I pulled on my work jeans, covered with holes and paint and
oil and a plethora of other stains put there by Lord knows what. I dug through
my closet until I found my old hiking boots, and tied them on. I ran up the
stairs and out the door, scanning the garage wall for the used helmet we’d
found on eBay. I strapped it on and walked to my loyal steed.
My dirt
bike is of the same general quality as my attire was that day. Honda 200XR,
made in 1980, 13 years before I was born. My brother, who was accompanying me on our excursion, was riding
a machine of even higher quality. Honda 175XR, 1976. I was in the process of
mounting my bike when the garage door flew open and my mother poked her head
out of the house.
Apparently, a t-shirt was not appropriate attire for riding a motorcycle on a rocky
dirt road. Of course, my immense skill at navigating the obstacles on the trail
would prevent any injury, so I negated her request that I wear something
‘safer.’ She frowned at me, but I must have sufficiently assured her that my
trail riding ability was high enough to keep me from getting impaled or some other nonsense because she shut the door with a 'harrumph' and dropped the
issue. Mothers are incredibly irrational at times.
After
spending a couple of minutes harassing our motorcycles until they sputtered to
life, we were off. Even my off-balance front tire couldn’t keep my spirits
down, the bike slightly bouncing beneath me. Cache Valley in Northern Utah was
putting on a fine show that day. The mountains were beautiful, and from our
view on the shelf in Providence we could see the whole valley spread out before
us.
Our
destination was Millville canyon, through which a rocky, steep road ran. It proved
to be quite a challenge in places. Of particular interest and enjoyment to me
were large banked turns that sporadically appeared. After testing a few of them,
I decided I wanted to hit one of them fast enough to ride on the top of the
curve. Being adept at riding a dirt bike, of course, I was confident that I
could execute it perfectly. I spotted one of them coming up, and waited for my
brother to ride farther ahead.
I gunned
the bike, switching gears when the engine began to squeal too loudly. At that
moment a small voice in the back of my head asked me if I was sure I wanted to
try this on a dirt bike made in 1980 in shredded jeans, a t-shirt, and a used
helmet. I mentally laughed that part of my brain off and leaned forward,
goosing the engine a little bit more.
The first
part of the turn was wonderfully exhilarating. So exhilarating, in fact, that I
took my eyes off of where my tires were and looked to the end of the turn so I
could get the full effect of riding a large hunk of metal sideways. The result
of this was that my unchecked front tire slipped over the top of the dirt bank.
The bike
quite suddenly disappeared from beneath me. I had a very short moment to wish I
had put on a long-sleeved shirt before I connected with Mother Earth, skidding
across the rocky ground. When I came to rest on my stomach, my left arm
awkwardly folded beneath me, I decided I would remain there for a few seconds.
When I could breathe normally again (having had the wind knocked out of me), I
rolled over and sat up slowly, some of my muscles protesting the effort. My
bike was on its side, the engine still chugging feebly. I examined myself and
discovered that I had sustained several cuts and lost a few small patches of
skin on my torso and left leg. My attention then swung to my throbbing left
forearm, and I found that I was missing quite a bit of skin, exposing a raw,
bleeding strip roughly six inches in length and an inch wide. By this time my
brother had realized I was no longer following him and was sitting on his bike
behind me.
I sighed,
and walked slowly to my fallen warhorse. I picked it up, and we set off down the road. I
was attempting to push all thoughts of my mother out of my mind at that moment,
but the wind hitting my bare, bleeding forearm was very forcefully pushing her
warning to wear a long-sleeved shirt back into my brain. Needless to say, I
didn’t attempt to ride any more of the dirt banks.
When we
returned home, I entered the kitchen. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had invited
a friend of hers over for lunch. Her friend was horrified at my appearance, covered
in dirt and blood, smelling like gasoline and wearing clothes that would have been a better fit on a hobo. My mother’s facial expression was satisfied,
slightly worried, but much more of the former than the latter. No words needed
to be said for me to know what she was thinking. I told you so.
