A Chance Encounter

Sunday, August 30th, 2009 my wife Ann and I had an unbelievable encounter with one of God's creatures. It was early afternoon, sun was shining, temperature around 70, and winds out of the north at about 10-15 mph.

Ann and I were about 8 miles into a 30 mile ride heading north on S. Kent road in the Loran Valley area of Northwest, IL. The wind was fairly strong so Ann and I were taking turns drafting each other. I was on the front pulling at a steady pace of 18mph when a lone Canada Goose glided over my right shoulder, wings fully extended, and slowed to 18 mph only 2-3 feet in front of me. The goose started to pump its wings and paced us for about 30 - 40 secs at about handlebar height. Then it pulled over to my left and dropped back even with me, with its wing tips flapping only 6-12 inches from my hands.

We shared glances with each other for what seemed like a minute. The goose did a few airplane “touch and gos” on the road then moved out in front of me again, still about handlebar height. I was really feeling what it might be like to fly with a flock of geese instead of in a bicycle peloton. I could really feel a draft from the goose! The goose, Ann and I were still maintaining an 18 mph pace.

After about 20-30 secs, I pulled to the left and picked up the pace so I was even with the goose. Now the goose was on my right, again its wing tips flapping only inches from my hands. We again glanced at each other for 20-30 secs then it picked up speed and took the lead position again. The goose seemed to be telling me it was the strongest and wanted to lead the pace line.

Ann and I could not believe what was happening. After about another 20-30 secs the goose powered up to the right and away toward the sky. Ann and I both watched as it soared high in the sky and turned toward the south. We will never know why the goose decided to swoop down to join our Sunday bike ride or why it needed to take a few pulls into the wind. I know we will never forget the encounter.

Ron Mattson

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Robert Falk - Since I retired in 2008 I have been writing about some parts of my life. I’ve written a long piece about my jobs, education, and friendships during the six months I lived in Freeport.
Here are the sections which concern Kegel’s Cycle and Key.

FREEPORT

In January, 1965, I moved from Mount Carroll to Freeport to attend Freeport Community College. I was happy to be moving there because Freeport was home to Kegel’s Cycle and Key, which I’d been visiting for the last couple of years to get oil and parts for my motorcycles.

Kegel’s was in an old, three story building downtown, a half block off Main Street. It was built in 1870. The first floor had a cast iron facade ornamented with vines and flowers and covered in many coats of glossy black paint. Ed, the owner, vowed that some day he’d paint the vines and flowers with appropriate colors but he never got around to it. (The building can be seen on Googlemaps Streetscene at 120 S. Chicago Ave. Historical photos and a brief history can be found at www.freeportbikes.com ) There was a display window to the left of the front door, and a door to the long stairwell for the upstairs apartments on the right. The tiny shop was a jumble of bicycles, parts and accessories, key blanks and a key cutter, mower parts, tools, motorcycle accessories and usually a couple motorcycles, new or used. Bicycles and tires hung from the ceiling and filled racks on one wall. It was very crowded. Behind the shop was a tiny office area with Ed’s desk covered in papers, a safe, parts and boxes, an automatic hacksaw machine, and the desk of an elderly man who sold either real estate or insurance. Behind that was the dark, greasy, workshop where Ed worked on motorcycles, bikes, and mowers. When the weather was nice, the large accordion doors on the back wall were left open. The roar of customers’ motorcycles echoed off the walls of the alley as they approached. I’d assumed that Ed’s last name was Kegel, but when I’d called him “Mr. Kegel” he roared “I ain’t Mr. Kegel. That’s my wife’s Uncle Julius. My last name is Kloepping” When I then called him “Mr. Kloepping” he said, “You’re making me feel old. Call me Ed.” Uncle Julius had owned the shop from 1923 until 1960. The business, the first Harley dealer in the US, had been started by his brother in 1909. Ed was just as in awe of Uncle Julius as I was of Ed. There was a photo of him on the wall of shop photographs going back to the turn of the century. Ed had labeled it “Motorcyclist Extraordinaire”. Julius looked like the Esquire Magazine Man. He was short, solid, and debonaire with wavy white hair and a white mustache. On his massive BMW loaded with camping gear he would disappear from town for months on end, then come gliding into the back of the shop to tell of his recent adventures in The Rockies, California, Mexico, or Canada. He once crossed Africa on a six month trip. He was killed when a pickup truck ran a stop sign and plowed into his motorcycle. He was 86 at the time.

Ed, in his fifties, was a tall, gangly guy who looked like an R. Crumb character. He had wire-rim glasses, a thinning gray crew cut and usually a few days-worth of white stubble. He wore work shirts and dark blue work pants. His bass voice boomed and his laughter exploded. He said “motorsickle” instead of “motorcycle”. He could be coarse and funny with the bikers, and the sweetest man on earth with the housewives needing keys and their little kids who came in for their first two-wheelers.
He was a master mechanic. Over the course of several months I watched him restore the rusted hulk of a ‘39 Harley flathead which he had purchased for a penny per pound as scrap iron into a yellow and black beauty which looked like it had just come off the assembly line. He called it The Bumblebee and said he had restored it “to show you youngsters what the Harleys were like before the War”. I was there when he declared it finished. Having listened to my endless expressions of amazement as I’d watched him turn rust into gold, he said “ You can be the first person to sit on it if you promise you won’t get so excited that you wee-wee all over it”.
Ed shared his expertise with anyone who asked for help. He ran his business the old fashioned way: being really helpful, doing an excellent job, and letting the money take care of itself. When I bought my first big motorcycle from him ( a 500 cc, single cylinder Norton ES2), after the deal was finished he threw in a locking security cable, a helmet, and a set of Whitworth wrenches. During the winters he let me store my cycle in his storage room free of charge
My motorcycle friends from Mount Carroll all loved him. Often I would take one of my female friends when I was riding to Freeport to visit Kegel’s. He would make big fusses over them, saying something sweet and corny like “You’re as cute as a June bug”. The girls ate it up. I thought he was wonderful.

After deciding to move to Freeport I bought its local newspaper and started apartment hunting. I went to Kegel’s to ask Ed about several ads which looked promising and he suggested that I rent the unfurnished apartment right above his shop. I loved the idea of being above the shop. It was convenient to the Junior College and to the shopping district, and its large bay window looked out on the lime green bicycle which served as a sign for Kegel’s. The front room was painted turquoise with pink above the picture molding. The middle room reversed the color scheme. (These same colors appeared in the next half dozen places I lived) . I took the apartment and moved in with a flimsy mattress with bolsters which doubled as a sofa, a stereo, a wooden desk chair, and a 1’X3’ homemade workbench I’d found in the alley. I had a hot plate, toaster oven, frying pan, pot, and a few utensils from my dorm room. The kitchen was very dark since the walls were gloss black and --as in the bare middle room-- there was only one tiny window about seven feet above the floor. The light bulb in the kitchen ceiling was burned out and was too high to reach; I made do with a gooseneck desk lamp. Because I didn’t want to spend the money for a natural gas sevice deposit, I did without hot water, the kitchen stove, and the gas refrigerator. I took showers at the Junior College gym or the city park, and kept my food cold by putting in on the widow sill until the weather got warm. At that point I bought items needing refrigeration just before I planned to use them.

The second floor had once been one apartment but now it was divided into two. There was a locked door in the kitchen which --I deduced from the sounds from the other side-- opened into a closet next door. I could hear the voices of a woman and her daughter, but in the six months I lived there I never ran into them. There was a third floor but it was in too bad a shape to rent. I heard that its last tenants had been several young women who were arrested for prostitution, but that story was never confirmed.

...Around mid-February , Ed got in a used 750 cc Norton Atlas which he was going to fix up and put on the market. This was a legendary bike and I wanted it. I decided that rather than spend everything I was making to make my life halfway decent and comfortable, I would cut back even further on food, clothing, and entertainment and save every cent I could to buy the Norton. I asked Ed to hold it for me.
When Ed had it ready I told him that I only had about half the money. He said that he knew I was a good guy, so he’d cosign for a bank loan to make up the rest. I pointed out that if I defaulted he’d end up paying for half of my motorcycle, but he said he was positive I’d never let that happen. One afternoon he closed the shop, early, put a sign on the door, and walked me over to the bank where he did business. When we met with the loan officer Ed said, “This here’s Bobby. He’s a good boy and I’m gonna cosign for his loan.” The banker thought Ed’s idea was batty but gave me the loan.
The motorcycle was absolutely amazing!

Robert Falk