. “You’ll ride on the back of the motorcycle!”
To which she replied, perhaps less sweetly, “I am not getting on the back of the motorcycle.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “We’re going to have a bus accompanying us. You can ride in the bus. It’ll be great fun.”
Liz and I had very different definitions of fun. But it didn’t matter to me; my passion was now fully engaged. The plans were made; we laid out a whole schedule. It was going to be such a great event that it had to be recorded. I decided to make a documentary: The Ride. It was to be the amazing story of a group of determined men riding across America on beautiful bikes to raise money for the Legion’s scholarship fund. I hired a film crew to come with us and a public relations agency to generate publicity. Every rider was given a GoPro, and we had three cameras and a camera truck. We had a bus for the production people and a mechanic in case the bike broke down. We packed food and drink for everyone. This was becoming a major production.
Finally, it was time to get started. I hadn’t actually seen the bike, although I had seen illustrations of what it was going to look like. But I was continually assured it was beautiful and it was going to be ready to go on time. Five hundred horsepower! Rrrrrmmmm! Rrrrmmmm! I could practically feel that power.
We did a week of publicity as we made our way to Chicago to pick up the bike and get started. We were scheduled to depart on Monday morning. Sunday night it started raining. Tornadoes hit the area. Tornadoes are considered a bad omen, but the weather forecast for Monday was promising. The storm was moving east and the day promised to be bright and clear. Unfortunately, our first scheduled stop was St. Louis. St. Louis was underwater.
It didn’t matter. We were going to go. When you are living your passion there is no room for reality to get in the way. I was ready. The film crew was ready. Even Liz was ready. Only one thing was missing.
The bike.
I had rented a warehouse and set up the opening shot of my documentary. We were going to shoot it Sunday afternoon. This bike, my bike, this marvelous achievement of technological and artistic mastery, was going to be sitting by itself. The warehouse was going to be dark; two lights would be outlining this bike. I intended to dolly in slowly as the bike emerged from the darkness. I saw it in my mind; I had it all planned. I had the warehouse, the lights, the cameras. The crew was ready; I was ready. The only thing that was missing was the bike.
The bike wasn’t quite ready, I was told. But don’t worry, this is the greatest bike ever built and it will be ready to roll Monday morning.
Okay, change of plans. There is nothing unusual about that on a film set. We rescheduled for Monday morning at six at the garage, which was located about ten miles outside Aurora, Illinois. That was a problem: I needed to get my opening shot before the media got there for a press conference at nine o’clock. It’s going to be tight, I told myself, but I’m a professional. I can do this.
I went to the studio where the bike was being built at 5:00 A.M. This was the first time I had seen the bike. It was beautiful, a magnificent piece of machinery. But it didn’t have a canopy. “What happens if it rains?” I asked. “We get wet,” I was told. Okay! I agreed. I mean, look at that beautiful bike. Besides, I had often ridden bikes in the rain. There is nothing colder than your leather being soaking wet and going forty or fifty miles an hour on the freeway. After several miles hypothermia sets in. But I could do it if I had to. Maybe my passion was slipping a little bit.
There also was no passenger seat. “Don’t worry,” I was told, they would make a seat.
The list of things I had to remember not to worry about was getting longer. Then they started the engine, the 500-horsepower engine. The garage shook. It was amazing. Who cared about being wet. “It’s almost ready,” I was told. “Just a little more tuning up.”
I walked out in front of the shop. Most of the work had been done by a father and son. The son, who was about twenty-five years old, was standing there. He looked at me and started crying. “Why a
re you crying?” I asked.
“Sir, I don’t know,” he said. “I keep crying.”
“Are you happy it’s finished?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. I assumed those were tears of joy. Sometimes I make bad assumptions.
We had set up a large tent in front of American Wrench. We had invited the media to be there at nine. The response had been strong. It was a great story: I was this old guy and I was about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. I was going to drive twenty-four hundred miles on the greatest motorcycle ever built. We were going to raise thousands of dollars to send kids to college. We were making a documentary that would raise even more money for the scholarship fund.
The bike was going to be concealed inside the tent. When the media was in place, we were going to open the tent for the big reveal. In my mind I could hear the oohs and ahhs as people saw this beautiful machine.
At 6:00 A.M. we were in front of American Wrench ready to shoot that beautiful image I had planned. All we needed was the bike. “They’re leaving from the garage right now,” Kevin told me. “They’re on their way.”
At seven Kevin told me, “There’s been a slight delay. It won’t be here till eight o’clock.” I didn’t panic. I never panic. We’ll figure it out, I thought. I’ll make it work.
At nine o’clock we had 150 people waiting in front of an empty tent. “Have something to eat,” I suggested. “The bike is on the way.” It finally arrived at eleven. They pushed it off the truck into the rear of the tent. I apologized to everyone for the delay; then we pulled back the tent flap and there it was: the Rivet!
And it was every bit as beautiful as promised, a futuristic vehicle somewhere between Mad Max and Star Wars.
I sat in the cockpit for the first time. It had an innovative steering system that required some getting used to. The various operating buttons had been identified with a marker. I found the starter and pressed the button: Wow! The power of that engine seemed to surge through me. I had never felt anything quite like it. I just absorbed it for a few seconds; it was every biker’s fantasy coming true.
I was ready to drive it off the podium. I put it in gear—and it didn’t move. The engine was roaring, and it continued roaring. That bike didn’t move. Then, slowly, it started to roll down the ramp. Kevin was next to me screaming, “Stop, Bill! Stop the bike!”
My sense of drama took control and I let the bike roll several more feet before I pressed the brakes. I was sitting there in front of 150 reporters and cameramen, ready to embark on a twenty-four-hundred-mile journey on a bike that didn’t work. I said, “Well, this is it till our next act!”
We went into an office to figure out what to do. Brian and Kevin were devastated. The American Legion representatives were devastated. I was devastated. What were we going to do? “I’ve made a fool of myself,” I said. “I said I was going and now it doesn’t go into gear or steer.” Then I had an idea: “What happens if we rent a bike for me?” Someone else suggested, “We can ship the bike along.” We figured out how to salvage the trip: We would rent a bike for me, truck the Rivet, and display it at every planned stop while trying to fix it.
We rented a three-wheeler from Harley. We put the Rivet in the back of a truck. Several people got into the bus. Liz got on the back of my bike—and we took off for St. Louis.
By the time we got to St. Louis, the floodwaters had receded and the sun was shining. It was a glorious day. Maybe I wasn’t riding the greatest motorcycle ever built, but the feeling of being part of this event was still pretty amazing. We did the entire twenty-four hundred miles and helped the American Legion reach its monetary goal. There were some moments along the route when I was completely fulfilled. I was overwhelmed by the sensory details: the wind in my face, the scent of the road, the noise of the cars and trucks coming toward us. We went through cities and mountain passes, through endless miles of fields and then the desert. Several people suffered physical problems, but I did very well, except for fainting from the heat in a Las Vegas motorcycle shop.
The bike never worked. At each stop we would wheel it off the truck and put it on display. In many ways it could have been a Douwe Blumberg sculpture—it was beautiful and it just sat there. People would walk around it admiring it. Then we would wheel it back onto the truck and drive it to the next stop.
The documentary remains to be edited.
But even with all of the problems, my passion for what we were doing never wavered. I was passionate about the challenges; I was passionate about the opportunity to spend a week on a motorcycle; I was passionate about raising money to pay for kids to go to college.
Mostly, though, I am passionate about continuing to be passionate. The pursuit of passions has influenced every aspect of my life. That has never wavered or changed: I am still in search of a perfect meatball!
What I have also learned, looking back on eight and a half decades, is that it is possible to sustain passion. Look at Sir Edmund Hillary, whose passion was climbing the highest mountain in the world. It had driven him until the day he finally reached the summit. And as he stood on top of the tallest mountain in the world, he might have looked around and wondered, Now what am I going to do?
He didn’t. Instead he saw other peaks that needed to be climbed, mountains that offered different challenges to him.
Identifying and pursuing your passions is a beginning and, if you are as lucky as I have been, it has no end.
4. An Emotional Appeal
THE ONCE-GREAT ATTORNEY Denny Crane was talking to Shirley Schmidt, his lovely partner in the TV law firm Crane, Poole & Schmidt. In response to her question, he replied thoughtfully, “Judge Brown.”
To which Shirley said, “Come again?”
Denny sighed, “I don’t like it when you say that, Shirley. It puts pressure on me.”
Denny Crane was the character I played in the TV series Boston Legal. Candice Bergen played Shirley Schmidt. What wonderful characters David E. Kelley created. But initially, at least, it was not a character I wanted to play. I had said yes to a variety of different projects that overflowed those blank pages. I told my agent I was too busy, I didn’t have the time to do another series. I just didn’t want to make that type of commitment.
But my agent persisted. “I know you don’t want to do it. I don’t want you to do it. But just go have lunch with David Kelley. I know the best Thai restaurant in the world.”
Okay, maybe that part about the Thai restaurant isn’t true, but the rest of it is. I made it clear that there was no way I was going to sign to do another series, but I agreed to have lunch. At that lunch, David Kelley told me about the character he had created for me. He described Denny Crane, once among the greatest attorneys in the nation, as someone who is slowly losing his connection to reality—but whose confidence and ego remain fully intact. But what I found most intriguing was that in his growing dementia Denny Crane had lost his inhibitions. He had direct contact with his emotions. Unlike most people, he was able to express and do whatever he was feeling.
That interested me. The ability to experience the full range of emotions, from ecstasy to grief, is the difference between a life lived in the shadows or in the brightest sunlight.
I agreed to do the series for one season. But I enjoyed playing Denny Crane so much that I stayed for our entire run.
Denny Crane didn’t just experience his emotions; he broadcast them. He forced other people to deal with them, too. He was loud and bombastic and smart and lovable, but he lived life and he gave it no quarter. I have seen people shutting themselves off from real emotion. I’ve done it myself. No one wants to be in emotional pain. So they live life in the middle, never allowing themselves the free expression of emotion. It’s certainly safer. But someone said to me once, the more you feel, the more you are capable of feeling. In other words, no one enjoys the pain of grief, of loss, but if you allow yourself to fully experience that, you are also opening yourself to fully experience happiness and joy and all the other emotions on the scale t
hat eventually will follow.
All of us are born with access to an amazing tapestry of emotions, but for many people, somewhere early in our lives, we lose the ability to fully experience those emotions. The reasons for that are complicated, but the damage is real. One of the greatest horror films ever made was the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The monsters in this 1956 film were aliens able to produce duplicates of human beings identical to human beings in every way except one: They experienced no emotions. As one character explained it, “There’s no emotion. None. Just the pretense of it. The words, the gesture, the tone of voice, everything else is the same, but not the feeling.” Becky, one of the townspeople who became aware of the threat, rails against it, saying, “I don’t want to live in a world without love or grief or beauty; I’d rather die.” But Becky falls asleep, allowing the aliens to substitute an emotion-free duplicate. This pod person looks and talks and acts exactly the same; in fact, her boyfriend, Dr. Miles J. Bennell, isn’t aware of the substitution until, as he explains, “I’ve been afraid a lot of times in my life, but I didn’t know the real meaning of fear until … until I had kissed Becky.”
It’s possible that an actor understands the emotional context of life more than any other professional. Portraying emotions is the actor’s job. I have been asked many times if, as an actor, I actually feel the emotion of my character or if I just replicate the actions. In 1961 I starred in a Roger Corman movie titled The Intruder. I played an avowed racist who has come to a small Southern town to create a violent uprising against forced integration. It was a difficult story to tell at a very volatile time in our history, but worth telling, and we were filming in a small Southern town. This town did not want us there making a movie about racial issues. It was too close for them, too real. Their collective emotions were too exposed. The situation was so tense that when we first got there local law enforcement suggested we each plan an escape route to be used if the situation got out of hand. My plan consisted of going out the bathroom window of my motel room and racing into a cornfield.
Live Long and . . . Page 5
