Two Wheelers, Because God Needs Something to Laugh At

It was the third time the airport manager had caught us riding our motorcycles on the old taxiways at the airport. This time he meant business as he accelerated the airport pickup, gradually gaining on our two bikes. If we could just make it to the old logging trail and cut into the woods, we could lose him. My best friend Chuck looked over at me with a worried look on his face, the high pitched whine of his two stroke Suzuki 90 made my step-through Honda 50 sound like the voice of a 12 year old boy going through puberty.

We made it to the trail and cut off of the taxiway. I thought we were safe, but the determined airport manager pulled off onto the trail also. Obviously not playing by the rules, he was gaining.

Up ahead was a patch of blackberries which had grown over the trail forming a wall. My one route of escape. I would blast through the blackberry wall with the bike and ride off into the deep woods. I opened the throttle, put my head down and hit the wall head on. The motorcycle not understanding the plan busted through the vines and continued on into the deep woods. I, on the other hand was immediately snagged off the motorcycle seat by 10,000 thorns and wrapped in vines. As I lie there, unable to move like a fly caught in a spider web, I heard the distant roar of thunder. It was the sound of God belly laughing.

“What an idiot” he chuckled.

I am not kidding; I’ve heard the distant thunder many times in my life. I think God enjoys bike riders like we enjoy watching “America’s Funniest Videos”.

My first pedal bike was a monster put together from about three different bikes dug up at night from the graveyard. It didn’t have a chain guard so when my best friend Chuck and I went out for rides, the evil bike would try to chew my pant leg off. It was a feral bike. Once it got a good mouthful, I would get pulled off the bike onto the ground and would either have to wait for an adult to come out of their house to release me or I would have to remove my pants to release myself.

Mom would always say, “Remember to wear clean underwear if you are going bike riding. You don’t know when you’re going need to take your pants off.”

Chuck’s bike was a newer black Schwinn. My feral monster always felt inferior and would take nips at it. When we were in middle school, bikes were our escape to get into town which was three miles away. On the way into town was a black-topped parking spot at the edge of the road which was elevated over another driveway. This made an amazing jump. We would ride down Marine Drive at top speed pull off onto the side parking spot and jump off the edge onto the lower driveway and continue down the road.

Chuck went first, sprinting at top speed, head down for the least wind resistance. He swerved onto the parking spot and flew like Eddie the Eagle off the jump to the driveway below. I marveled at his form and the distance he travelled through the air. His landing was impeccable up to the point where his pedals snapped from the shock of the landing. The right pedal, chain and sprocket went in one direction, the left pedal went the other. Everything else valuable to a young man came down on the center bar. Since the bike was going fast and the coaster brakes were now gone there was no stopping the bike and Chuck was now running down Marine Drive straddling the center bar, eyes protruding much more than normal. When the bike finally slowed, he tipped over and flopped onto the ground moaning. In the distance I heard a thunder clap. 

We later graduated to motorized two wheelers.

Minibikes, you remember them; a small tube frame with a Briggs and Stratton motor and a centrifugal clutch. I had one and so did the boys across the street. It was the step before motorcycles. Every day after school the neighborhood roared with the sounds of Briggs and once again, we felt the call to build jumps.

Most of the minibike frames had no shocks and the Briggs is a heavy engine. Each time I jumped the bike it weakened the frame until, as you can imagine, I made my final run and in the landing my frame broke in half burying the engine in the dirt and sending me over the handlebars onto my head. It may have been the concussion, but I believe I heard a thunder clap.

Finally, we turned 16. Chuck had rebuilt a Suzuki 90 and I bought a humiliating step-through Honda 50. I had no control over the machine and I would constantly fall over on my side laying the searing hot exhaust pipe on my leg.

On the day Chuck finished tightening the final bolt on his Suzuki it was cause for celebration. He made a few passes around the driveway, much the same as Evel Knievel circles to create tension with the crowd. He then drove out onto Marine Drive and pulled the bike into a few small wheelies. (This was to show the torque in his newly rebuilt engine.) He then drove a block down the street, turned the bike around, revved the engine and did a speed run in front of the house. As he passed the house, he pulled the bike up into a wheelie. With the front of the bike fully in the air, the front wheel fell off and was now racing the bike down Marine Drive.

There is a moment in time when you realize things aren’t going to turn out well and in that moment, there are only a few looks you can have on your face. Chuck had all of them.

The thunder started even before the front forks hit the ground.

I understand that every second of the day, somewhere in the world a disaster is happening. People are calling to God nonstop and most of it is bad news so I am happy to have provided him a small chuckle now and then.

On those days when I see the lightning flash and hear the thunder boom I can’t help but think … some poor sucker has done a pratfall off his bike again.

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