Bloody Big Four
My first motorcycle was a Honda 65 Scrambler—a screaming little machine. With all that its meager 65cc two-stroke engine could muster, it would top out at 65 mph—if I was going downhill, with a tailwind, and with nothing aboard more than my scrawny 140-pound young teenaged self. And I was going downhill that fateful day when a dog waylaid me and just about ended my short biking career.
It was a sunny, carefree afternoon in the early fall. I was on my way home from school, the wind racing across my buzz-cut hair. . .
Wait a minute, a small digression. Almost all of my boyhood reminiscences, at least those that occurred during the daylight hours, seem to be filed away in my visual recall as having taken place on bright, sunny days. Why is that? I know there were just as many overcast and rainy days as there were those crystal-clear, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky days, and I’m sure several of my most vivid recollections occurred on some of those days. If I press myself, I find that I can easily make the adjustment to what might be a more accurate meteorological alternative, but that’s not how I first assemble these images in my mind. Is this typically the case for other people? What does this say about me? Oh, well, as my long-time friend Chas has told me, “Russ, you should never let a good story be encumbered by the facts.” Now back to the story.
. . . It was my 10th-grade year at Stone High in Wiggins. Weather permitting, I would often ride my Honda to school, notwithstanding that my mother, an English teacher at SHS, also traversed the same four miles into town and back each day. I was particularly enjoying this solo ride home, knowing that the school day was behind me and that there would still be some daylight left before it was time for farm chores, homework, and supper. It was a carefree time.
As I’ve mentioned before, we lived at the end of a sandy gravel lane about a half-mile off of Big Four, the blacktop that led into town. Our little lane began at the bottom of a long hill where our mailbox stood at the edge of the blacktop. On this day, Mama had left town a few minutes before me and was stopped at the bottom of the hill, checking the mail. She heard me coming and witnessed the whole, horrible thing.
I had the little Honda cranked wide open, making my way home after a brief stop at The Frosty Mug. Just as I passed the Clayton place, turning the slight bend at the top of the hill, I had my eyes peeled for the dog that lived at the small house halfway down on the left side of the road. This dog had been my nemesis for years. He typically laid by the house in the front yard and would chase anything and everything that went by, barking and snapping at the wheels. Many was the time, particularly back in my bicycle days, when I would have to kick the dog just to get by. However, on my motorcycle I definitely had the upper hand, as long as I could keep my eyes on him.
On this particular afternoon, he was nowhere to be seen. So, after a quick visual check of the house and yard on the left, I cranked the throttle open and laid down on the handlebar thinking, “This just might be a day I can break 65.” It was only a fleeting thought because I instinctively dialed it back when I spotted Mama—I just knew she was going to fuss about my speedlust. However, before I could slow it down even a little bit, the [strong expletive adjective] dog came darting out of the bushes on my right. He had heard me coming and was lying in wait... ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.
I didn’t see him until he was almost out of the ditch, about to snap at my front wheel. My speed must have thrown him off a bit, for he crashed into the bike between the front wheel and the engine. This caused the bike to flip into the air and come back down on its nose. I, of course, was also flipped into the air, coming belly-down ahead of the bike with arms extended and sliding down the rock and tar blacktop on my hands, arms, stomach, and legs. Before I came to rest, the bike passed me, going end over end and doing a couple more flips before it, too, came to a stop. I quickly got up and surveyed things.
Standing there in that brief moment, looking at the blood from my injuries, the rear wheel on the bike spinning, the lifeless dog, my nearly hysterical mother, I actually wondered if I was still alive—it was all so surreal. After convincing myself that I was, I then walked over and switched the still-running bike off. Mama quickly drove back up the hundred yards or so to where I stood and after helping me move the bike out of the road, drove me back into town to the emergency room. I don’t remember much about that ride, but I do remember that, instead of a long chewing out, she expressed much concern for my injuries and drove faster than I’d ever seen her go. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure there was some kind of lecture, but I was too focused on my bloody wounds to hear her.
Fortunately, I wasn’t seriously hurt. I had somehow managed to keep my head up and off the pavement through the whole ordeal. The doctor who checked me over was amazed that I didn’t appear to have a concussion. The gash on my right forearm was the only thing that required stitches. Almost all the skin on both my palms had been scraped off. My jeans and shirt were ripped in several places and I had assorted scrapes and bruises matching every tear in the fabric, but otherwise I was in pretty good shape. The most painful part of it all was when the ER nurse used a scouring pad to clean the rock and tar out of my hands. I knew then, and I know it even better now, it could have been a lot worse—tragically, horribly worse.
As for my Honda, it looked like a total wreck there on the road, but after we got it back to the house and straightened a few things, it, too, was in decent shape. I was riding again in a week. I took the fenders off, hammered them, chopped them and repainted the gas tank—that little Honda 65 Scrambler actually had a new coolness about it. I rode it constantly until I traded up a year or so later. To Mama’s credit, she didn’t say much about the incident afterward. She did, however, insist that I get a helmet and wear it whenever I went riding. That was okay with me; I got one with a gold-speckled paint job and a bubbled face-shield. It was pretty cool.
And the dog? The collision literally eviscerated him. The poor animal paid for its brashness with its life. But, as much as I love dogs, I felt no sadness in his passing. I still have that strangely surreal image of him lying in the middle of road, cut nearly in half, yards uphill from the upended bike with its engine revving and rear wheel spinning. I also still have a scar from those stitches… and a story to tell.
My first motorcycle, a 1968 Honda S65 with 65cc engine and scrambler pipe.
A WORD TO PONDER
e·vis·cer·ate (verb):
a: to take out the entrails of, to disembowel.
b: to deprive of one’s lifeforce.Source: merriam-webster.com
Song of the Day
“Bloody 98” by Blue Mountain (Home Grown, 1997)
Even though this song is about Highway 98 and not Big Four Road, I think it captures my youthful need for speed. Maybe a better choice would have been “Little Honda” by the Beach Boys (or the Hondells’ cover), but this is a rocking tune from a Mississippi band that needs more exposure. However, I post it with a Big Disclaimer: While I currently do have a brother in Mobile, I emphatically declare to my ‘wife in Hattiesburg,’ I do NOT have a lover in Mobile, or anywhere else for that matter!
Bonus Track
“Was a Sunny Day” by Paul Simon (There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, 1973)