11/12/2025
Salute to E. J. Potter . . .
He bolted V8 car engines onto motorcycles with no transmission or clutch—and started them by running alongside and jumping on.
In the late 1960s, a farmer from rural Michigan showed up at a drag strip with something that looked like a nightmare built in a barn.
It was a motorcycle. Sort of.
Except instead of a normal motorcycle engine, this machine had a Chevrolet V8 car engine bolted to the frame—the same engine you'd find in a Chevy Impala, except now it was powering two wheels instead of four.
No transmission. No clutch. No safety features whatsoever.
Just raw, uncontrolled, apocalyptic power.
The man's name was E.J. Potter. But everyone called him the "Michigan Madman."
And when he fired up that motorcycle, it sounded like the end of the world.
Let's be clear about what E.J. Potter did: he took engines designed to move 3,000-pound cars and mounted them on 500-pound motorcycles.
The power-to-weight ratio was absurd. The engineering was reckless. The concept was suicidal.
And it was absolutely glorious.
Potter's most famous creation was called the "Widowmaker."
The name wasn't a joke.
The Widowmaker series consisted of several motorcycles, each powered by progressively larger Chevy V8 engines—350 cubic inches, 427 cubic inches, and eventually a monstrous 454 cubic inch V8 that produced over 500 horsepower.
To put that in perspective: a normal drag racing motorcycle in the 1960s had maybe 50-70 horsepower.
Potter's bikes had ten times that.
But here's where it gets truly insane: Potter's bikes had no transmission and no clutch. The engine was direct-drive, meaning it was connected straight to the rear wheel.
You couldn't start these bikes normally. You couldn't just turn a key and go.
Potter had to push-start them—by hand.
He'd push the bike forward, get it rolling, jump on, and hit the ignition while moving. The engine would roar to life, the rear wheel would spin violently, and if Potter didn't immediately get his balance and throttle control right, the bike would either flip backward, spin out, or launch him off like a catapult.
And if the engine stalled? He'd have to get off and push-start it again.
This wasn't racing. This was controlled insanity.
When Potter lined up at drag strips, crowds gathered. Word spread quickly: "The Michigan Madman is here."
People came not just to watch him race—they came to see if he'd survive.
The sound alone was unforgettable. Most motorcycles have a high-pitched whine. Potter's V8 bikes produced a deep, guttural roar that rattled bones and set off car alarms in the parking lot.
When he launched, flames shot out the sides of the engine. The front wheel would lift off the ground in a wheelie that lasted the entire quarter-mile. Potter would hang on, throttle wide open, as the bike screamed down the strip at speeds exceeding 170 mph.
Spectators described it as watching a bomb with wheels.
And Potter? He loved every second of it.
He wasn't doing this for money. Drag racing in the 1960s wasn't lucrative, especially for independent builders. Potter was a farmer who built these machines in his barn using basic tools, scrap metal, and a complete disregard for his own mortality.
He didn't have sponsors. He didn't have a pit crew. He didn't have safety equipment beyond a leather jacket and a helmet (and even those were optional in his early days).
He just had an idea—"What if I put a car engine on a motorcycle?"—and the audacity to actually do it.
Drag racing officials didn't know what to do with him. His bikes didn't fit any existing class. They were too powerful, too dangerous, too loud.
Some tracks banned him outright, citing safety concerns.
But crowds demanded to see him. So track owners made exceptions. Potter became a sideshow attraction—the guy who showed up with the impossible machine and somehow didn't die.
Over the years, Potter set multiple records. He clocked quarter-mile times in the low-to-mid 8-second range at speeds over 170 mph—on a motorcycle with a car engine and no transmission.
To this day, those numbers are jaw-dropping.
But Potter wasn't interested in fame or fortune. He kept farming. He kept building. He kept riding his apocalyptic machines into his 60s, long after most people would have retired from such insanity.
In 2012, E.J. Potter died peacefully at age 71.
Not in a crash, which shocked everyone who knew him.
He'd survived decades of riding death machines and died of natural causes.
His bikes still exist. They're displayed in museums, drag racing halls of fame, and private collections. People stare at them in disbelief, trying to understand how anyone could have ridden these things and lived.
The Widowmaker, with its massive V8 engine and complete lack of safety features, looks like something a cartoon villain would ride.
But it was real. And Potter rode it dozens of times.
E.J. Potter's legacy isn't about records or championships.
It's about the pure, unfiltered pursuit of a ridiculous idea.
He wanted to see if he could put a car engine on a motorcycle. Everyone told him it was impossible, impractical, suicidal.
He did it anyway. Multiple times. With bigger engines.
And he became a legend—not because he was the fastest or the richest or the most famous, but because he was willing to build something absolutely insane and then actually ride it.
Here's what makes Potter's story remarkable:
In an era increasingly defined by safety regulations, corporate sponsorships, and professional racing teams, Potter was a throwback to an earlier, wilder time.
He built machines in his barn. He funded everything himself. He answered to no one. He took risks that would make modern insurance companies faint.
He represented pure, uncompromising individuality—the audacity to look at conventional wisdom and say, "Yeah, but what if I don't do it that way?"
And then actually following through.
Potter didn't wait for permission. He didn't ask experts if it was possible. He didn't worry about what could go wrong.
He just built the damn thing and rode it.
That kind of fearless creativity—the willingness to pursue an idea regardless of how impractical or dangerous it seems—is increasingly rare.
Potter's Widowmaker motorcycles weren't practical. They weren't safe. They weren't even particularly useful.
But they were magnificent.
They were proof that one determined person with basic tools and absolute conviction could build something nobody thought possible.
And sometimes, that's enough.
So here's to E.J. Potter, the Michigan Madman who put V8 car engines on motorcycles with no transmission or clutch, started them by running alongside and jumping on, and somehow lived to tell about it.
He built impossible machines in a barn. He rode them at terrifying speeds. Flames shot out the sides. The front wheels stayed in the air for entire quarter-miles.
And when he finally died at 71, it was peacefully—in bed, not on the track.
Proving that sometimes, the truly crazy ones know exactly what they're doing.
E.J. Potter: 1941 – April 30, 2012.
Farmer. Engineer. Michigan Madman. Builder of impossible machines and rider of controlled chaos.
~Unusual Tales
