A Lifetime of Experience - Tales of a Misspent Youth

[UberGoober]

I didn’t grow up around motorcycles. My father and brothers didn’t ride and, despite my own protestations that several of the neighbor kids had dirt bikes, my parents never saw fit to buy me one. I suppose now that I had little to protest about. Besides, being the youngest of 5 kids, I had a whole string of hand-me-down bicycles and, since I could never had ridden a dirtbike to town, they were infinitely more useful anyhow. Still, like every kid, I wanted a motorcycle and jumped at every chance to ride one.

Some of these rides were unmitigated disasters. Once, when I was about 8 and my family went on a cross country trek to visit my Uncle Merlin in Missouri, I got a ride on my cousin Greg’s mini bike. It took a lot of begging and pleading to be allowed to ride it and once I got on it I rewarded their trust by promptly slamming into the side of the house.

The little bike had surprised me with its power and had responded instantly when I had twisted the throttle. It leapt up under me and threatened to spill me off the back. I grabbed the bars as tightly as I could and the harder I gripped the faster I went. It didn’t take more than a split second to be out of control.

I remember now that the side of the house was the best of three options I had been presented with; the other two were a sliding glass door and a shrub. The side of the house seemed best and I headed right for it. It hit it at an incredible speed somewhere south of 10 mph and promptly fell right over. Although everyone laughed, I think now that my Uncle Merlin may not have been pleased with my choice. Still, I think I chose wisely. I must add, however, there were no more min-bike rides during our stay.

My riding experience might have ended there but 3 years later, during a visit to my great uncle Paul’s house in Utah, I drove a Honda three-wheeler into an irrigation ditch.

My sister Connie and I had spotted the big blue three wheeler soon after we had arrived and knew we had to ride it. My Uncle Paul and his wife Shirley were probably in their 50s at the time, which seemed ancient, and once we had eaten all the bridge mix and ribbon candy we were soon bored with every other distraction their house offered – except for maybe their terrier Buster. With nothing else to do, Connie and I agitated the adults about the trike until someone relented. After all, it seemed quite safe and my parents didn't even think about us needing a helmet. What for? With three wheels who would think we could tip over and the field we were riding in was large, flat and obstacle free. No problems.

We were quite careful at first, each one of us going out to the back of the field and then directly back to the gate where we swapped out with our sibling. My father and Uncle watched for 10 or 20 minutes and when they had decided we had mastered the vehicle, went back into the air conditioned comfort of the trailer house. On one of these rides, my sister took a little longer route and came back a little later. I did the same on my next ride and gradually we stretched our rides until we were covering the whole field and taking 5 or 10 minutes between turns.

On one of my farthest forays, out by the back hedge row, I felt the trike jump a little as I passed over a rough patch of ground. That was exciting, so I turned the trike around to do it again. This new angle brought me close to the hedge row that bordered the back of the field and I put the trike right up against it as I hit the bump.

My angle of approach put me slightly into the bushes and I tried to steer out of them. The bike wouldn't turn and the ground fell away beneath me. I found the hedge was masking a deep irrigation canal and plummeted head first down about 15 feet where I smashed my skull on a rock.

I knew at once I was in trouble because I had lost my glasses. The worst thing a kid with glasses can do is lose them or break them so the fact that they were gone told me I was in deep trouble. Then, I put my hands to my head which seemed strangely wet and sticky. The ditch had muddy water in it, but this didn’t feel like mud or water, it was different somehow. When I pulled my hand away and looked at it, it was covered in blood.

I stood up and made my way to where the trike lay on its side with its engine still running. I found the kill switch and turned it off but realized that even if I righted it, there was no way to get it up the bank of the canal. Leaving it behind, I clambered up the bank with one hand while I held the other hand over my wound only to find that I had climbed the wrong bank. I slid back down into the ditch and climbed back up the other side. I walked across the field where I found my sister still waiting and unaware that anything was wrong. She was shocked when she saw me and ran to get my dad.

Someone slapped a washcloth on my head and I was loaded into my Uncle’s car for the trip to the hospital. I remember very little about that trip except that it was in my Uncle’s giant black Lincoln Continental. It was the fist car I had ever been in with power windows and I was allowed to play with them while we rushed across town. If I hadn’t been hurt, there is no way my dad would even allowed me to have touched the button, but that time it was OK for some reason.

Once we got to the clinic, I was rushed into the ER. The doctors patched me up pretty well and sprayed the side of my head with some kind of plastic sealant. They also covered that with a thick wrapping of gauze bandages, ala The Red Badge of Courage. While I was fine with it, my 14 year old sister was mortified.

My uncle and father went back later and fished the trike out of the ditch. I don't think it was very busted up and they soon put it right - not that I was allowed on it again. While they were mucking around in the water, they found my glasses too. With several days left of our vacation, we still went sight seeing, shopping and even an amusement park where I took every opportunity to draw attention to her as we walked together. What else are little brother’s for?

For years later, the thought of owning a real motorcycle never crossed my mind. Everytime anyone raised the subject, I flashed back to my headlong plunge over the embankment and into the ditch. Motorcycles and I were definitely not meant for each other, or so I thought...

(Photo Caption - Me at about 3 years old)