Chapter 1
The Very Beginning
June 1955 To September 1967
The day after I was born in the summer of 1955 my birth mother gave me up for adoption and I was sent to a foster home. At the time my biological father had no idea what was going on—my mother was in the process of getting divorced from him, and they had no contact with each other. As soon as he became aware of my fate my father petitioned the court in Hartford for custody but was unsuccessful. I’ve often wondered if this inauspicious beginning contributed to the path I took in life—adventure, recalcitrance, and misadventure—which eventually led to the world of outlaw bikers.
Six months later I was adopted by Warren and Helen (Dolly) Winterhalder. The childless couple resided in Hamden, a quiet suburb of New Haven, Connecticut. Warren was a World War II veteran and business forms salesman, and his wife a homemaker. I spent the first few years of my life playing in the backyard of our Gorham Avenue home, and attended kindergarten nearby.
Not long after I turned six we moved to a brand-new house in the center of a middle-class neighborhood in Northford, a town of less than one-thousand residents. A thirty-minute drive from Hamden, our new home was a three-bedroom, split-level house on Carlen Drive, which was a cul-de-sac. On the north side of the turnaround area at the end of the street was a pond, on the south side a large field where the neighborhood kids played baseball and football, and between the pond and field was a basketball hoop. The pond had a man-made dam, and there was a narrow bridge over the dam just wide enough for a human or bicycle to cross.
My earliest memory of the neighborhood was my mom allowing me to walk our dog, Skeeter, for the first time. I had to work hard to convince her that I could handle the canine, which weighed about as much as I did. Not long after Dolly handed me the leash Skeeter must have seen a cat, and the chase was on. I must have looked like a flag on a flagpole as the dog dragged me across the cul-de-sac. By the time she got Skeeter to stop running, I had suffered my first case of serious road rash. My pants and shirt were ripped open and I was a mess, bleeding all over the place.
In September of 1961 I started first grade at the William Douglas elementary school in Northford. I was nothing special, just another new kid on the block, but I did manage to get run over by a bunch of fifth graders playing football at recess time, causing my left leg to fracture below the knee.
When I was eight-years old I transferred to another school in Northford, along with every other student who had completed second grade. My only memory of the Stanley T. Williams elementary school is when president John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22nd of 1963. All the teachers were crying and the children were dismissed an hour early—school was even closed for the next few days. Everyone I knew was excited to be out of school until we found out that every TV channel had nothing on except news about the murder.
One day I was exploring the woods on the other side of the pond and discovered a yellow jacket hornet’s nest in a hollow at the base of a tree. I was fascinated with the little creatures, but not knowing a thing about them, I put my hand into the tree to see what would happen. It didn’t take long to find out, and as a result of my stupidity I was stung more than fifty times. It took my mom an hour to pull out the stingers and apply baking soda to my wounds.
By the time fourth grade rolled around I had figured out that I was smarter than most of the other kids. I was basically a straight A student, and spent a lot of time reading. Although I liked to read, I also loved watching television. Among my favorite shows growing up wereBonanza, Wagon Train, Route 66, andMission Impossible. I found out years later that my biological father was an actor onWagon Train—there I was glued to the television set, unknowingly watching my real father acting in one of my favorite westerns.
I soon developed a fascination with Myron Floren, who played accordion on the Lawrence Welk show, and as a result convinced my parents to let me take accordion lessons at the Betty Revegno music studio in Wallingford. Eighteen months later I was lucky enough to win first place in a state competition for ten-year old accordion players, but soon discovered the instrument wasn’t very hip—I decided the guitar was a much better choice.
My mom and dad wouldn’t let me have a guitar or take guitar lessons, so I continued my accordion lessons just so I could learn from a guitar teacher at the studio. I would go there early, and she would let me sit in the room and watch the sessions. After my accordion lesson I was able to borrow a school-owned guitar and practice what I had learned. It would be years before I could put all those guitar lessons to work, but I eventually did.
Until September of 1966 my life was fairly normal, with the exception that most of the neighborhood kids ostracized me for being intelligent. Like most kids my age I wasn’t good at sports, and failed miserably when given the opportunity. Despite the fact, I joined an organized Little League baseball team for a year and got to warm the bench, play outfield and second base. At an early age it was obvious playing sports was clearly not my forte and I moved on to bigger and better things.
When I
