After three years of relying on my dad, I finally got my own bike. It’s pictured above, same color even, and, as you might note, it was equipped with the latest in drum brake motorcycle technology. More about that on another day. With my own ride underneath me, taking chances took on a whole new meaning. I was anything but spoiled, so damaging the old man’s property would have been first taken out of my hide, and then my bank account. It also meant I was unlikely to get it out of the garage again. Having my own meant I footed the insurance bill– basic coverage only– and it could only get it repaired if I could afford it. While I could fudge on how much gas I put in my father’s bikes, there was no getting away with it when I was the only one riding mine. Thus, my level of responsibility hadn’t really changed, it just became different. While finding a different sense of responsibility, I did indulge in one attempt at achieving full “squid-dom.” I attempted a feat I’d never dared to try on one of the old man’s machines– a wheelie.
Super, mega-dank…
NOONER!
I went to the school parking lot. After a moment’s regret of not finding somebody to witness this achievement, I went straight to work to get this essential practice mastered and wear the mantle of a bona fide bad-ass. After a few attempts at timing the throttle to the clutch release, pulling the front wheel off the ground a few, scant inches, I was ready to perform the real deal. I made a turn, crept forward in the ol’ friction zone, cranked the throttle and released the clutch. The bike lurched, the tank was coming up at my belly… and I did what anybody with a brain would do, I jerked the clutch back in. The front end dropped, my right hand had stayed on the job and the throttle was wide open, the front tire was back on the asphalt– and I released the clutch. Through the love and grace of Our Lord And Savior Dear Sweet Jesus, the engine killed. But the bike still jerked forward at a pretty fair clip, and initiated a tank slapper there would never have been any hope of my recovering from were the engine still running. With the engine dead, the front end still, I dropped the bike. I didn’t dump it so much as set it down, and I stepped away and wandered around the lot, making sure there was nothing more in my shorts I hadn’t started the day with.
I’ve never bothered to check the specs on a 1970, Yamaha XS 650, but I’m not sure the bike was built to produce jaw-dropping “whoolies.” I’m sure it was possible, but that was my one and only attempt and I no longer had the desire to find out. One thing I’ll readily admit about myself is this: This boy definitely has “quit” in ‘im.
It was not a complete failure. It had a profound effect on my attitude toward two wheeled travel. While tooling around on motorcycles that weren’t mine, I deferred from most squid-like behavior because the machines simply didn’t belong to me. I wasn’t about to attempt burn-outs or pock the local roads and parking lots with “smoking donuts.” I wasn’t the guy paying for rubber. There was a bit of testing to see how fast a bike would go, but it wasn’t a compulsion. I never once succumbed to the challenge of race, either. I could ignore the accusation of “chicken” when I was playing with some one else’s money. And, there was always the threat of losing the privilege.
While wandering around the parking lot with my very own motorcycle lying on its side and my heart whacking against my sternum, I suddenly became aware of something I’d never realized prior to that moment: I was not only riding around on my father’s bikes, I was also operating under the fantasy that I was traveling about in a completely illusory bubble of paternal protection. If the old man could hand me the key, what could possibly go wrong?
One small reason I bought by own machine was that my father had sold his CB750 the winter before. I’d intended to buy my own anyway, so I didn’t read anything into his selling a motorcycle I knew he loved. He never offered an explanation, just sold it. I never asked for one, either. I was ready to provide for myself. It was my mother who told me why. She said he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if I were to get killed riding something he’d handed over to me. A few years later, he was back astride a machine. I’d turned mine in for a wife, and it would be forty years before I had my own motorcycle again.
However, on that day, despite my shock and momentary horror, I still had a bike. And would enjoy it for three more years. When my chest ceased its pounding and the shakes settled into a manageable quiver, I picked it up, started it, and rolled out of the parking lot, grateful it had turned out there was nobody there to bear witness. It wasn’t long after that I started wearing long pants and a leather jacket whenever I went for a ride.