What a Whizzer Was

Recently I happened to come across a picture of a Whizzer in a magazine and it brought back a flood of wonderful memories. If you are of a certain age, (don't worry, I won't tell), you may remember with great affection what a Whizzer was. In my case, a Whizzer was my first gasoline-powered conveyance. It had a single cylinder engine clamped onto the frame of a bicycle, a belt drive, and a gas tank painted with aluminum paint. It afforded me the wonderful sensation of being able to climb the hills of my neighborhood with absolutely no effort.
My Whizzer was my original freedom machine. Until I got it, I had been pedaling furiously trying to keep up with several friends who had, as I recall, Cushman scooters, homemade go-carts powered by old gasoline washing machine motors, Comet scooters, and one strange little thing with six-inch wheels called a Doodle Bug.
The effort I put forth to obtain my Whizzer was, at that time, the single most excruciating thing I had ever done. Of course, I was only twelve and didn't realize what I would be up against as I grew older. In any case, I worked. Yes, I worked. I cut lawns for the neighbors, I washed cars, I begged my father for money. (This was to no avail however. I remember him saying, "You want that thing, you work for it.") He also said if I went to my mother for cash, he would break both of my arms. I was never sure if he meant it, but neither did I approach my Mom for money. I don't have to tell you I was terrified of my Dad.
Finally, after several months, I had scraped enough together to buy my dream machine. An older kid in the area had graduated to a Cushman Eagle and grudgingly sold his Whizzer to me for the ninety-six dollars I had painstakingly put together.
Man! I was in heaven. I pushed the compression release, pedaled a few feet, started it up and took off like a bat out of…well, you know what I mean. I headed for home, anxious to show my parents how neat my Whizzer was. I'll never forget the sensation of going up the Pascal Avenue hill without pedaling and actually gaining speed as I did so. I also will never forget turning up our steep driveway, flying through the yard toward the garage, frozen on the throttle and unable to stop. If I hadn't somehow hooked the right handlebar on one of the clothes poles, which spun me around and off the bike, I probably would have punched holes in both ends of the garage.
After picking myself up and making sure the Whizzer was undamaged, I heard my Dad say, "Well, son, it looks to me as though your future may be a lot shorter than I anticipated."
Needless to say, I got back on, learned how to safely ride the thing, moved up the chain through "Eagles," small cycles, Harleys and finally the big bike I ride today.
I wish I still had the Whizzer. It was the beginning of my love affair with riding on two wheels and it would be fun to just go sit in the garage and look at it. I imagine there are Whizzers out there somewhere; perhaps the owners even ride them. I know for sure that I wasn't the only one who started out on one. It was a beginning and if there was anything a Whizzer was, a Whizzer was FUN.

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	By Jack Gottlieb • GWRRA #141690 • Hiawassee, Georgia Recently I happened to come across a picture of a Whizzer in a magazine and it brought back a flood of wonderful memories. If you are of a certain age, (don't worry, I won't tell), you may remember with great affection what a Whizzer was. In my case, a Whizzer was my first gasoline-powered conveyance. It had a single cylinder engine clamped onto the frame of a bicycle, a belt drive, and a gas tank painted with aluminum paint. It afforded me the wonderful sensation of being able to climb the hills of my neighborhood with absolutely no effort. My Whizzer was my original freedom machine. Until I got it, I had been pedaling furiously trying to keep up with several friends who had, as I recall, Cushman scooters, homemade go-carts powered by old gasoline washing machine motors, Comet scooters, and one strange little thing with six-inch wheels called a Doodle Bug. The effort I put forth to obtain my Whizzer was, at that time, the single most excruciating thing I had ever done. Of course, I was only twelve and didn't realize what I would be up against as I grew older. In any case, I worked. Yes, I worked. I cut lawns for the neighbors, I washed cars, I begged my father for money. (This was to no avail however. I remember him saying, "You want that thing, you work for it.") He also said if I went to my mother for cash, he would break both of my arms. I was never sure if he meant it, but neither did I approach my Mom for money. I don't have to tell you I was terrified of my Dad. Finally, after several months, I had scraped enough together to buy my dream machine. An older kid in the area had graduated to a Cushman Eagle and grudgingly sold his Whizzer to me for the ninety-six dollars I had painstakingly put together. Man! I was in heaven. I pushed the compression release, pedaled a few feet, started it up and took off like a bat out of…well, you know what I mean. I headed for home, anxious to show my parents how neat my Whizzer was. I'll never forget the sensation of going up the Pascal Avenue hill without pedaling and actually gaining speed as I did so. I also will never forget turning up our steep driveway, flying through the yard toward the garage, frozen on the throttle and unable to stop. If I hadn't somehow hooked the right handlebar on one of the clothes poles, which spun me around and off the bike, I probably would have punched holes in both ends of the garage. After picking myself up and making sure the Whizzer was undamaged, I heard my Dad say, "Well, son, it looks to me as though your future may be a lot shorter than I anticipated." Needless to say, I got back on, learned how to safely ride the thing, moved up the chain through "Eagles," small cycles, Harleys and finally the big bike I ride today. I wish I still had the Whizzer. It was the beginning of my love affair with riding on two wheels and it would be fun to just go sit in the garage and look at it. I imagine there are Whizzers out there somewhere; perhaps the owners even ride them. I know for sure that I wasn't the only one who started out on one. It was a beginning and if there was anything a Whizzer was, a Whizzer was FUN. — Jack PREVIOUS PAGE NEXT PAGE