I Told You So

            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.