Motorcycle Views

Wild Motorcycle Tales

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

Scrambles

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The front wheel cleared the ditch but the rear hit hard, catapulting me over the bars and the bike tumbled backward into the three foot deep ditch.

I rolled and then scrambled back to my feet, pushing the helmet back, looking for the bike, finally spotting it in the water. I squirted into the creek to find the bike mostly upright, leaning against the bank enough that I could right it and jump on the kickstart. It fired and I popped it into gear, moving down the creek looking for an exit.

The helmet bounced up in time for me to spot a shallow bank and I turned hard right, flogging that engine as hard as a nine-year-old could. I felt the front tire loft and then I was in the field, throttle wide open, speed shifting, pushing the helmet up with my left hand, grinning as the ribbons flashed by on my right! ON MY RIGHT??

This is probably the first time in my riding career, though certainly not the last, that I remember thinking, "Oh shit, this is gonna hurt!" The leading riders were returning across the hayfield, mere yards away, aimed directly at me! I could see the grin of the lead rider turn to a grimace as he realized he was playing chicken with a nine-year-old with absolutely nothing left to lose, least of all my dignity.

He hurled his bike sideways, slamming into the front wheel of his nearest follower as I tried to pull myself up on to the seat enough to roll my right wrist forward and SLOW THIS DAMNED THING DOWN. I leaned hard right, trying to get back on my side of the field as the thundering herd began to gather around me, metal screaming as riders gaped at the mud covered apparition cutting across their bows.

Alas, my side of the field was no sanctuary as many of the riders detoured to avoid the growing pile of twisted metal. Motorcycles were flung to the side as riders dove into the dirt and at last I had a clear shot to the end of the field and the skid road.

I roared from the scene of the battle into the coolness of the jack pines, bouncing from kelly hump to kelly hump, juggling my helmet. The little two-stroke screamed as I gave it no mercy, twisting and turning, jumping, not with grace, but shear desperation as I topped the hill and turned downward toward the hayfield.

A long straight beaver slide led into the field, allowing me to hit 4th gear and the helmet bounced upward enough so that I could see the speedometer needle twitching spasmodically over the 60. I screamed across the field, catching glimpses of men and machines lying about, as if resting from a day spent bucking hay bales.

I downshifted hard as I saw the Ford pickup that was the turn at the end of the field. I slid up toward the tank, blipping the throttle, hitting the brakes hard, preparing to power slide around and begin my second lap.

I blame the crash on my helmet. I truly believe that if I could have actually seen where I was going that I would have slowed sufficiently to make the turn. I went into that slide a bit hot.

Around the back of the Ford I was in good shape, but it began drifting on me. I rolled on the throttle to straighten the bike and pull me out of the slide. I might have used a bit too much throttle. The Yamaha began to scream. So did the spectators.

The first beer cooler exploded in a shower of ice and glass as bottles were hurled into the air. An aluminum lawn chair crumpled as an over-sized lady threw herself backward. The back wheel slid out more and I knew I was going down.

I blame the dog for the high side that followed although I can understand his inability to flee. He was blinded by beer, his tail was trapped beneath the fat woman and the lawn chair. The rear wheel struck him, the bike flipped and I flew through the air.

As I sat up amid the moaning aftermath and pushed the helmet up off my eyes, I could see the rope guy glaring at me and hear my father's drawl, "You gave 'em hell, kid." -- Curt

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