Motorcycle Views

Wild Motorcycle Tales

Here's a great story from Lee Creech. Got your own story? Send it to me.

My Bike Won't Grow Back

This mishap couldn't be blamed on an oblivious car driver, road debris, or any of the familiar bugaboos. Still, it's potentially instructive as well as humorous. Actually the humorous aspect was much less evident at the time than it is now.

In those long-ago days of my adolescence, my best friend and I, both inspired by the movie Easy Rider, were fascinated by motorcycles. Since neither of us had yet entered the world of paid work, these could only be pipe dreams. However, his parents were more indulgent than mine. Sensing what just might be possible, he laid careful siege to his mother; this fine, sympathetic, understanding woman eventually yielded, and he acquired a bike. And not just any bike, but an actual Harley chopper -- though of remote vintage, uncertain history, and dubious mechanical condition. This distinctive machine was so ill-tuned that several minutes of jumping up and down on the kickstarter was usually necessary to persuade it to sputter into life. Nevertheless, this rolling act of rebellion was the focus of his life that summer. I was green with envy.

The minimalist Harley lacked a passenger seat, so I couldn't ask for a ride. But another friend had access to a 350cc Honda, and so one fine June day the three of us decided to go for a spin - Tom astride his chopper, and Larry and me together dwarfing the little Honda beneath us. This comical cavalcade headed out on the rural two-lane roads that wind through our Kentucky hill country. The ragged, unmuffled blat of the Harley drifted back to mingle with the sewing-machine buzz of the Honda in an improbable symphony. The sun was warm, the air perfumed with the lush verdure of early summer. It was wonderful to be alive.

Starting a loop back, we turned off the highway onto a narrower road that led up a steep hill. Halfway up, Tom noticed an acquaintance in the front yard of a house next to the road. On the spur of the moment, he decided to stop and say hello. Under trailing throttle, the Harley slowed rapidly under the combined effect of engine compression and the uphill grade. A few yards behind, Larry's attention had been diverted. Possibly the Harley's brakes were never applied; perhaps its brake light was inoperative - who can say? In the last split second before impact Larry yelled, "Look out!" - a heartfelt but entirely futile warning. We bowled headlong into the tail of the hardtail Harley. Bikes and riders tumbled to the pavement in a confused sprawl.

After a few stunned moments, we picked ourselves up shakily and surveyed the damage. To our persons there was surprisingly little, aside from deflated egos: torn clothes, assorted scrapes, and a broken tooth (mine) were about the extent of it. The bikes did not fare so well. The little Honda's forks and front wheel were sadly twisted and bent backward, while the Harley's flattened rear tire was framed by crumpled metal. Clearly, neither was in a condition to be ridden away.

Tom stood gazing upon the injuries that had been inflicted on his beloved chopper, assailed by remorse and a profound sense of the injustice of it all. These feelings filled him up and overflowed, and he vented them eloquently and at length. The small knot of people that had gathered included a motherly middle-aged woman, who now stepped forward to remonstrate gently with Tom and try to restore in him a missing sense of perspective. "Son, you ought to be thankful," she said, "that it wasn't a lot worse. You could of broke your legs."

Always handy with a one-liner, Tom rose to the occasion. "My legs would grow back!" he snarled. "My bike won't!"

Words for the ages. The well-meaning lady fell silent - as indeed we all did - in the face of such Platonic logic, so crisply expressed. This spontaneous and perfect summation of the biker ethos, torn from a tormented soul, entered immediately into local legend.

A pickup truck was found and the bikes hauled away, ending my introductory lesson in motorcycling. It was not an auspicious beginning, as my parents were at considerable pains to point out. But, although temporarily abashed, I was not deterred forever. My current ride is a Virago 1100, on which I have logged many contented miles, occasionally running my tongue over my broken tooth. This long ago became an unconscious habit. The edges have become smoothed over time, and I seldom notice it any more. -- Lee Creech

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