Cork's Mustang Story
By Cork Marcheschi
I had left my studio in Pacifica to grab a couple of sandwiches at Sam’s Deli but when I got there, Sam’s Deli had been spirited away and the sign read that a NEW deli would replace it. I liked Sam and his wife. This pair made sandwiches of integrity. Sam called every body BUDDY –male, female, young or old – you were Sam’s sandwich buddy. Maybe because Sam and wife were close to 60 or spoke with an accent or had never decorated, they had doomed themselves to the “upper middle class urban sprawl blues!” I felt a minor sense of loss; change at my age hits close to the heart. I walked down to the other sandwich place and on my way I was stopped by a powerful vision. I had to catch my breath – like an impossible jewel mounted on the asphalt was a 45-year-old Mustang motorcycle. If one of Victoria’s Secret models had parked next to it in a pink convertible, I wouldn’t have noticed.
I am a collector by nature and art and art history have been my life. The pursuit and understanding of beauty in all its forms is my business and I stood thunderstruck by the little cycle/scooter/lawn mower engined piece of pure emotion and unique engineering. I was in love!!!
Four years before this vision, I was interviewed on a radio broadcast. The show was about artists working in the public realm. I was completing a sculpture in a New Jersey rail station atrium. I was asked if I could be available for an interview on the site and I agreed. I spoke with the interviewer who would ask all five of the interviewed artist the same questions. No big deal, I do interviews well and am comfortable with a mic in my face. It all went fine till the last question, which she announced as “For a last question I always like to know if there is anything in your past that you have given up and would like to have back?”
Before I could think my mouth dropped open and words that I didn’t speak exited my body: “My Mustang motorcycle from 1960.” I didn’t understand my own response until this moment in front of the Mustang parked in the Linda Mar shopping center.
I wandered back to my studio without getting any lunch and thought about what I had just seen and how deeply it reached into me and found a place of great happiness.
I was 12 years old in 1957; I lived in an Italian enclave on the east side of Burlingame, California. I had two passions in my young life. One was the rock n roll and rhythm n blues of the day, which was easy to access – 99 cents got me a 45 and KDIA played the tunes, so I was set.
But #2 desire was more illusive: it had to do with movement and motors. I wanted a mini bike – I wanted something with wheels and a motor. I had watched other boys whose dad’s got them into 1/4 midget’s, and go-karts, but my dad wasn’t going to go there. Sad fact of the matter is my Dad and I never shared anything and we still don’t. My single focused passion was finally recognized by my mom. She watched me buy motorcycle magazines and read them cover-to-cover; she saw me use math trying to figure out engine displacement – I learned to read graphs from torque curve charts. My insistent pushing finally found a sympathetic ear in a distant cousin who lived in South San Francisco in another Italian enclave. The Gastone family had a son who had owned a 1946 Doodlebug. He had driven it till it wouldn’t go no mo’ and then it went into the chicken coop. Many years of chicken dust, chicken droppings, feathers and chicken feed made the scooter look like it had been resting on the ocean floor for 40 years. It was covered in poop and feather barnacles. It was beautiful! I excavated my wondrous little gem. My mom and I tossed it into the back of our stationwagon and it was mine. My mom – what she didn’t do for me – looked at the scooter as if it was the source of all disease but she saw the love in my eyes and closed hers.
For the next week I cleaned the thing and for once in my life I enjoyed cleaning. Mr. Gastone remembered that it had stopped running because of something electrical. There is only one thing that is electrical on a Briggs and Stratton engine and that is the magneto.
The guy across the street (Gino – another Italian) was a mechanic and he showed me how to test the spark. There wasn’t any so he showed me the flywheel/magneto setup and scratched a part number down and off I went to the power mower store. Gino helped me install the magneto and then showed me how to use the little kick-starter. Gino had a daughter; she was kinda vapid ( her name was Velma) and seemed to have no interests, other than B level movie magazines. I think Gino’s cottage-cheese-personalitied daughter helped him to understand something about the importance of this boy and mini bike moment. It was a guy thing! I can still feel the anticipation...kicked with enough force to toss myself over backwards...I didn’t feel a thing when my butt hit the concrete, because the motor started. Gino held the handlebars and laughed an appreciative laugh. I couldn’t believe it – the pop pop pop of the little engine had brought a smile to my face that was about to rip itself into my ears. There are not many moments in life that are pure joy but this was definitely one of them. I was blissfully happy – and now after 50 years I know how true and rare those feelings are.
There were no brakes, no lights and definitely no license, so I was ready to GO!!!! And go I did – everywhere in Burlingame, San Mateo and the occasional field trip where my mom or grandfather would transport me and the BUG to a remote location.
For three and a half years I rode that thing daily – IT WAS FREEDOM – I didn’t know a thing about freedom until the Bug rolled me down the street and I felt it. I didn’t understand that freedom had many faces and that you could feel free as an end in itself.
When I was 15½ I could get a learner’s permit that would allow me to drive a motorcycle. I had been saving my paper route money for three years and I new what I was going to buy: a MUSTANG. The Mustang is the Unicorn of the scooter/cycle world for it is neither a scooter or a motor cycle. It is a unique statement of a wondrous moment in America. 1945 to 1965, the post war honeymoon that America had with itself. These 20 years were also the life of the Mustang. I found one for $80, a 1954 that had been owned by an adult who used it for transportation to his job at United Airlines. I didn’t know how to shift gears or use the clutch so Mr. Twissleman, the bike’s owner, taught me how to ride. I gave him 78 one dollar bills and 8 quarters, an hour latter I was on my way home. THUMP THUMP THUMP, a deep powerful sound that was friendly and serious at the same time had replaced the pop pop pop. Again I experienced large-scale joy. My hands tingled from the vibration; my butt went to sleep; but I was happy. The Mustang took me into San Francisco and as far south as Santa Cruz. I rode by myself and started to understand something about being with myself. The Mustang and I were very good friends.
In 1963, when I graduated from high school and went to college, the Mustang was sold for tuition money.
Over the passing years my love for motorized things on two wheels was alive and well. I never found much heart in the Japanese bikes, I always liked the British. I had several Norton’s and drove them cross-country. Great trips and never a breakdown (the Norton had an oil cooler and Mikuni carb – I had also lost the prince of darkness Lucas ignition for a Daytona electronic setup.)
I had been busted at 14 years old for driving my Doodlebug at night without light and license. While the officer wrote up the ticket he told me in a stern but caring way, “You feel invincible now like nothing can happen to you – well one day that feeling may slip away and if it does you should stop riding.” In 1985 I was on a stretch of highway somewhere in Nevada, it was clear and sunny with no traffic on the road: I looked down at the asphalt as I had done hundreds of times before but this time I could feel myself hitting the pavement. I remembered the cop 28 years earlier and what he had said and it resonated with me. I never felt secure on my bike again.
By Cork Marcheschi
I had left my studio in Pacifica to grab a couple of sandwiches at Sam’s Deli but when I got there, Sam’s Deli had been spirited away and the sign read that a NEW deli would replace it. I liked Sam and his wife. This pair made sandwiches of integrity. Sam called every body BUDDY –male, female, young or old – you were Sam’s sandwich buddy. Maybe because Sam and wife were close to 60 or spoke with an accent or had never decorated, they had doomed themselves to the “upper middle class urban sprawl blues!” I felt a minor sense of loss; change at my age hits close to the heart. I walked down to the other sandwich place and on my way I was stopped by a powerful vision. I had to catch my breath – like an impossible jewel mounted on the asphalt was a 45-year-old Mustang motorcycle. If one of Victoria’s Secret models had parked next to it in a pink convertible, I wouldn’t have noticed.
I am a collector by nature and art and art history have been my life. The pursuit and understanding of beauty in all its forms is my business and I stood thunderstruck by the little cycle/scooter/lawn mower engined piece of pure emotion and unique engineering. I was in love!!!
Four years before this vision, I was interviewed on a radio broadcast. The show was about artists working in the public realm. I was completing a sculpture in a New Jersey rail station atrium. I was asked if I could be available for an interview on the site and I agreed. I spoke with the interviewer who would ask all five of the interviewed artist the same questions. No big deal, I do interviews well and am comfortable with a mic in my face. It all went fine till the last question, which she announced as “For a last question I always like to know if there is anything in your past that you have given up and would like to have back?”
Before I could think my mouth dropped open and words that I didn’t speak exited my body: “My Mustang motorcycle from 1960.” I didn’t understand my own response until this moment in front of the Mustang parked in the Linda Mar shopping center.
I wandered back to my studio without getting any lunch and thought about what I had just seen and how deeply it reached into me and found a place of great happiness.
I was 12 years old in 1957; I lived in an Italian enclave on the east side of Burlingame, California. I had two passions in my young life. One was the rock n roll and rhythm n blues of the day, which was easy to access – 99 cents got me a 45 and KDIA played the tunes, so I was set.
But #2 desire was more illusive: it had to do with movement and motors. I wanted a mini bike – I wanted something with wheels and a motor. I had watched other boys whose dad’s got them into 1/4 midget’s, and go-karts, but my dad wasn’t going to go there. Sad fact of the matter is my Dad and I never shared anything and we still don’t. My single focused passion was finally recognized by my mom. She watched me buy motorcycle magazines and read them cover-to-cover; she saw me use math trying to figure out engine displacement – I learned to read graphs from torque curve charts. My insistent pushing finally found a sympathetic ear in a distant cousin who lived in South San Francisco in another Italian enclave. The Gastone family had a son who had owned a 1946 Doodlebug. He had driven it till it wouldn’t go no mo’ and then it went into the chicken coop. Many years of chicken dust, chicken droppings, feathers and chicken feed made the scooter look like it had been resting on the ocean floor for 40 years. It was covered in poop and feather barnacles. It was beautiful! I excavated my wondrous little gem. My mom and I tossed it into the back of our stationwagon and it was mine. My mom – what she didn’t do for me – looked at the scooter as if it was the source of all disease but she saw the love in my eyes and closed hers.
For the next week I cleaned the thing and for once in my life I enjoyed cleaning. Mr. Gastone remembered that it had stopped running because of something electrical. There is only one thing that is electrical on a Briggs and Stratton engine and that is the magneto.
The guy across the street (Gino – another Italian) was a mechanic and he showed me how to test the spark. There wasn’t any so he showed me the flywheel/magneto setup and scratched a part number down and off I went to the power mower store. Gino helped me install the magneto and then showed me how to use the little kick-starter. Gino had a daughter; she was kinda vapid ( her name was Velma) and seemed to have no interests, other than B level movie magazines. I think Gino’s cottage-cheese-personalitied daughter helped him to understand something about the importance of this boy and mini bike moment. It was a guy thing! I can still feel the anticipation...kicked with enough force to toss myself over backwards...I didn’t feel a thing when my butt hit the concrete, because the motor started. Gino held the handlebars and laughed an appreciative laugh. I couldn’t believe it – the pop pop pop of the little engine had brought a smile to my face that was about to rip itself into my ears. There are not many moments in life that are pure joy but this was definitely one of them. I was blissfully happy – and now after 50 years I know how true and rare those feelings are.
There were no brakes, no lights and definitely no license, so I was ready to GO!!!! And go I did – everywhere in Burlingame, San Mateo and the occasional field trip where my mom or grandfather would transport me and the BUG to a remote location.
For three and a half years I rode that thing daily – IT WAS FREEDOM – I didn’t know a thing about freedom until the Bug rolled me down the street and I felt it. I didn’t understand that freedom had many faces and that you could feel free as an end in itself.
When I was 15½ I could get a learner’s permit that would allow me to drive a motorcycle. I had been saving my paper route money for three years and I new what I was going to buy: a MUSTANG. The Mustang is the Unicorn of the scooter/cycle world for it is neither a scooter or a motor cycle. It is a unique statement of a wondrous moment in America. 1945 to 1965, the post war honeymoon that America had with itself. These 20 years were also the life of the Mustang. I found one for $80, a 1954 that had been owned by an adult who used it for transportation to his job at United Airlines. I didn’t know how to shift gears or use the clutch so Mr. Twissleman, the bike’s owner, taught me how to ride. I gave him 78 one dollar bills and 8 quarters, an hour latter I was on my way home. THUMP THUMP THUMP, a deep powerful sound that was friendly and serious at the same time had replaced the pop pop pop. Again I experienced large-scale joy. My hands tingled from the vibration; my butt went to sleep; but I was happy. The Mustang took me into San Francisco and as far south as Santa Cruz. I rode by myself and started to understand something about being with myself. The Mustang and I were very good friends.
In 1963, when I graduated from high school and went to college, the Mustang was sold for tuition money.
Over the passing years my love for motorized things on two wheels was alive and well. I never found much heart in the Japanese bikes, I always liked the British. I had several Norton’s and drove them cross-country. Great trips and never a breakdown (the Norton had an oil cooler and Mikuni carb – I had also lost the prince of darkness Lucas ignition for a Daytona electronic setup.)
I had been busted at 14 years old for driving my Doodlebug at night without light and license. While the officer wrote up the ticket he told me in a stern but caring way, “You feel invincible now like nothing can happen to you – well one day that feeling may slip away and if it does you should stop riding.” In 1985 I was on a stretch of highway somewhere in Nevada, it was clear and sunny with no traffic on the road: I looked down at the asphalt as I had done hundreds of times before but this time I could feel myself hitting the pavement. I remembered the cop 28 years earlier and what he had said and it resonated with me. I never felt secure on my bike again.
