My first motorcycle.
I was 20 years old when I bought my first motorcycle
. It was a 1980 Honda, 125 cc red beauty, which I paid cash for and rode out of the showroom in Alexandria, Virginia.
I can't remember the cost, but I remember I looked at it for a couple of months while I saved my paychecks to be able to get it. I got on and, without a single lesson drove it out of the parking lot of the showroom and right onto the pavement. Or, should I say "into" the pavement?
I remember how embarrassed I was. I tried to make a right turn into the street and pulled back on the handle to turn, pulling the accelerator with it. The rear tire spun and the bike ended on the ground. I picked it up, got back on and cooled my red face the rest of the way home.
Soon I was riding along everywhere, rain or shine I was always on that bike. I went to the softball games on it, my bat sticking out of my backpack like a flag pole. I would get up to 85 miles on the expressway and felt I was on top of the world.
The happiness lasted all through spring, summer and part of the fall season. One day the bike started having trouble with the carburetor and would shut off without warning. One night coming home from a church event, I started downhill on Beacon Road, a winding road with a couple of deep turns. In the fall, because the trees had lost most of the leaves, you could see the light at the bottom of the hill. It was green. I immediately thought if I could make it, I could avoid the heavy rain, it was starting to drizzle and it was a bit late on Sunday night. As I was debating this, I came out of the last turn and the light was yellow with a long way to go still. I let go the accelerator and the bike shot off.
Before I could reach for the clutch, the back tire locked and skidded. The bike slipped from under my legs and started tumbling down the hill, pirouetting and somersaulting like a circus performer. I caught only glimpses of it as my own tumbling permitted.
We both ended at the bottom of the hill, right in front of the stop line, as the light turned red. I got up and felt relief, no broken bones and no witnesses, this time. I picked her up and surprisingly there were few scratches and no broken lights or other damage. I sat on her and it cranked right up. The light changed and I drove the rest of the way home without incident.
By the time I got to the apartment the adrenaline had worn off. My left arm was killing me. I looked at it and realized the left sleeve of my jacket had been ripped from the wrist to the shoulder and I had a big road burn below the elbow that was bleeding down my arm.
I parked the bike but could not lock it, the fall must have misaligned the forks or something. Try as I might the lock would not engage. With my arm hurting I decided to go inside and tend to it first. I went into my father's apartment where my stepmother, a nurse, cleaned and bandaged the wound while I explained what had happened.
Feeling exhausted I said good night and went up to my apartment and dropped on the bed.
The next morning my whole body felt stiff and aching. I dragged myself to the window to look at the bike in the daylight and discovered that it was GONE!
I could not believe it. I remembered that I had intended to return and put the chain
around it but never did.
The police found it several weeks later in a mud bank. When I went to pick it up my heart broke. It was full of mud, all the wires had been cut (even the clutch and accelerator) and most of the covers were missing.
I sold it for a hundred dollars, just so I would not have to look at it.
A few years went by before I got my next bike, but I never forgot the feeling of that first summer riding.
. It was a 1980 Honda, 125 cc red beauty, which I paid cash for and rode out of the showroom in Alexandria, Virginia.I can't remember the cost, but I remember I looked at it for a couple of months while I saved my paychecks to be able to get it. I got on and, without a single lesson drove it out of the parking lot of the showroom and right onto the pavement. Or, should I say "into" the pavement?
I remember how embarrassed I was. I tried to make a right turn into the street and pulled back on the handle to turn, pulling the accelerator with it. The rear tire spun and the bike ended on the ground. I picked it up, got back on and cooled my red face the rest of the way home.
Soon I was riding along everywhere, rain or shine I was always on that bike. I went to the softball games on it, my bat sticking out of my backpack like a flag pole. I would get up to 85 miles on the expressway and felt I was on top of the world.
The happiness lasted all through spring, summer and part of the fall season. One day the bike started having trouble with the carburetor and would shut off without warning. One night coming home from a church event, I started downhill on Beacon Road, a winding road with a couple of deep turns. In the fall, because the trees had lost most of the leaves, you could see the light at the bottom of the hill. It was green. I immediately thought if I could make it, I could avoid the heavy rain, it was starting to drizzle and it was a bit late on Sunday night. As I was debating this, I came out of the last turn and the light was yellow with a long way to go still. I let go the accelerator and the bike shot off.
Before I could reach for the clutch, the back tire locked and skidded. The bike slipped from under my legs and started tumbling down the hill, pirouetting and somersaulting like a circus performer. I caught only glimpses of it as my own tumbling permitted.
We both ended at the bottom of the hill, right in front of the stop line, as the light turned red. I got up and felt relief, no broken bones and no witnesses, this time. I picked her up and surprisingly there were few scratches and no broken lights or other damage. I sat on her and it cranked right up. The light changed and I drove the rest of the way home without incident.
By the time I got to the apartment the adrenaline had worn off. My left arm was killing me. I looked at it and realized the left sleeve of my jacket had been ripped from the wrist to the shoulder and I had a big road burn below the elbow that was bleeding down my arm.
I parked the bike but could not lock it, the fall must have misaligned the forks or something. Try as I might the lock would not engage. With my arm hurting I decided to go inside and tend to it first. I went into my father's apartment where my stepmother, a nurse, cleaned and bandaged the wound while I explained what had happened.
Feeling exhausted I said good night and went up to my apartment and dropped on the bed.
The next morning my whole body felt stiff and aching. I dragged myself to the window to look at the bike in the daylight and discovered that it was GONE!
I could not believe it. I remembered that I had intended to return and put the chain
around it but never did.The police found it several weeks later in a mud bank. When I went to pick it up my heart broke. It was full of mud, all the wires had been cut (even the clutch and accelerator) and most of the covers were missing.
I sold it for a hundred dollars, just so I would not have to look at it.
A few years went by before I got my next bike, but I never forgot the feeling of that first summer riding.
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