Spirits & Such

Sitting there on the brand new SL70, it's shiny candy colored tank glistening like a gem, I felt like a free man, a king.  Uncommanded by other men.  Free to do my own bidding.  With a simple twist of the throttle, I could be on my own.  Away from Mom, away from my pesky brothers & sisters,… flying.  I was truly in control of my own destiny!  A Biker!

I learned how to ride on that bike.  I learned the delicate coordination, between the throttle, clutch, & shifter.  The Honda fit my small frame perfectly.  I could touch the ground with both feet, and the saddle & controls were in just the right spot.  I had plastered pictures from the sales brochure all over my bedroom walls.  In fact, it was the salesman at the Honda shop that first taught me to ride.  Though I could never recall his name, he unselfishly spent hours & hours with me to ensure that I had it right.  Slowly with the gas & clutch, one down & the rest up.  I loved that bike, I was on it every day.  Every day but Sunday that is…they were closed on Sunday.

You see I never really owned (or even started) the beautiful blue SL70.  Oh I wanted it ...bad.  While the other guys wanted HO trains, & slot cars, my only wish for Christmas was a Honda SL70.  Sadly, I had no concept of Santa's financial situation, and didn't for some years to come.  At least I learned the basics of riding without injury...except that my throat was a little hoarse from the engine sounds. 

The first bike I actually rode was a Suzuki Trail Hopper fifty.  It wasn't even mine.  But instead it was the blue & white pride of the boy (Ed) who lived in the apartment below us.  I met him as a result of the second enthusiasm of my life…I had the hots for his teenage sister, Maureen.  But those things with girls never last, doncha-know.  He shared it with me (the bike) of his own free will, never going out for a ride without first askin' if I wanted to go.  And foolishly I might add.  'Cause Looking back on it now, I see that I, being already trained in the fine art of cycle riding, was prone to monopolize the after school rides.  We had a TT track laid out in a vacant, grass field, behind the apartments.  It was flat, & square, & had one jump, made from a couple of bricks, & a 2 x 6, pilfered from a local construction site.

I thought fer sure that I was on my way to incarceration when a burly construction worker from that same site came marching towards us the next day.  He musta known it was me that burgled the goods.  He looked right at me.

"Where'd ya git the board & bricks boys?"

We were doomed.

"We were just borrowing it for our jump", I stammered.  "It's so flat here, & we had to have a jump.  We were gonna bring it back".

He looked at me.  He looked at the Suzuki Trail Hopper 50.  Then Suddenly he got a big "gotcha" grin on his tanned face.  I knew then that he was cool. 

"Just kiddin' guys. I'm a rider myself", he boasted. 

Further, he explained, "I jus' thought I'd come over, & ask if either of you guys knew anyone who would be interested in a bike"?

"What kind?" "A dirt bike?" We both sounded in unison.

" Well it's a Suzuki, a 90."

Yesss !! I had heard of these 13 horsepower monsters before.  They came from the shop with real knobbies, high fenders, lights, & everything!  A real motorcycle!  In Texas, at that time, you could get your drivers license a year early, if it was for a motorbike with five horsepower or less.  And everyone knew that the Suzuki 90s were 'rated' at five horsepower for the 'state', but really had thirteen!!

"How much?" I asked…hoping against hope, that it was free.

When he said "three hundred dollars" my heart sank.  In the last three minutes I had gone from terrified, to relieved, to elated, & now to sunk.  However, I had to try, so I escorted him to see my mom, hoping that they could work a deal.  Mom never really thought that much of bikes.  And no, they didn't work a deal.  The good news was that mom didn't care if I had one, if I bought it myself.

As it worked out, the guy felt sorry for me (or had an eye for my mom), & gave me a job workin' there at the apartments , helpin' to spray Hydromulch.  And soon (not soon enough), I had earned the capital to purchase my first bike.  It was a beauty!  Yellow & black, with chrome high-rise fenders.  It had eight speeds, four for street, & four for dirt.  With a big Tee handle on the engine case.  And it would easily smoke Ed's little fifty.  The Guy threw in an open face, visorless helmet, that was painted in red, white, & blue glitter, like the American flag.  And (of course) nine sizes too large, so that when I hit any bump, at speeds above 3 miles an hour, it would spin around rendering it's wearer temporarily blind.

I don't remember the construction workers name, but I do remember that for a bit we were pals.  Biker buddies.  He taught me what knobbies do on sandy streets, & how to bandage a scraped elbow, …& knee, …& back…so that Mom wouldn't find out.

It was when my mom got transferred to Tennessee, that I really started to learn to ride.  And I learned a few other things as well.  It seemed that wherever you went with a dirt bike, you could pretty easily find a friend.  Guys would just come outta the woodwork to ask if I wanted to go ridin'.  It was on one of these rides that I learned to jump over actual hills, rather than the current standard jump…two bricks, & a 2x6.  Me & another kid spent many afternoons in a local park jumping over a two foot tall bump in the ground.

It was shortly thereafter that I experienced one of the worst feelings that a biker can have.  Just when I was getting' the hang of it, & makin' some friends…my scooter blew up.  I dunno, maybe it was the lack of oil in the cci injection system.  Maybe it was the lack of any air filter.  I was sick.  All I knew at the time, was that it was busted, & so was I.

When I didn't show for the next ride, one of the guys (an over 40 guy, that lived close by) came over and introduced himself one day.  As it turned out, he heard of my poor luck, and being the friendly biker dude he was, he offered me a part-time job… cleaning his beauty salon…so I could afford to by a used bike he had.  A Suzuki TS 125.  Red, with Preston Petty fenders.  Of course I jumped on his offer, and again, it wasn't too long before I was riding.

It was this hairdresser guy that took me under his wing, & for several months, would come pick me up at the house, & take me to the local MX track in Memphis.  He was a real 125 racer, and I held him in awe.  The bike he sold me was a few years old of course, but his new TM 125 was fantastic looking!  It wasn't a week before I had stripped off all the street going stuff & converted my TS to a 'spray can yellow' TM…sorta.  Just like Mr. DeCoster's.  I even got one of those yellow jerseys with the Rising Sun on it.  The hairdresser dude was forty, & I was sixteen, but he treated me with some modicum of respect…as a fellow biker, & all.  He taught me about momentum, & RPM, & not shifting 'till it sounded like a jet, & about standin' up.

There was a trail there in Memphis that we called the Mississippi Trail.  This was (rightly so) because you could ride from the suburbs, through the alleys, & across fields, to a trail that would wind across the city to the Mississippi River.  It wound, through ditches, and under highways, past swamp & quarry…some real good riding, with lots of switchbacks, freeway straights, & monster uphills. 

One afternoon during summer break, I decided that I, having never ridden all the way to the Mississippi, would try it on my own.  I had been most of the way with the other guys before, so I figured with an extra fifty cents for a couple of gallons of gas, I could make it there & back before the parents got home that evening.  Never ride alone.

The first part of the ride was fairly easy.  The course from my house led between a house, down some alleys, and across a familiar field, where I would always jerk back on the handlebars & try to pull a little two inch wheelie on this one bump.  After I wound through a few construction sites, & dropped down into an old quarry, the trail turned into single-track, & started to head westward to the river.  I guess I'd been riding merrily along for about half an hour, when I noticed that I had only been on this section of the trail once or twice before.  It was nice though.  The trail was wide enough, & the hills were rolling enough, that a pretty brisk third gear pace could be adhered too.  The trees made that kinda tunnel-like, canopy that I've only seen southern trees make…must be the Spanish Moss or something.

After a while I came to a place in the trail that I was sure that I'd not seen before.  I stopped the pseudo Roger Replica, & surveyed the area ahead.  What lay before me was the biggest downhill that I'd ever seen.  The dirt went down at what then seemed to be, just this side of a straight drop, then bottomed out in a concrete viaduct, that was about ten feet wide.  Then back up an equally steep incline forming a 'V' shaped valley that was about sixty feet deep & maybe eighty feet across, from top to top.  The V shaped concrete area at the bottom, held just a tiny trickle of water that did a poor job of hiding the layer of green slime underneath.  It might as well have been a two foot wide swath of green axle grease.

It looked a little intimidating to me, so the first thing I looked for, was a way around.  There was none.  To my right I could see a chain link fence that separated the trail area from a highway overpass.  To the left, the concrete ended about twenty yards downstream, & the water trickled off the edge of the cement, into a small swampy area...with Alligators.  Nope, no way around.

I could see that the trail was well used, with tire marks up & down both sides of the concrete 'V'.  So, seeing that it could be done, or at least had been done, & feeling that this was the only remaining obstacle between me & the river, I started my descent...on foot.

Now folks, as I always say, you shouldn't laugh at another riders miseries...and so it goes now.

Having never negotiated a steep decent like this, I figured that I should walk the bike down, holding the front brakes, so as not to go too fast.  My plan was, that at the bottom, I'd simply remount, & ride up the other side, after all, I had seen uphills before.  It only took a moment for me to realize that this was not the way to accomplish my goal, for as the front wheel edged over the side of the culvert, I became like a sixteen year old Rodeo cowboy, trying to wrestle down a Texas Longhorn steer.  The spray can yellow Suzuki wanted to go fast.  I leaned back, pulling against the bars & stiffening out like a board, with both feet skidding before me, in the dust.  The hill was so steep, that I was nearly sittin' on my butt, when the front brake engaged, & rear tire became airborne, & swung around, hitting me in the back, & wiping me off the side of that hill, like a cow swishing flies with it's tail.  We (me & the cow) went, immediately, to the bottom of the trench, I, sliding on my chest, arms outstretched, like Superman, filling the front of my jeans with dirt.  And the Suzuki, mercifully sliding down on one footpeg, and one bar end.  Neither of us were damaged much, and I did make it to the bottom.  The funny thing was, that at the last second the bike took a twist, & flipped upside down, & came to rest on it's handlebars, & seat, in the middle of the 'V'...as if I had put it that way to pump water out of the cylinder or somethin'.  Fuel was already making it's way out of the shiny metal gas cap.  And the front tire slowed to a stop.

When I realized that I wasn't hurt (sixteen year old guys don't get hurt), I actually laughed at the thought of what that musta looked like.

Well, after a moment of rest, I was able to remount, & thankfully, start the machine with just a few kicks.

My first attempt at the uphill was a complete failure.  And once again, my scooter was upside down, on bars & seat.  Only this time, it pinned me under it, much like an older brother would sit astride a younger sibling to display dominance.  Hmmm.

Again I laughed, it was, of course, ridiculous.  Not to mention the two foot wide green racing stripe that I just added to my jersey.  With the exception of not getting 'pinned' this time, my second try was little different from the first.  Or the third.  Or fourth.  I tried to push it up...it flipped.  I tried to get a slight run at it by riding through the gully a few yards, then turning into the hill...that made lots of sparks & almost fed me to the alligators.

I sat on the cool concrete for awhile & watched the cars passing by on the highway overpass.  I crawled to the top, to at least see the trail I was missing.  I sat at the top for awhile lookin' down at the Suzuki leanin' against the concrete embankment.  I sat at the bottom.  I leaned against the fence.  I threw some rocks at the Alligators.  Again, I looked at the cars.

I was stuck…really stuck.  I couldn't go forward, I couldn't go back the way I came.  A fence one way, alligators the other.  It was especially degrading to see the folks up on the highway, only fifty yards away.  No one saw me, except for one Irish Setter with his ears blowin' at sixty miles an hour...he didn't tell a soul.

I sat there on the side of the hill, theorizing to myself, that this is how the Japanese would entrap U.S. tanks during the war.  And, that between the alligators & fence, that no one would steal my bike in the event I had to walk home.  Then, I heard a most wonderful sound.

Yes of course, it was the sound of another rider, a sound that I hadn't heard all day.  It was a big throaty bike, and it was coming fast.  I couldn't tell if it was behind or in front of me.  The sound came from everywhere.  I think I even looked skyward, as if to see the medi-vac chopper coming to rescue me & my fallen comrade.  Then suddenly, from over my right shoulder, I saw the flash of silver!  It missed me by only inches, bike & rider flying through the air, on the way into the Japanese tank trap.  He was on a Yamaha 360 MX.  What a bitchin' cruise!  He hit the bottom so hard that I felt the ground shake.  And in a split second, with gas on hard, was up the other side, & out of sight, with only a trail of dust & the echo of the big 360 to mark his passing.

I was stunned!  Ho-Lee Shit!  So that's how it's done.  I guess I didn't learn the momentum lesson after all.  A moment later, I heard a call from above.  "You alright?"  It was the Yamaha rider.  I was saved!!

"I'm stuck" I called, trying to hide the quivering voice.

"Which way ya goin'" he called back.  I motioned back over my shoulder with a raised thumb, "back that way." I yelled. "Could I get a hand?"

"You bet!", came his reply, and as he started sidestepping down the hill, he looked at my green striped jersey.  I'm sure he was doing his best to suppress a laugh.

Well, we struggled for some time, trying to drag the poor 125 up the hill, all the while with me trying to explain how I had come to this lowly state.  He tried to suppress another laugh.  When we had finally clawed our way to the top, with my cow in tow, we both sat there, huffing & puffing, & sweating.  I could now see his 360 MX across the gorge leaning quietly against a tree on the far side of the 'Japanese tank trap'.

He sat there & talked to me a while.  He explained about momentum.  Using the international hand signals for going WFO.  He demonstrated on my Suzuki, how to push yourself to the rear when descending.  He even climbed over & got his own bike & demonstrated the entire lesson, by effortlessly slammin' the 'tank trap' a couple of times, back & forth, before he wheelied away.  I wasn't as bad-assed as I had once thought.  I noticed that he wasn't wearing a riding jersey, but rather just a red plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, & a white Bell open face helmet.  Kinda plain for the Yamagod.  I forgot to ask his name. 

It's now some twenty six years later.  I'll not forget the lessons I learned in the early days, nor will I soon forget the people who unselfishly helped me out, taught me to ride, & about the brotherhood of off-road bikers.  I admit I can't recall, or maybe didn't know, any of their names.  Just good people, who, 'cause I shared a sport with them, were willing to lend a helping hand, or their last spark plug.

During the Thanksgiving holidays last week, I saw, on a music TV station, video clips, of a guy named Nic-Nak, or Sho Boat, or some such.  He was flying his carbon fiber motocrosser a hunert feet through the air, with his feet behind his ears, a ring in his nose, & green hair trailing in his helmets slipstream.  Kewl.  A modern day hero.  I thought about some of the guys that shaped my motorcycle upbringing, from Malcom & Roger to Gary & his son David.  Things have changed…evolved some would say.  But maybe not in a bad way.

Last month at a local cross country event, I experienced a brake failure while out on the backside of a ten mile loop.  I stopped to examine my RMX, & was passed by most of the free world's cyclists.  It seems that I had boiled my brake fluid, & had not a single tool with me.  I heard a call from behind me.

"You Alright?"

An over thirty guy, & his wife were out spectating on a four-wheeler, & hurried over & produced the tools needed to effect relief to my boiled brake fluid.  The guy moved swiftly, as if he had some stake in my finishing the race.  Moments later I was back in the fray, eventually catching my class, before a respectable finish.  I wanted to offer those guys a cold one, & my thanks, after the race, but I never saw them again.

So, as it's fast approaching Christmas, I'd like to take this opportunity to say, to the Honda salesman, the construction worker, the hairdresser dude, the guy on the 360, the couple on the four-wheeler, & all the others whose names I don't know, Thanks.  Thanks for keeping the true spirit of off-road cycling alive. 

And the next time your settin' the trail on fire aboard your carbon fiber 'crosser, & see an old dude stuck on the side of the trail, give a friendly wave to keep the spirit alive...before you roost 'em all the way to Idaho!!

Merry Christmas,

P.S.  Now for your Assignment.  Go watch "On Any Sunday"...twice, before your next ride!

More Patman Tales:
New Scoot? | Mud Riding | The KTM

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