Speed Spills

Speed Spills!!

The road where I grew up on you could play basketball all day and have to dodge maybe 5 or 6 cars all day. Maybe a tractor and that was usually my grandfather. I grew up on my grandfather’s farm pretty much till I was about 12. Both parents worked. I sure did all the farm chores right there beside my grandfather. Feeding the critters, milking cows and getting eggs started pretty early in the morning. Mucked a lot of stalls and hoed a bunch of rows and if you have no idea what I’m talking about I’m not here to educate you. Let’s just say it’s not fun and it’s a lot of work but it does seem right and it gives you good sleep at night.

My grandfather did all the really hard work; he cleared the rocky overgrown New England land and built the farm with his own two hands. He cleared 98 acres of 160 into pasture and field by himself. Damn near killed him a few times but they were a hardier man they built back then. They didn’t need steroids to look like they were made of knotted oak. Life itself put the slabs of muscle and sinew on the frame. I saw with my own eyes my grandfather twist an oxen’s head so far he fell down and dragged the other in the yoke down with it. That was after they had dragged him about a quarter mile with him digging furrows in the dirt with both feet trying to stop them.

But there was always a thing calling to me. It called me to come see the new cars and people hurrying here and there. It was a thing that could take you anywhere and show you new cars that were yours for the asking. If you saw it first and called it first that was your car! The magic words were simply “My Car!” and ownership was immediately and irrevocably transferred to you.

There was, let’s see….there was about ten of us and we all wanted desperately to ride our bikes over to Rt. 44…the evil 4 lane dragon. It waited almost a mile away. Sometimes you could hear it. The Fire Station was there, a post office and a school. It was the center of Harmony. Metropolis! It was also the main drag into the capitol city of Providence RI 15 miles away down that path. Also there was a rule that when you heard the fire station siren go off you got off the road. Then George, Larry or Hap would be flying down the road en route to the Volunteer Fire Department. Speed limits were ineffective if the siren went off. It was a smart rule.

But there are rules and rules are rules and they are not all smart nor are they all made up for the sake of torture or bother. The rule that ruined our lives was that I was forbidden to ride my bike to the 44. It was out of the realm of discussion and I was told its chance of changing any time soon directly corresponded to a snowball fight happening in hell. My friends and I all considered this rule to be torture AND bother.

I don’t remember who came up with it but genius struck that day…….. only it was to someone far away somewhere. In our little gang it twas stoopidity what struck that day. We reasoned that as we were all superior bikers and since we had all been given the gift of super strength and speed that we could get going fast enough to fly past my grandfathers before anyone could possibly see us. Sort of like faster than the speed of sight! If we kept tight enough (reducing the drag coefficients AND reducing our profile for radar) and we went fast enough if anyone WAS looking we would just seem to be a blur and we could be at Route 44 in mere seconds.

We needed a good start to pick up speed and to form the circus cluster so we went up the road to the Grange Hall. We stood in the parking lot deciding who would be in front and who in back. It was thought I should be in front so I would be first through.

Now there was a line of trees that kept my grandfathers place from seeing up the road too far and if we break from those trees doing …lets say Warp 9.2 I will be in sight about 2 nanoseconds. I think we can do it so LETS GO!

The checkered flag drops!!! It’s a Le Mans start!!! Body and steel meld and working in clockwork precision breakneck speeds are achieved. The Blue Angels have nothing on us in fact we are like those baitfish schools in open water being chased by tuna, literally flying down the rode almost touching each other. My eyeballs are tearing up as the wind polishes them. It was the final leg of the Tour de Nutz and we ALL had a yellow shirt on! One more set of trees and then the farm and then it’s superslab city baby and the whole world waits! AAALLLRRRIIGGHHHTTT!!!!!!!..................................

No baby carriage, no scampering child or Springer Spaniel with a ball in his mouth. Not even a little bunny or chipmunk. Oh no dear reader there was nothing like that in the road but as we cleared the trees…. but lordy do I wish there were. I snuck a glance into my grandfather’s garage and there sat the man himself. He was taking a break from running the farm and staring right at me and the careening horde of bicycle hooligans running hot and fast in a tight knit group. My Spidey like instincts took over and I did the only sensible thing a low dijit idjit could do at that point……………. I slammed on my brakes! …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. hideous smashing, bending, breaking, fabric of time and space ripping, screaming, metal rendering, flesh grinding, cursing sounds (repeat……repeat….repeat) …..cursing sounds? .……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
…………????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
#&^^*%&$*^&%$##%%##%^&&*!

I couldn’t see at that range but I bet there was a small smile escaping from the corner of his mouth or his eyes were wetting from trying to stifle a small giggle. But I was soon distracted by my name being issued with contempt from all around me. Bodies were raising off the asphalt like those zombies in the Night of the Living Dead movies. First they would groan and then focus on me and Lovecraftian blathering curses condemning me to endless torture at the hands of the unspeakable spewed at me.

Not one of my friends could see my side of things and even long after when all had calmed down and wounds healed I would not be awarded point position on any further missions. I believe I was so traumatized that it alone destroyed my chances of ever making it to Top Gun school. Of course there was also the fact that I could barely fit in a Herc never mind a F114.

Of course here Mr. Reader I am taking some literary liberation since this event did not happen yesterday. What I am trying to say is that I never really had a chance at a F114 or a Herc or Top Gun. What was more likely was a Sopwith tail gunning with Snoopy or maybe even a Super Sabre hunting in Mig Alley! Yeah! Right!

I’m wandering AGAIN!

Now you may be asking what bicycles have to do with motorcycles and why did I bore you to tears with this long stupid read. It’s like “what’s his name” (Hillary?) said when asked why he climbed the mountain. “Because it’s there!” was his answer. And mine is “Because you are there!”. So next time you’ll know better. Run away! And about the bicycles I believe most motorcycle riders if not all had a love affair with their bicycles at one time or another. Were just bigger boys and girls now and are too dern lazy to pedal!

As for the pileup, my grandfather never said a word but my grandmother had this odd smile as she tended to my wounds later that day. Something tells me grandpa had told her a funny story or joke just before I limped back and it was amusing her something fierce. He didn’t have to tell me the joke. Everyone knows I can’t take a joke………….