Guest writer for mynzdreamblog
My oldest brother weighed around 220 pounds for most of his life. He saw himself as a "motorcycle rider" but he only ever had a 125 Vespa as far as I know. He loved that thing. He drove it until I blew the clutch out, coming down a hill too fast in neutral, and shifted into first gear instead of fourth. Sorry, brother. We lived out in the country, so the rules and laws of decent civilization were seldom enforced. I learned quickly from those opportunities. I hunted often for rabbits when I was a youngster without parental oversight. My neighbors saw me out in the fields and on the dirt roads and knew that I was a free-range child. They gave me chances to do things that most boys my age would never get. One of those chances came when my mechanic neighbor yelled at me from his yard to "come over right now." He had had a few beers, I think. I walked past his 32 bright orange Chevy dragster with a straight front axle and giant rear slicks and asked, "What's up Bob?" He waved his hand at his pride and joy and offered me his 250 BSA to ride at twelve years of age, with a wink and sly smile. He thought I might refuse the offer. He was wrong. My neighbor saw me on my brother's scooter and thought that I had the skill set for a larger bike. He was right, and I was unafraid and unwise due to my youth. "No helmet needed," I said as I kicked the large bike to life. Luckily, Bob lived on a little hill and the driveway sloped down and away to the Star Route 74, the main highway from Oceanside to Fallbrook back in the day. I rolled up to the road, looked to my left, and quickly rolled the throttle back toward me, and released the clutch before I lost my momentum. The road was clear as far as I could see, always. I left the driveway in front in a massive cloud of dust and turned right quickly with a little slide and headed for the San Luis Rey bridge where I planned on making a u-turn. I went through the four gears smoothly and hit seventy in a few seconds with water rolling out of the corners of each of my young hazel eyes. I had no license, of course, and no permit either, but I had a motorcycle between my legs and I was on my way. I made it to the bridge and made my u-turn back to my young child's life, but I would never be the same. That bike felt like a part of me as I hunched down and sped back to my neighbor's house. "Great job R.C. I didn't think you'd take me up on the offer." "Any time, Bob," was my instant reply. My parents were never the wiser.
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