Wild Motorcycle Tales

Wild Motorcycle Tales

First Kick

Page 2

"I shall brew up then," he replied as he turned around and headed toward the house.

I felt like I had just discovered the Holy Grail. I was at my own personal Mecca.

I stood there staring at the large green, ex-military tarp, savoring the moment, trying to remember everything about all the wild fantasies of bikes that would be under it. I walked over to the mound of green, reached out and started to lift the cover off. I tried not to look until I had unveiled the entire treasure.

I stood there just staring, here after years of guessing, fantasizing and concocting all sorts of dream bikes was the answer to the puzzle.

In front of me was indeed a golden nugget, well three to be precise, a 3HW Triumph, a full blown Triton and the jewel in the crown, a 1969 Shovelhead Harley, with mini apes and fishtails, sitting there in its lovely crimson red. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

I wheeled them around the garage so I would have space to walk around and take in the detail of each bike, but no matter what I did, I kept returning to the Harley. It was like a magnet. It just sucked me in and called my name. It seemed to be whispering to me to start it.

"Tea?" said Old Jack as he brought me back to reality.

"Where, when, how?" I said. I wanted to know everything all at once.

"All in good time," was all he would say.

After much chat with tea that was so black and strong it could nearly have been a soup, I talked him into letting me do the Shovelhead first.

He was freely giving advice and telling me about the bike as I walked around it, trying to take it all in but not retaining any of it. I was in awe of the tear S&S carb and air filter, the big polished primary drive with swirly engraving on it, the shape of the tank and the curve of the seat. There was nothing I could find to fault the bike. It was just sex on two wheels. Every fiber in my young body was bursting with lust and excitement. And so I set about to get this thing of beauty going.

First, I changed all the oils, plugs and air filter under Old Jack's watchful eye and sage advice, following each instruction as if my life depended on it. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him watch approvingly as I spun spanner with the skill he had spent years instilling in me. After seeing to the brakes and oiling this and lubing that, the time was fast approaching to start the hunk of Milwaukee iron that was sitting on the bike lift.

Taking her down off the bench, I felt my heart pounding so much I thought it was going to jump out of my chest and start leaping around the shed like a little alien life form. It sat there on its jiffy stand, waiting, beckoning me, wanting to be brought back to life.

I had never kick-started a Harley before and listened carefully as old Jack imparted his wisdom. I went around to the bike and got on it. Old Jack watched with much amusement. What was so funny I thought to myself. I stood there, bike between my legs, hands on the bars and took a deep breath. Now was it two twists of the throttle and choke and kick or was it choke, two twists and kick? Shit, why had I not listened properly.

Old Jack could see the indecision written all over my face and helpfully roared, "Get on with it boy!"

Right-two-throttle-choke-and-kick, I decided. I twisted the throttle all the way back twice, pulled up the choke, stood up on the kicker and jumped down on it with all my ten stones and as much force as I could muster. I came down left foot on the floor, the right foot pushing the kicker to its final limit but the motor did not fire. Instead, the kicker came back up hurtling my knee right into my face at the top warp factor of the Starship Enterprise, breaking my nose and splattering blood everywhere.

As the black spots receded, my vision returned and the searing pain started to ease, all I could hear was Old Jack's wheezy laugh as he stuck a Major cigarette in his wrinkled mouth.

I felt like such a fool. I wanted the ground to swallow me up, envelop me and leave no trace.

Having made an idiot of myself in front of my one hero, just broke me. I did not know whether to cry or be pissed off that he was laughing at me. He lit his stubby cigarette and then told me that I had just learnt a valuable lesson and to never, ever try to start a real bike the way I just did. That was OK for those modern pieces of crap that they build for namby-pambies you hang out with who will move outa bikes when they can afford a jammer. He did not hold some of my friends in very high esteem and as it turned out he was very correct. Out of 20 of us who started on bikes together, only two of us stuck with it.

So without any fuss I step to the right hand side of the bike and did as I was told, blood cascading from my nose. I didn't care. I was mad now. This bitch was going to start or get fucking kicked into the garage floor.

Motorcycle Views