Morrie’s Place

I can’t remember how I came to know about it, but someone told me when I had my first bike. I bought a 71 R75/5 just before I turned 21. My friend John had one and I love it. We often rode together and it was weird in a kinda like CHiPs sort of way… I’m getting off track.

When you are in uni dosh isn’t flowing out of your pockets. I was forced to keep the BMW going, learning the easy stuff at first, timing, tune ups, adjusting the valves, the basics. I did run into a problem, and living in Grayslake Il, there isn’t a huge range of people that work on European bikes. In hind sight I can’t imagine why, but I guess there were two types of bikes in Northern Illinois, japanese and Harley’s. Most people looked at me strange, why is a young guy riding such an old, clunky bike? I like to think now I had foresight…

So, there was something wrong with the /5. Today I can’t remember what it is, but what I do remember is someone telling me about this guy up near the Wisconsin border, just east of Richmond that worked on old bikes, specialising in British. I can’t remember riding up there, looking thinking I was lost to the point I pulled over looking up and down the deserted road wondering if I should turn around. I cracked on, and shortly found the the “Indian Rugs” sign where the farm was located. I turned up the long gravel drive, and made my way up to the barn with the sign “Morrie’s Place”.

I walked through the door to find a short older man behind what I remember as a bench, maybe a counter. He was a bit off at first, but I spoke to him about the problem with my bike and he listened. His attitude was distant, which didn’t fill me with confidence. But I didn’t have much of a choice, I wanted my bike to run properly. This developed into a strange relationship where he was grumpy but always looked after my best interests. His fees were minimal. He was very good to me looking back.

The thing I remember most was all the bikes he had that were in bits, he was restoring or working. It was the first I became fascinated with British Iron. He had Triumphs, BSAs, Nortons and so much more. I loved them, the simplicity of them. They made my /5 seem old man-ish, like I had aged well beyond my years. But I stuck with what i had, thinking one day I will have a fleet of bikes. Morrie had sowed the seed to what would become a life time obsession, or more like a fetish.

After having Morrie sort me out and almost allowing to convince myself that I need a knuckle head Harley with a suicide shift, I was riding my bike again happy as Larry. I rode to see my father in Rockford. He asked me about how I got it fixed, to which I told him about Morrie’s Place. He snickered and told me how Morrie had a brief history in our family where my uncle bought his BSA from him and my father had spent time looking at Morries inventory hopping to buy one.

I think I moved back from my short stint of living in Atlanta when someone told me that Morries Place was gone. Apparently Morrie and his wife had been murdered, everything pointed to their son. They found Morrie in his workshop and his wife in with her rugs. I struck a chord with me, I couldn’t see how anyone could have done this. But there was talk about trying to keep the business going, one guy was keen to keep it alive. But time had pasted and I lost what was happening.

So I was talking to my Brother about my upcoming visit to Chicago to see my mum and stepdad. He was keen to meet up as well. My brother has a friend that suggested we meet at this cool shop in Ringwood that sells vintage bikes, Morries Place. It was nice to hear that it still was going. I agreed and we chose a time when to get there. Finding the new location was less of a hassle, as the store front was obvious. As I pulled up my brother was on the bench out in front waiting patiently. We walked through the door and though it wasn’t Morrie’s little shop in the barn, it still had the aurora of a workshop dedicated to the finest bikes. It was nice to walk through and look at the 70+ bikes thinking of my young experience with my /5. Now having a stable including a 67 Bonneville, BSA cafe racer and my beloved Black Bess, a 75 Commando Mk3, I felt more confident to look at the bikes, knowing what I am looking at, understanding the passion. This visit had brought me back to the moment Morrie ignited the fire, and I only stoked the flames through my life.

To the little man in the barn, I owe my happiness in vintage bikes to you. I hope your legacy lives on.