Toni L. Proffer

MEMBER PROFILE

Originally printed in issue #25 of Still….Keeping Track

Al Buehner has graciously offered to print my profile as a rider and some my experiences with Penton motorcycles, as well as the story of a very special motorcycle shop, which was located in Flint, Michigan, near where I grew up. Those stories follow. However, first, are theses comments on a story that appeared in the summer, 2004 issue of “Still Keeping Track.”

I have been around bikes my whole life; first as a kid growing up in Michigan where my dad raced enduros, then as an adult living in northeast Ohio and running a bike shop, called Dirt Works, from 1982 to 1999, and in my role as a race promoter (Proffer Promotions) for those same years.

With so many years of involvement in our sport, quite often when my copy of Still Keepin’ Track arrives, there will be a familiar name or something in it from an old customer. It always brings a smile to my face to see a name from the ol’ Dirt Works shop gang appear. To me it is like hearing from family. You can imagine my delight when issue No.23 arrived with the picture of Ted Guthrie on the cover. Yes, Ted was one of my great customers, and had been for years. He had even helped out on several occasions at my races, helping mark and cut trail and course marshaling on event day.

When we sold the shop in 1999, I moved from the area and lost touch with most of the people there, including Ted. Anyhow, when I read his Adventures in Enduros story in that same issue, I not only smiled, I literally belly-laughed out loud from start to finish, and felt compelled to share a few more details about that weekend.

THE MICHIGAN ENDURO

To tell this story, I must start at the beginning. The reason the gang was headed to a local Dist.14 Michigan Enduro all the way from Ohio was because my mom and dad belonged to the motorcycle club, which hosted the event. My dad did much of the course work, arrowing, cleaning trail, routing mileage, etc., while mom prepared the route sheets, worked sign-up and tallied scores. So, it was my idea to drag the hill-climbing, rock and clay-tempered, Ohio riders up to run a Michigan sand enduro, which was a first for many of them. For Michigander POG’s, the enduro started at the old, iron Jonesville Bridge, just outside Leota, Michigan.

I am quite sure that all of the Dirt Works riders were told that they would need spark arrestors and lights to run this event. Apparently, however, the message didn’t get to all of them (or being Ohio hare scramblers, they just didn’t believe me) In my defense, the ill prepared, running late, shop owners part was true, but that is not my fault. Getting a bunch of dirt bike buddies all together is like playing den mother to a bunch of kids, it is not always easy.

Ted’s report of the forest fire is TRUE! That part was horrifying! I was back at camp moving all of our riders’ bikes down to the roadway, while the others were busy moving tents, gas cans and the like. All of the guys were out in the woods with blankets and towels trying to assist the fire dept. I remember this part so well because my dad was out in those woods alone, riding a final route check and we were very worried about his safety. He did return safely to camp, but not until many hours after the fire was out. He had been trapped on the other side of it, unable to get around, and so remained out on the trail to begin rerouting some sections for the next day’s event, which had been destroyed by the fire or would be unsafe to pass through.

Tech inspection was a “hoot”. The ride-saving spark arrestor that Ted referred to in his story, that his dealer had brought as a spare, was one of only a few I had grabbed last minute from the shop, just in case. The funny part (and I’m not proud of this) is that one guy would mount it to his bike, go up to tech and get inspected, bring it back to camp, then we would have to pull it off and put it on the next bike so it could go pass inspection. Dad knew it was going on, so I didn’t feel so guilty. The rider’s meeting was conducted by an old family friend, and yes, he felt it necessary to give us Ohio riders a scolding, mostly as harassment to me. This is one time where knowing the right people helped, as all of our guys were allowed to run their (not so) enduro-legal bikes. Dad and the other members knew none of them would be taking points from any of the serious enduro riders and by morning all of the bikes had legal spark arrestors. The event itself was so much fun! To me, there is nothing like “carving” through Michigan pines.

Our Ohio gang did have its share of winners. As Ted mentioned, the shop owner’s son won overall. That was actually my stepson. It was his first enduro, and being on a shop owner’s budget, we committed another huge no-no. He raced using his dad’s AMA card-figuring that it wouldn’t matter since they had the same name. Well, when he won high-point B rider, you can imagine the comedy in that his father, not he, would be moved up to an “A” rider. So again, we had to confess to my dad what we had done. Dave Junior was disqualified and Dave Senior’s B-class status remained intact. I did manage to win the women’s class that day, yes with my own AMA card, and on my fully legal KTM enduro bike. However, it was not because of rider ability or fine time keeping. I won by default, as none of the other women entrants finished. If nothing else, I have fortitude on my side and I am very proud of that first place Powder-Puff plaque from the Bulldog M/C Leota Enduro.

This was many years ago, and I am so glad to know that it was all remembered so well by a now-fellow POG member. So Ted, thank you so much for taking me down that memory lane, it was a very fond one, and mostly thanks for sharing it with all of our fellow POG’s. Your story was enjoyed and appreciated.

FLINT INDIAN SALES

Now, on to my story: It was our new POG president, Paul Danik, who convinced me, while at Mid-Ohio this year, to share my story, about “my first Penton”. It will be hard to make this brief, and I hope that I don’t bore my fellow POG members, but I must admit that writing about it still gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

I was lucky enough to have been brought up in a dirt biking family. I was born and raised in Michigan and was breathing Hi-Point 2-stroke mix before I was talking and was at my first enduro long before I was walking. I grew up with two older brothers; I was the youngest, and the only girl in the family. My dad’s cousins owned Proffer Cycle Sales in Flint. They sold Kawasaki,Yamaha, Suzuki, and Ossa. In the sixties, it was still pretty much a given that the garage, and definitely the bike shops, were off limits to girls. But when I showed a real interest in being with my dad and his bikes, he welcomed me in. My mom was totally supportive of my decision to become involved in dirt bikes. Mom has always, and continues to this day, to play a huge part in dad’s racing and riding.

At a very young age, I can remember sitting on an old bucket or milk crate, alongside of my dad, while he tinkered on his motorcycle. I enjoyed learning each of the different tool’s names and where to use which ones. It was a weekly task for dad to have to repair and patch the fiberglass bodywork of his Ossas and a never-ending job trying to keep my brother’s Bultacos running (a tough task for even the most experienced mechanics). But by the time dad brought home his first Penton, I was old enough to appreciate how much easier it was to work on and maintain. Definitely easier than the old iron we had been servicing, like the Greeves and CZ’s still in the garage. By that time, I was old enough and responsible enough to install the oiled air filter onto the cage and apply a nice even coating of grease to the lip of it, before handing it over to dad to put back into his impressive Penton. Soon enough, I was learning to help out with more work too, such as wire brushing the rust from the wheel hubs, and sanding the glaze off the brake shoes of dad’s bike. I was so proud, and bragged to any one who would listen, that my dad raced a Penton. (Word of warning here dads; by nature, little girls really are chatty-we can’t help it) I hung out on Friday nights with my dad at the bike shops, long after store hours, sitting and listening to the bench race stories of my dad’s older riding buddies. Just a small note here to the mothers who might be reading this: Not to worry, as I still had time between trail rides to discover boys, shopping and clothes, and my mom made very sure I never went anywhere with grease under my fingernails.

My folks belonged to the Millington Bulldog M/C club, many of whose members raced enduros with my dad. Our family spent the weekends camping, sitting around camp fires and running gas with these great people, and I was closer to them then anyone. They were my family. It was then as it is now - the best people you will ever meet are dirt bike riders and their families. Many of the guys in the group were riding Pentons from Flint Indian Sales-the owners of which, Herb and Lucy Kunze, were members of the Bulldog Club. They were like an Aunt and Uncle to me when I was growing up. Herb loved Penton motorcycles. I spent a lot of time with my dad at this shop, which was a museum of old motorcycles and collectibles. Herb Kunze was a true motorcycle-enthusiast, in every sense of the word. The shop was nearly a city block long and located on Saginaw Street in a rather bad part of downtown Flint. While other stores around Herb were boarding up and moving out, Herb liked his old place. It was where his father had started out, selling Indian motorcycles. Beneath the old squeaky hardwood floors of the shop was a dirt-floored basement, complete with bare hanging light bulbs and rusty, dripping water pipes, which we regulars referred to as “the dungeon”. The Dungeon was packed full of retired race bikes, all of which had been traded in. It was a collection that would make any vintage bike collector’s heart rate quicken, all sitting there, slowly rusting. Behind the shop was Herb’s best kept secret, a three story warehouse with hardwood floors and no moisture. Not even dust got into this building. Hidden away in it were many, many, very old, but brand-new motorcycles, many of them still in crates, and a parts inventory that would make the manufacturers of these machines jealous. One of the very many amazing things about Herb was his uncanny ability to seem to know every single thing he had in stock. These bikes were not for sale. In fact, Herb would even deny there was anything in that warehouse if a stranger were to ask. If this makes it sound as though Herb was a bit crazy, then he was good crazy. He was “motorcycle crazy.” He sold only those brands and bikes that he loved and believed in, and he chose to keep at least one of each of them for himself. The building was full of complete line-ups of Greeves, AJS, Matchless, Zundapp, Norton, Puch, Premier, DKW, Moto Guzzi , KTM, Sachs and yes, Penton motorcycles, all new. Believe me, this is a very incomplete list. I have named but a few, to provide an idea of what the place contained and where I got to hang out. To those who did not really know Herb, he had the reputation of being a bit of a miser. He was known never to give any deals in his bike shop. Whatever retail was, that was the price, no discussion. But, if you were one of the lucky ones to get to know the real Herb, you would love him. When it came to his motorcycle family, Herb was actually quite the softy. I know for a fact he never resold any of the Pentons that his favorite shop riders traded in because of sentimental value. It was not uncommon for Herb to host a club get-together after store hours. He would bring out old reel-to-reel motorcycle movies for everyone to enjoy, complete with hot, buttered popcorn, served from his big theater-style popcorn popper. It was with Herb and Lucy that my family went with to see “On any Sunday” when it was released in theaters, a memory no motorcycle fan would ever forget.

When I was still very young, Herb promoted an annual enduro poker run for club members. It was held each year in November and was called the Turkey Run. Winners would receive frozen turkeys for the holiday, in place of trophies. This is an event near and dear to me, as it was the annual event where I would get to ride buddy class (double up) with my dad. I remember that when my legs were too short to reach the buddy pegs on Dad’s Greeves, I would just wrap my legs around his waist and off through the woods we would go. Long after Herb had quit racing and even riding, he continued to come to every enduro that the guys raced in. He was pitman, mechanic, and cheerleader all wrapped into one big, bald, loud, jovial package. He was a great storyteller and I never tired of hearing Herb tell old motorcycle and race tales. He never quit supporting the sport that he loved so much.

To many northern riders, winter was considered the off-season, but not to us. We spent many cold, winter Sundays on the frozen ice of Lake Potter at ice races with our Bulldog Club family. One year, Herb’s wife, Lucy, and my mom decided they wanted to race in the sidecar class. Dad and Herb fixed them up an ice racer, complete with side hack. This was before ice screws, and mom and Lucy spent more time spinning in circles then they ever did going forward. Lucy also rode a beautiful, red, Moto Guzzi street bike. She too, loved motorcycles.

My mom was in charge of the concessions at the club events. She enjoyed it and was great at it and when I was tall enough to see over the counter I worked with her, wrapping hot dogs and counting out change. But it was obvious even at a very young age that my place was not in the kitchen, so mom turned me over to Lucy and the other sign-up gals of the club. Lucy taught me how to score and clerk motocross. Lucy would tell me about the motorcycle dealer shows that her and Herb would travel to each year. She always enjoyed them, and I can remember as a young teen, hoping that some day I could go to a dealer show. It sounded like a dream world there.

Herb loved his practical jokes, and it was a given among our group that if a prank were pulled at a race or club function, Herb was behind it. In later years, after I had moved to Ohio, I would stop back at the shop and visit Herb on my trips home to Michigan. Lucy had by now passed away from cancer and Herb was having health problems himself, but he was still at the shop every day. On one of my last visits with Herb, he gave me some things from the store that he wanted me to have. He honored me with some old (new) Penton jerseys and jackets, a brand new, still in the box, pair of leather Hi-Point pants, and a pair of very old, NIB, Hi-point boots. As you can imagine, these gifts are now among my most cherished Penton items. I have proudly displayed a few of the Penton jerseys at mid-Ohio, which some of you may have seen. The only non-Penton vintage bike in my collection is what was one of Herb’s personal race bikes - a 1970 AJS Stormer. Before he climbed aboard the Pentons, Herb always claimed that this was his favorite bike. It still has his race numbers, made out of black electrical tape, on the number plates. Herb passed away in 1992, and everything in his shop and in the warehouse was auctioned off by the famous motorcycle auctioneer, Jerry Wood. I have been told by many that it was one of the largest private motorcycle collections ever auctioned. I am not surprised. There were folks in attendance from AJS, England, and from companies like Domi Racer. No one who attended had expected or even dreamed of all that this one man had accumulated. There is still talk about the complete Indian, with original sidecar, that was included in the auction. Although it was very sad and emotional to see everything sold, it is rewarding to know that only serious collectors and motorcycle buffs acquired Herb’s priceless bikes. He definitely would have wanted it that way, as he wanted them only in the hands of other enthusiasts. Herb always did things his way and for his own reasons. He lived a very humble life, compared to what he could have, had he ever started selling his collection of bikes while he was alive. He kept them around because he wanted to and because he could, and luckily for those of us that knew him, we got to enjoy and marvel at bikes we otherwise never would have seen in person.

The impact that Herb and Lucy of Flint Indian Sales had on me is reflected in my life as an adult. At age 21, I opened a dirt bike shop, and for nearly 20 years sold the brands that I love. In 1982, I began promoting an annual charity harescramble race in East Palestine, Ohio. For the next 15yrs, every November, with the help of many great friends, I held the Toys for Tots Turkey Run. And if you haven’t already guessed, I gave out frozen turkeys to the winners in place of trophies. Even now, after selling the shop and retiring from race promoting, my enthusiasm for Penton collecting, restorations, and vintage racing is in large part because of Herb’s influence and his fondness for the Penton brand.

I know that I’ve gotten way off track from my original story about my first Penton, but I feel it was a detour worth taking. I believe that stories about folks like Herb and Lucy, with their contagious enthusiasm for motorcycles deserve to be told and shared. There are so many people from this great group in my past and I wish I could name them all, but then I would be compelled to tell some riding tale or story about each of them and I would just go on and on. Many of these folks have since passed away, but it is with the fondest of memories that I remember them and their love and dedication for the sport.

MY FIRST PENTON

This is just the base of my love of the sport, but my other true passion for the Penton motorcycle came from the Pentons themselves. As a kid, my favorite enduro every year was the Jackpine. That was back when it was a 2-day, 500 mile national. Dad and I would go up early on Friday to get a good camping spot and mom and my brothers would come up later. I can remember going to the entrance and waiting for hours for the Cycleliner to arrive from Ohio. I would be so anxious, and once I saw them pull in, I would run back to our camp yelling, “the Pentons are here, the Pentons are here.” Yes, it was always that big of deal to me. The family and the motorcycles created so much excitement!

By far, the biggest Penton-influence in my life is my dad. Dad raced CZ’s, Bultacos, Greeves, and Ossas-but once he switched to Pentons, he stayed with them, and I consider riding a KTM as remaining a faithful Penton rider.

My first bike was a well-worn Ace 90 Hodaka-handed down after my mom and my two older brothers had already learned to ride on it. I wanted to start riding so badly; my dad had told me that when I could sit on the bike and touch my toes on both sides, I could start riding. Just recently, dad told the story that every single night I would make him come to the garage to see if I was touching yet. Finally in 1969, (I was 8) he gave in, and even though it was on tiptoe, I got my first lesson on the Hodaka. A year or so later, I tried some scrambles, but the old Hodaka was getting way out-powered by the bigger 100’s and 125’s and so I got a Suzuki 125. I raced it for a few years, but never liked scrambles or the Suzuki. I could not wait until I was old enough to ride enduros.

My dad had started a family tradition with my brothers; when we turned 16, he would get us any bike we wanted, but it would be the last bike that he would buy for each of us. My oldest brother turned 16 in 1971 and he chose a 360cc American Eagle street bike. In 1974, my other brother picked a 250cc Gringo flat track bike (he was a very talented flat tracker and half-mile racer at the time). He now lives in Lake Elsinore, California, and still does some trail riding. In 1975, when I was 15 years old and had my driving permit, dad said it was time for me to start thinking about what kind of bike I was going to want. Well, there was no “thinking” about it… the only bike I wanted was a 125 Penton. Dad said he could buy me a new PE175 Suzuki or an IT175 Yamaha, but if I was sure I wanted a Penton, it might have to be a used one. I told dad that I didn’t care if it was used, I would rather have a used Penton then any other bike made.

One spring afternoon, dad and I got in the truck and drove about half an hour to some house I did not recognize. A man came out of the house and opened up his garage door and there it sat - a 1974 125cc Penton Six-Day. I looked at my dad to see if this meant what I hoped it did. Dad and the man did some bench racing and tire kicking, while dad looked over the Penton. When Dad asked me if I was still sure this is what I wanted, I remember telling him “I want it more then anything!” Then Dad told me “If you can start it, we’ll take it home.” I climbed up onto a milk crate, said a little prayer, kicked it over with all that I had, and the Six-Day fired up on that first kick. With that, we loaded it up.

I was so proud of my Penton. It just amazes me how I can still remember that afternoon like it was yesterday, and here it is almost 30 years later. I raced the bike in quite a few enduros. I don’t have the natural ability that so many good riders are blessed with and I didn’t win a lot of races, but I sure had fun.

My absolute favorite and most memorable times on that Penton were spent trail riding with my dad. I have bought and sold way too many bikes over the years to even begin to keep track of them all, but none will ever be as special to me as “…my first Penton.”