I'D SEEN THAT LOOK ON CHUCK'S FACE before. The youngest of four boys, he was the one who wore his emotions on his sleeve—and that day he was pumped up. “Ken,” he told me, “you gotta see what I'm doin' downstairs.” I knew immediately that whatever he was up to was something special. There, spread out over every square inch
of the ping-pong table where our mother sorted laundry was the engine to his Honda 750. Nearby was the rest of his motorcycle, also in pieces, laid out on the floor or hung from the basement joists. It was impressive. It was 1975 and my world would never be the same. This was so long ago that Chuck was still
living with our parents. I was in my senior year of college, ready to spread my wings. When I asked what in the world he was up to, he told me that he wanted to repaint the frame. With logic that made sense to only him, he explained that the motor was in pieces so that he could paint the cylinders black. He wanted to make his bike truly one of a kind. All I could do was to shake my head. This on a bike that was barely three years old! That was Chuck in a nutshell: impulsive,
self-assured and full of life. In many ways he hasn't changed—at least in spirit. The worlds we grew up in were dramatically dif- ferent. I'm a Virgo, the eldest brother with a bit of reserve. Chuck, six years my junior, was the family firecracker. My life was filled with routine, Chuck's with excitement. It would be fair to say that other than our motorcycles we had little in common. Somewhere near the end of our conver-
sation he told me that when he got the bike back together, he was going to sell it. He'd found another, something newer (that meant faster), and it was time to move on. Quite innocently I asked what he would want for his old bike, and in minutes (and much to my surprise) it was mine, on the condition that it ran when he got it back together. For 25 glorious years it was my ride, fol-
lowed by the Kawasaki Concours I rode for another 15. Only a little over a year ago I shifted gears again, upgrading to a 2005 R 1200 RT. In the four decades I rode my three bikes, Chuck's owned nearly two dozen— that he can remember. When I find some- thing worthy, I keep it. We became a team, a long distance duo of sorts. That
Left, Brothers Ken, Chuck and Bill Frick. February 2016 BMW OWNERS NEWS 73
magic-filled 750 and I would touch all of the lower 48. It was the only bike I've owned that I truly believe had a heart and a soul. It now calls the AMA Hall of Fame Museum home; a safe place where it will be warm and dry for the remainder of its years. Chuck chose a different path. If
there was a good time to be had, he knew where to find it. His carefree manner would on occasion rise to near reckless levels. He took chances. Where I might apply the brakes, Chuck would hit the throttle. Horse- power was his escape. He lived life in big gulps, but over him was a cloud of sorts, one he could not outrun. It was dim at first, but slowly, relentlessly, it ate away at him, robbing him of his mobility. It was muscular dystrophy. Two decades ago the disease was only a
nuisance, but today, walking has become a chore, mounting his cycle a process. Chuck's future was spelled out in front of him, and it was unattractive. His solution was to evolve, to push back at what MD was doing to him. To stay in the saddle, he moved on to three wheels. A trike would give him additional years, and more impor- tantly, the one thing we've all come to embrace: more miles. In my circle of friends who don't follow
motorcycling, I'm the exception. My rides over the past two summers have taken me from my central Ohio home to the west coast, and Alaska is scheduled for this sum- mer. I love to ride, and it’s a major part of who I am, but between we two brothers there is no comparison. Chuck wins, hands down. Motorcycling defines him. It's who he is. Since he was a small boy there's been
something special about riding in the open air, watching the world go by, his view com- pletely unobstructed. Chuck absorbs it. While I love to feel the wind on my face, Chuck needs it. To tell you that he rode 35,000 miles last year doesn't begin to tell you what Chuck did. For some people, rid- ing that amount of miles is an achievement. Not to my brother. The sensation of all that is around him when he rides is akin to the blood that flows through his veins. It gives him life. It gives him purpose. He needs it today because he doesn't know if there will be a tomorrow.
Ken Frick on his '72 Honda 750 near Siegfred Hall on the Ohio University campus in 1975. Photo by Dave Levingston
Over the miles he's had his special bikes
that rose above the others. A little Honda 350G was his first escape machine. At 16 it was the first bike he rode out of state. His eyes had been opened. My 750 was the next big thing, followed by a 1979 Gold Wing. As the years went by there was a special CB1000 Custom, and for a while he rode both an '02 Moto Guzzi and a Suzuki GSX1100G, pick- ing the one that called to him the loudest on any given day. Then came his favorite. If you ask about
this bike his face will change, his smile will become more of a glow. Chuck's number one was a Pacific Blue 2004 R 1150 RT. They were inseparable. With that bike his life seemed to change. The restlessness I'd wit- nessed for decades was gone. He seemed to settle down. This bike became
it. He
stopped looking for better, faster or newer. He'd found a match. It seemed his life long search had ended, and on that bike he was content.. What had once been rides turned into
adventures. From the way he tells his sto- ries, there never has been a real destination of sorts on any of his travels, simply a gen- eral direction to point toward. He rarely talks about national parks, or about any- thing beautiful he's found on his rides. Rarely does he go in their direction.
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