THE SPOKES MAN GREG ARNOLD A lifetime motorcycle-collecting hobbyist, Greg purchased his first motorbike at 11 years old from a neighbor in 1965 for $10. With his career background primarily rooted in the construction industry, Greg initially joined the Mecum team in 2011 to help remodel and expand Mecum Auctions’ Headquarters. In 2014, he put his passion for motorcycles to good use joining the Mecum motorcycle division as auction manager. Greg has two grown children, Ben and Violet, and lives with his wife, Cindy, in Mecum’s original hometown of Marengo, Illinois. FIREBALL PAUL I believe it was the summer of 1978. It was a very hot Saturday in southern Wisconsin; the temperature was in the 90s. I was cruising in my Corona MKII that day because I was taking a couple of young women around to the bars and it had air conditioning. As we crossed the raised railroad tracks on the approach to one of my favorite rural dens of iniquity, we observed a few motorcyclists tearing rapidly away from us from the front of our destination. I recognized one of the riders as someone I knew fairly well, Paul, trying to yank his bike left onto the roadway proper while still accelerating on his Kawasaki H2. I could tell from the sparks it was throwing as we continued our approach that its side stand was still down, preventing any real move to the left. Keeping in mind that this was well over 40 years ago, there was an “ice cream social” taking place on the church lawn on the opposite side of the road at about the 50 MPH mark. Our intrepid rider did not succeed in forcing his machine onto the clear blacktop, nor did he discontinue his prodigious acceleration before punching the rear bumper of a parked Pontiac Bonneville belonging to one of the church fathers. A huge orange fireball erupted instantaneously at impact as the Kaw was still hot from previous endeavors that day. Paul’s body launched up and over the car to a truly impressive height, arms and legs fully outstretched as he pin wheeled end over end a few times before slapping onto the blacktop and sliding a short ways, helmetless, of course, in those days. No doubt it should have killed him outright, but to our amazement, he got up after a few moments, and with a seriously pained look on his face, hopped and skipped mostly on one leg back to the point of impact, just as the owner of the Pontiac put what was left of the burning motorcycle out with an extinguisher from the church. The bike had bounced back from the car a bit, saving it from the same immolation the Kawasaki suffered. Paul seemed “relatively” none the worse for wear considering the enormous kinetic forces that had so recently acted upon him plus the effects of sliding on hot blacktop in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I ascribed this to his youth (18, the drinking age in Wisconsin then), his sturdy German farmer stock and his intoxicated state when he began his very short ride. Leaving Paul after some time to deal with the police (I didn’t particularly want to talk to them) and the owner of the car, who I also knew, we repaired to the tavern for some restorative drinks while the churchgoers ruminated on the most exciting ice cream social in their history. I would see the Pontiac for the next couple of years in the adjacent town we lived in, a large horseshoe shaped dent in the rear bumper about a foot in from the driver’s side and some stubborn soot clinging to the rear deck to remind me of that day. The 750cc Kawasaki H2 went to the boneyard; you will not find it in the ranks of surviving Triples. You can find one very like it though at a Mecum auction; please check your side stand when getting underway, and by all means, ride sober—it’s unlikely you’re 18 any longer. 66 • MECUM.COM
