The Motorcycle

The summer I graduated high school was a tumultuous time in my life. Not only was I subject to the lottery drawing for the draft, but I had applied to several state colleges and was waiting to hear something from their admission departments. My future was at a crossroads. Would I be going to Vietnam or to a college campus in the fall?

That summer my dad decided it would be fun to look at motorcycles. We went to the local Suzuki dealership and listened to the sales pitch. My dad was a sucker for “the pitch.” He loved trading in his last car for the latest model. He would bring it home and “surprise” my mom with his newest acquisition. We fell for a little Suzuki 80. It was intended to be a dirt bike, but it was just big enough to be allowed on the streets...with an optional package that installed brake lights and turn signals. The dealer threw in a helmet, even though the State of Illinois did not require one at the time. Dad said it would make my mom feel better about his little purchase, if I had a helmet. The dealer gave us a few lessons and pointers and then we loaded that baby on the optional rack the dealer had installed on the back of our car.

My mother was not happy, to say the least. Both Dad and I had to do some fast-talking. I could take it with me down to school in the fall. It would be a cheap, easy way to get around. I wouldn‘t have to borrow the car...so much. The biggest reason to let me keep it was the safety helmet. I promised to wear it, even though the state did not require it. Since Dad had taught me to drive his black 1967 Volkswagen Beetle, I already had some idea about how to work a clutch and switch gears. We gave her a demonstration around the court and up and down the street. See how safe?

My first solo trip out of the subdivision where we lived scared the hell out of me. I had just turned onto the highway, winding through the gears and cruising up the road. Suddenly, a car backed out in front of me onto the highway from his house along the side of the road. My life began passing before me and I could just picture my mom yelling at my dad, “I told you so!” I hit the brakes hard and was amazed that I stopped my bike in time without fishtailing all over the road. I realized for the first time how vulnerable I was. For a while, I took side roads and avoided divided highways until I got a better feel for the motorcycle. Soon switching gears and leaning into the turns became automatic. I did not tell my mother of my first encounter until much later. I used it to reassure her that the motorcycle had good brakes. She was still skeptical.

Later that summer, I rode my little Suzuki 80 over to my friend’s house. Ross was home and his parents were going out for the evening. After they left, Ross and I helped ourselves to his father’s bar in the living room. Ross produced some Switzer-Sweets mini-cigars and we proceeded to be “big-shots” for the evening. I decided to leave before his parents came home, but feeling“cool” with my motorcycle by now, I left some “doughnuts” (tight, circular tracks) in Ross’ front lawn. Ross was impressed...unfortunately, his mother was not. As usual, Ross had some explaining to do. His mother did not appreciate that it was my way of paying back her son for leaving tire marks in my driveway as he held the brake and stomped on the gas, spinning his back tires. (It was sort of his signature.) His father never could figure out why his son went through a set of tires in just one summer.

I loved that motorcycle. By now, I was riding it out into the country on longer trips and avoiding the stop and go traffic of the suburbs whenever I could. Unfortunately, the suburbs of Chicago were spreading quickly out into the remaining countryside. I would stow my helmet on the seat behind me and just feel the wind and the freedom of the open road. I enjoyed the small patches of open fields and trees before they were gobbled up forever. I finally understood why people felt so passionate about their bikes and their rides across this country. That summer I got a taste of that wonderful freedom and power. It was my summer of transition from boy to man.

As fall approached, I had been accepted into Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. It was a seven and a half hour drive from Chicago. I planned to bring my motorcycle with me to school. What I failed to do was check out the university’s policy on parking spaces for freshmen students. The university did not issue parking permits to incoming freshmen. It was not until we arrived with my bike and all my stuff that I learned there was no place for my bike. I did not know anyone off campus who might have a space, so Dad had to take it back with him. I think secretly he was glad, since he did not get much of a chance to ride it that summer.

My family moved to a new house in the country near a small town northwest of the Chicago suburbs while I was away at school. My dad sold the little Suzuki 80 to his neighbor, a fellow pilot and captain with American Airlines. One morning our neighbor was chasing chickens on the bike in his front yard. He hit a hole, wrecked the bike and broke his leg. It almost ended his flying career with the airlines. When my dad told me the story, I could almost hear my mother saying, “See, I told you so. I rest my case.”

I never had another motorcycle. I bought my dad’s old ‘67 VW Beetle the next year for $500 and drove it down to school. I found a place to park off campus. I never forgot that wonderful summer when my life was changing. That summer I took risks...I was immortal.

FOOD for THOUGHT...