Motorcycle Views

Wild Motorcycle Tales

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

My Life as Evil Knievel (or Awful Kanawful)

I came of age in the rural south, where a driver's license could be obtained at the tender age of 15. You probably remember that time of life when your body has outgrown your brain.

Most boys of that era earned well under minimum wage. Actually our pay could be described as micro-wages, but unfortunately the term "micro" hadn't been invented yet. Buying any type of slick car was out of the question. Most boys ended up with some type of old granny-mobile which required intensive maintenance, and had no hope of attracting as much as a casual glance from the opposite sex. On the other hand, a great bike could be had for around 500 bucks.

Envisioning myself as a ladies man extraordinaire, I opted for the bravado of the bike. Situations like this help young boys develop important life skills, such as decision making.

I decided to buy a dependable bike, not a hoopty old car. Critical reasoning skills were also developed. Girls would rather ride on a bike that in a hoopty car.

Acquiring a bike at a young age forced me to learn another valuable life skill: persuasion.

Selling the idea to my dad was a monumental accomplishment. The old adage about the squeaking wheel getting the grease is actually true. He finally gave in under duress, and allowed me to purchase a new Honda CL 100. Not exactly the CB 350 I was hoping for, but it turned out my old man knew more about what I needed for a first bike than I did. Imagine that, a grown man knowing more than a kid. It was a new concept to me at the time, but it taught me another lesson, go for the gold medal, but learn to be happy when you win the silver.

I rode that little 100 everywhere. Girls liked to ride and I got quite good at handling the little bike. Pretty soon I started looking for new outlets to challenge my "awesome" cycle handling skills.

One day a friend and I decided to go over to some gullies and do a little jumping. Evil Knievel was popular then, and I wanted to develop my stunt riding skills. We jumped a few gullies, increasing the amount of "air" we'd catch as our confidence grew. My friend suggested that I jump over there, gesturing to a spot. He was joking. The spot he suggested was unsuitable for what we were doing. This spot was unsuitable for anything related to a motorcycling activity. Maybe for training bulldozer operators it would have been fine.

I didn't bother to look at the jump site before making the attempt, so my friend didn't think I was really going to do it. I rode back a little way, turned her around and took off. By the time I got close enough to the edge and saw what was before me, it was too late to do anything. There is a lesson in here somewhere about looking before you leap. I just learned it beyond the point of no return. It wasn't the one point front wheel landing, or the brush or hitting the pile of old bricks that hurt. It was my left forearm that was between the rear tire and the fender that hurt. The spinning rear tire gobbled up my arm and now it was wedged between the fender and tire all the way up to the shocks. I couldn't get it out. My friend couldn't either because he couldn't get up off the ground from laughing so hard.

I had two things on my mind, in this order. One, get this bike off my arm. Two, put a Mississippi whoopin' on laughing boy. He finally recovered enough to help me extract myself from the bike, and we limped home with a broken clutch lever and broken ego.

This was my first in a series of lessons that all riders learn. The kind we never forget: humility. I decided that day, that I would haul girls and leave the jumping to Evil. Eight bikes later, that philosophy is still working. -- Jimmy Presley

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