Sometime around the first week of June someone dropped four dogs into our world. We didn't want a dog and we really didn't want four of them. My wife and I pretended to ignore them for a week or so, but they kept hanging around. I went around to the neighbors to see if they belonged to anyone. They didn't.
I called the sheriff's office and was told there was nothing they could do about stray dogs but that I had the right to protect my property and livestock. We don't have livestock so to rationalize killing the dogs to protect my property was a bit of a stretch. I ignored them for another week or so.
Even though we were not feeding them they began to get territorial, sleeping under the cars and charging out barking when anyone approached. On my next day off, with my wife at work, I took the .22 rifle out. Two of the dogs charged out from beneath my pickup truck and I shot them. The other two ran in directions that made it unsafe to shoot. I spent the rest of my day off disposing of bodies. I hoped that the other two would not come back.
They did. A few days later my wife came home from work and found one of the dogs under the pickup with a new litter of pups. Twelve of them. Being who she is, she of course made a bed in the barn and moved the pups and mother into the barn and went to town and bought food. This is one of the reasons that I love her. She is sometimes loud and gruff but she is one of the kindest people that I have ever known.
Ma was starving at that point, so emaciated that every rib stuck out, and she was covered with ticks. I expected most of the pups to die. They didn't. Of course, since we were feeding the mother we had to feed the other stray. Flea and tick collars took care of the tick problem and both dogs began to eat and gain weight although Ma was slow to recover due to nursing 12 pups.
I know, most of you are thinking, "You should have killed the pups then and been finished with it". I didn't. I couldn't. It was never the dogs fault that they were here. I could have killed whoever dropped them off, but killing the dogs was not easy for me.
Over the next couple of weeks we bought material to make a pen for the pups as they got older and took Dumbass, the other stray to the vet and had her spayed, thinking it would be easier to give her away if she was healthy and spayed. No one would take her.
As we began to see the personalities of the adult dogs emerge we, of course, became attached to them. Dumbass is turning out to be a pretty good dog. She stays outside, comes when you call her and generally protects the place. One evening , after dark when my wife was home alone, Dumbass began to make a racket, barking, growling and snarling. Shortcake turned the porch light on to find a man at the bottom of the steps. Dumbass stayed between her and the stranger until the man left. She is a keeper.
Ma, on the other hand, was not a keeper. As the pups got older and she left them for longer periods she spent her time chasing cars, barking at mouse farts two counties away and chasing anything that moved. She wouldn't come when we called her but would slink away only to reappear and start raising hell again. The yard looks like a war zone where she has dug huge holes. We gritted our teeth because of the puppies.
Now the pups are weaned, most of them gone to homes with people who wanted them. We have three left but two are spoken for. I guess we will keep the third.
Today I killed Ma. I did not "put her down". It wasn't euthanasia. It was murder. Premeditated. I had tried to shoot her before but she seemed to have a sense of when to place herself where I could not get a shot. Today, I tricked her. I coaxed her to me with a dog treat and soft words. Then I placed the muzzle of the pistol to the back of her head and squeezed the trigger.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
In the beginning...
there was man. There was woman. There was nature and cute little critters that man could kill and woman could cook. Life was good. Man and woman killed, cooked and procreated. They procreated a lot. They made more men and women who went forth killing, cooking and procreating. They were happy.
One day man tried to procreate with woman after a successful kill and cookout. Woman was tired from the cooking, complained that her back hurt from kneeling and bending to cook. Man thought and thought. Procreating face to face was invented by necessity. Life was good.
Soon after the advent of what we now know as the "missionary position" man attempted to procreate with woman. In this position womans mouth was near mans ear. She talked. Man, to his amazement, learned that woman was unhappy. Her back hurt from bending over to skin and butcher the animals which he killed. Procreating was not as much fun now.
Man went out with other men to hunt. They found fermented berries and sat under a shade tree eating berries and napping. That night, during prcreation, woman talked even more. Man fell asleep.
The next morning woman went out gather wood with other women. They talked, a lot. There was no procreating by anyone that night. Or the next.Or the night after that.
One morning, after a night of drinking fermented berry juice and no procreating, man took his stone ax out to the woods. He cut down a huge tree. He didn't need to cut down the tree, but he needed to release some pent up "energy". He finally wandered deeper into the woods and got a grip on himself.
He returned to the cave to find woman smiling and happy. She thanked him for cutting down the tree. She used the stump for a table and tonight, her back did not hurt. They procreated.
Soon after, all the other men in the tribe cut down trees for their women and all were happily procreating. Soon there were stumps everywhere with women happily working away. Then it rained.
They retreated to the cave and woman began to complain as she knelt on the ground preparing dinner. Man could not drink his fermented berry juice in peace. He went out in the rain, climbing over and through the fallen trees to sit gazing at the field of stumps. He sat and thought. He saw how an over-turned birds nest kept the ground beneath it dry. He took the nest apart. That night there was no procreating.
Early the next morning he began building a huge upside down birds nest over womans stump. it was warm and dry and they procreated. A lot. The other men heard the procreation. The other women heard the prcreation. After the procreation woman proclaimed loudly how warm and dry the upside birds nest was.
In the ages that followed men rose early to build upside down bird nests. Sometimes we even get to procreate if woman likes the birds nest.
One day man tried to procreate with woman after a successful kill and cookout. Woman was tired from the cooking, complained that her back hurt from kneeling and bending to cook. Man thought and thought. Procreating face to face was invented by necessity. Life was good.
Soon after the advent of what we now know as the "missionary position" man attempted to procreate with woman. In this position womans mouth was near mans ear. She talked. Man, to his amazement, learned that woman was unhappy. Her back hurt from bending over to skin and butcher the animals which he killed. Procreating was not as much fun now.
Man went out with other men to hunt. They found fermented berries and sat under a shade tree eating berries and napping. That night, during prcreation, woman talked even more. Man fell asleep.
The next morning woman went out gather wood with other women. They talked, a lot. There was no procreating by anyone that night. Or the next.Or the night after that.
One morning, after a night of drinking fermented berry juice and no procreating, man took his stone ax out to the woods. He cut down a huge tree. He didn't need to cut down the tree, but he needed to release some pent up "energy". He finally wandered deeper into the woods and got a grip on himself.
He returned to the cave to find woman smiling and happy. She thanked him for cutting down the tree. She used the stump for a table and tonight, her back did not hurt. They procreated.
Soon after, all the other men in the tribe cut down trees for their women and all were happily procreating. Soon there were stumps everywhere with women happily working away. Then it rained.
They retreated to the cave and woman began to complain as she knelt on the ground preparing dinner. Man could not drink his fermented berry juice in peace. He went out in the rain, climbing over and through the fallen trees to sit gazing at the field of stumps. He sat and thought. He saw how an over-turned birds nest kept the ground beneath it dry. He took the nest apart. That night there was no procreating.
Early the next morning he began building a huge upside down birds nest over womans stump. it was warm and dry and they procreated. A lot. The other men heard the procreation. The other women heard the prcreation. After the procreation woman proclaimed loudly how warm and dry the upside birds nest was.
In the ages that followed men rose early to build upside down bird nests. Sometimes we even get to procreate if woman likes the birds nest.
The Information Super-Highway
Many years ago my job required that I obtain access to the internet at home. The company that I had my tractor/trailer leased to was joining the information super-highway and the only way to get loads would be through their website. I was actually pretty excited about this and we acquired a custom built pc and an extra phone line.
It worked out pretty well for the business. There were also some amazing side benefits and some real disappointments. Being a fan of pornography I was delighted with the selections available. I admit that there were times I actually fell asleep waiting for the pictures to load on dial-up but it was cheaper than buying the magazines.
Another perceived benefit were the numerous writers forums that I discovered. At last I felt that I would be able to connect with a group of people who would understand my compulsion to write. I immediately began submitting poems and stories for critiquing on various forums. I should have read some of the forums before I began posting.
Those doing critiques, almost without exception, fell into two general categories. The first group looked for the "hidden" meaning in anything they read. In their world it appeared as if there was no such thing as simple entertainment. There had to be a message or, at least, an insight into the authors personal psychosis in anything that was ever written. They never understood that some people simply like to tell stories.
It worked out pretty well for the business. There were also some amazing side benefits and some real disappointments. Being a fan of pornography I was delighted with the selections available. I admit that there were times I actually fell asleep waiting for the pictures to load on dial-up but it was cheaper than buying the magazines.
Another perceived benefit were the numerous writers forums that I discovered. At last I felt that I would be able to connect with a group of people who would understand my compulsion to write. I immediately began submitting poems and stories for critiquing on various forums. I should have read some of the forums before I began posting.
Those doing critiques, almost without exception, fell into two general categories. The first group looked for the "hidden" meaning in anything they read. In their world it appeared as if there was no such thing as simple entertainment. There had to be a message or, at least, an insight into the authors personal psychosis in anything that was ever written. They never understood that some people simply like to tell stories.
This is only a test
Today's entry is more of a test than anything else. I added a hit counter and a place for my faithful followers to post their comments. Only positive comments will be tolerated. I need the ego boost.
Some of you may not like the turn that this blog will be taking. Too bad, it is my mind and I will use it as I see fit. I will attempt to make social comments disguised as intellectual philosophy. Mostly I will vent and whine.
Some of you may not like the turn that this blog will be taking. Too bad, it is my mind and I will use it as I see fit. I will attempt to make social comments disguised as intellectual philosophy. Mostly I will vent and whine.
Monday, January 5, 2009
What They Don't Tell You About Dentures
A few years back I got tired of paying for my dentists' new car every year and decided that dentures were the answer. Years of neglect, motorcycle crashes, cowboy crashes and hitting fists with my teeth had taken their toll. Caps would no longer stay in place and the thought of one more root canal caused my testicles to retract to where my tonsils once resided.
Appointments were made, pictures taken, referrals made, appointments made and at last I found myself reclining in a chair doing some really, really, really good drugs. All of the teeth were removed at once and the gums were then sewn closed and I awoke at home, drooling on myself with my wife asking if I was ready for my strained carrots. At that point, to stay in character, I soiled my diaper. Who's laughing now, Barb?
The following day the drugs wore off and I began to whine. Barb left early for her job at the prison and I sat pouting. And then my tongue found a thread. Now, I have actually seen the trick where a woman ties a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue and was impressed. Not any longer. Almost of its' own accord my tongue quickly learned to untie a surgeons knot. This in turn quickly led to a feeling as if I had one of those curly little hairs stuck in my mouth.
Midday found me standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to shine a flashlight in my mouth with one hand while the hand that held the scissors tried to clip all the dangling threads. This led eventually to blood on the guest towels, which in turn led, after Barb returned from work, to knots on my head.
Three weeks and several cases of strained carrots later my mouth was healed and it was time for the fitting of dentures. Being the frugal sort, I went to a place called "de Sades' Dentures in a Day". For a mere $300 you wait in a tiny room full of old people until it is your turn, then a cute young thing escorts you to a "fitting room". You get to pick out the color of teeth you want so I chose the ones prestained with nicotine and coffee knowing they would bring out the color of my eyes.
Now the cute young thing smiled and stuck her gloved finger down my throat. Holding back my gag reflex caused my eyes to water and my nose to run. After exploring my rectal cavity from the top side, she chose a plate the size of a Frisbee, slathered it with blue goop and stuffed it in my mouth. I gagged! The Frisbee ejected from my mouth and blue goop covered the cute young thing. She stopped smiling. She also went for help.
Help was a guy with hands the size of a catchers mitt. She slathered goop as he cracked his knuckles and moved to stand behind me. On some signal that I obviously missed, she slammed the plate in my mouth and his hands clamped on the top of my head and my chin. I gagged! He held on. I gagged harder. He held on. I thrashed, snot ran and tears flowed! He held on. I puked! He held on. I swallowed and gagged again. Strained carrots are not very good the second time.
At last he released me, I gasped for breath and she deftly removed the plate. She said, “That wasn't so bad, was it?" I wanted to hit her fist but I had no teeth. I was then told to return in three hours to get my dentures and have them fitted.
The fitting went reasonably well, I only gagged a few times and then I was on my way. Outside I slipped on my helmet and mounted my Suzuki, fired it up, dropped it into gear, forgot to breathe through my nose and and gagged. I popped the clutch, dropped the bike, ripped off my helmet which tore off my glasses, spit the dentures into the grass, and BREATHED. I lay for a while in the grass, savoring the fresh mown smell. Finally, with no dignity whatsoever, I righted the bike, put the dentures in my pocket, strapped on the full face helmet and rode the short distance to Wal-Mart. An open face helmet, I reasoned, would allow me to remove the dentures if I began to gag while riding.
Later that day, cheap helmet in place I headed toward home, zipping along quite nicely, dentures in my mouth, breathing well, getting used to things. A few miles from home I encountered a road patching crew and as I eased past I caught a whiff of tar. And sneezed. The top denture flew out of my mouth and being right handed, I released the throttle to catch it. The bike immediately slowed to a danger level as I slapped the denture rather than catching it, so I let go of the handlebar with my left hand to grab for the plate.
The road crew watched in fascination as I juggled the plate between hands and rode the cruiser into the narrow gap between a dump truck and a front end loader. I captured the flying denture in my left hand just as the bike dropped off the shoulder and into the ditch. I grabbed the grip with my right hand, somehow twisting the throttle, shooting the bike straight down the ditch and into a creek. I managed to get my feet down in the water just as the bike died.
The workmen gathered on the creek bank, watching, and then one blurted out, "What the hell are you doing?”
I casually leaned over, swished the errant plate in the flowing stream, glanced back and said, "Washing my dentures".
October 16, 2007
Appointments were made, pictures taken, referrals made, appointments made and at last I found myself reclining in a chair doing some really, really, really good drugs. All of the teeth were removed at once and the gums were then sewn closed and I awoke at home, drooling on myself with my wife asking if I was ready for my strained carrots. At that point, to stay in character, I soiled my diaper. Who's laughing now, Barb?
The following day the drugs wore off and I began to whine. Barb left early for her job at the prison and I sat pouting. And then my tongue found a thread. Now, I have actually seen the trick where a woman ties a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue and was impressed. Not any longer. Almost of its' own accord my tongue quickly learned to untie a surgeons knot. This in turn quickly led to a feeling as if I had one of those curly little hairs stuck in my mouth.
Midday found me standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to shine a flashlight in my mouth with one hand while the hand that held the scissors tried to clip all the dangling threads. This led eventually to blood on the guest towels, which in turn led, after Barb returned from work, to knots on my head.
Three weeks and several cases of strained carrots later my mouth was healed and it was time for the fitting of dentures. Being the frugal sort, I went to a place called "de Sades' Dentures in a Day". For a mere $300 you wait in a tiny room full of old people until it is your turn, then a cute young thing escorts you to a "fitting room". You get to pick out the color of teeth you want so I chose the ones prestained with nicotine and coffee knowing they would bring out the color of my eyes.
Now the cute young thing smiled and stuck her gloved finger down my throat. Holding back my gag reflex caused my eyes to water and my nose to run. After exploring my rectal cavity from the top side, she chose a plate the size of a Frisbee, slathered it with blue goop and stuffed it in my mouth. I gagged! The Frisbee ejected from my mouth and blue goop covered the cute young thing. She stopped smiling. She also went for help.
Help was a guy with hands the size of a catchers mitt. She slathered goop as he cracked his knuckles and moved to stand behind me. On some signal that I obviously missed, she slammed the plate in my mouth and his hands clamped on the top of my head and my chin. I gagged! He held on. I gagged harder. He held on. I thrashed, snot ran and tears flowed! He held on. I puked! He held on. I swallowed and gagged again. Strained carrots are not very good the second time.
At last he released me, I gasped for breath and she deftly removed the plate. She said, “That wasn't so bad, was it?" I wanted to hit her fist but I had no teeth. I was then told to return in three hours to get my dentures and have them fitted.
The fitting went reasonably well, I only gagged a few times and then I was on my way. Outside I slipped on my helmet and mounted my Suzuki, fired it up, dropped it into gear, forgot to breathe through my nose and and gagged. I popped the clutch, dropped the bike, ripped off my helmet which tore off my glasses, spit the dentures into the grass, and BREATHED. I lay for a while in the grass, savoring the fresh mown smell. Finally, with no dignity whatsoever, I righted the bike, put the dentures in my pocket, strapped on the full face helmet and rode the short distance to Wal-Mart. An open face helmet, I reasoned, would allow me to remove the dentures if I began to gag while riding.
Later that day, cheap helmet in place I headed toward home, zipping along quite nicely, dentures in my mouth, breathing well, getting used to things. A few miles from home I encountered a road patching crew and as I eased past I caught a whiff of tar. And sneezed. The top denture flew out of my mouth and being right handed, I released the throttle to catch it. The bike immediately slowed to a danger level as I slapped the denture rather than catching it, so I let go of the handlebar with my left hand to grab for the plate.
The road crew watched in fascination as I juggled the plate between hands and rode the cruiser into the narrow gap between a dump truck and a front end loader. I captured the flying denture in my left hand just as the bike dropped off the shoulder and into the ditch. I grabbed the grip with my right hand, somehow twisting the throttle, shooting the bike straight down the ditch and into a creek. I managed to get my feet down in the water just as the bike died.
The workmen gathered on the creek bank, watching, and then one blurted out, "What the hell are you doing?”
I casually leaned over, swished the errant plate in the flowing stream, glanced back and said, "Washing my dentures".
October 16, 2007
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
I cheated
For the past several years I have made it a tradition to ride on New Years Day. I cheated this year, although I may actually take a short ride tomorrow morning. But yesterday the temps hit the 60's and I had the day off so I took a ride.
I needed it. It has been a month or so since I had been out. Riding is my stress reliever. I am a selfish rider in that I use my rides to ride my way. While this may sound elementary, believe me, it isn't. When I am out by myself the only thing I have to worry about is whether or not I am going to get slowed enough to make the next curve.
Riding with others actually adds stress that I don't need. I spent some time helping a new rider a couple of years ago and would often come home more frustrated than when I started.
Solo riding gives me an illusion of freedom that nothing else can quite match. Just get on the bike, point it one direction and ride until the wind blows everything away and life regains perspective. Riding the way I do requires a level of concentration that allows nothing else to intrude. I no longer have the need for speed that I once had, but the act of riding the perfect line through multiple curves gives me a satisfaction that brings a grin to my face and , dare I say it, an inner peace.
Whether you consider it meditation or mental masturbation, it doesn't matter, it works for me.
Happy New Year, everyone.
I needed it. It has been a month or so since I had been out. Riding is my stress reliever. I am a selfish rider in that I use my rides to ride my way. While this may sound elementary, believe me, it isn't. When I am out by myself the only thing I have to worry about is whether or not I am going to get slowed enough to make the next curve.
Riding with others actually adds stress that I don't need. I spent some time helping a new rider a couple of years ago and would often come home more frustrated than when I started.
Solo riding gives me an illusion of freedom that nothing else can quite match. Just get on the bike, point it one direction and ride until the wind blows everything away and life regains perspective. Riding the way I do requires a level of concentration that allows nothing else to intrude. I no longer have the need for speed that I once had, but the act of riding the perfect line through multiple curves gives me a satisfaction that brings a grin to my face and , dare I say it, an inner peace.
Whether you consider it meditation or mental masturbation, it doesn't matter, it works for me.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Scrambles
Many of you have never heard the term, but Scrambles was my first try at organized (sort of) motorcycle racing. Back in the mid-60's the tiny town of Pinehurst Idaho held a Scrambles race most Saturday afternoons. We couldn't do it on Sunday because Smelterville held the Hillclimb on Sunday. You did not need to join anything, or sign anything; all you had to do was show up. There were two classes, 250cc and below, and the open class. I finally wore my dad down and he let me enter. He rode the Yamaha 100 Twin, (yes, it was street legal, from our house to the "track"). Mom hauled all of us kids, dogs, and beer in the Scout.
The riders meeting was total chaos with kids chasing dogs, dogs chasing kids, and moms swatting kids, but essentially the rules were simple. Cross the hayfield, hit the old skid trail into the woods, ride the ridge to the top and back down the draw to the hayfield and the finish line. 5 times. The tricky part was staying on the right side of the ribbons across the field so that fast and slow riders were not racing head on. The riders ranged in age from 7 to 70. Just to make it interesting, sporting, or perhaps more deadly, anyone over 16 started in a second row, facing the wrong way with engines off.
There were perhaps 10 of us under 16 and twice that many over 16. So, we young'uns lined up, sort of, behind a rope held by two volunteers who would drop the rope on signal from the starter. Fathers scurried up and down the line, making last minute checks to see if a kids bike was running, dogs darted across the field, I saw the rope twitch and all hell broke loose. Being on the outside of the front row, when I prematurely popped the clutch, the guy holding the rope was yanked into my bike because he had the rope wound around his hand and it was now between my fender and front tire. I fell down, he fell down, the kid beside me fell down, most of the rest tore across the field while the starter yelled "WAIT, WAIT, GODDAMNIT WAIT!!!!!!!".
They managed to get the kids back in line, Dad picked up me and the bike, the rope holder glared at me, Dad put the left side mirror in his pocket and said , "Give 'em hell, kid". I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, teeth clenched in grim determination.
The flag dropped, the rope holder beside me threw his end of the rope and ran backward. Bikes rocketed from the line, I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, mouth open in confusion because the bike wasn't moving. As the first of the senior riders whipped past me, I slammed the bike into first gear. In retrospect, I should have used the clutch, this would have given me a bit more control but with the throttle wide open and no clutch engaged, the Yamaha launched upward like a missile, my death grip on the handlebars giving it a pivot point as it stood up, twirled to my right and chased the rope holder into the crowd of lawn chairs, beer coolers and spectators scrambling for their lives. The rope holder shrieked as he grabbed the handlebars from the opposite side, tripped over a cooler and held on to wrestle the bike to the ground.
I pushed the helmet up off my eyes in time to see Dad put down his beer and lift the bike off the hysterical rope guy. He set the bike upright, pointed it across the hayfield, kicked it into life, stepped off and leaned the bike toward me. "Give 'em hell, kid", he said as I crawled back on. The other riders were disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke as I roared onto the field, clinging to that bike for dear life. Halfway across the field, I speed shifted into 3rd, holding the throttle wide open with my right hand, trying to push the helmet up off my eyes with my left just in time to see a small creek disappear beneath the front wheel. The front wheel cleared the ditch but the rear hit hard, catapulting me over the bars and the bike tumbled backward into the 3 foot deep ditch. I rolled and then scrambled back to my feet, pushing the helmet back, looking for the bike, finally spotting it in the water. I squirted into the creek to find the bike mostly upright, leaning against the bank enough that I could right it and jump on the kickstart. It fired and I popped it into gear, moving down the creek looking for an exit.
The helmet bounced up in time for me to spot a shallow bank and I turned hard right, flogging that engine as hard as a 9 year old could. I felt the front tire loft and then I was in the field, throttle wide open, speed shifting, pushing the helmet up with my left hand, grinning as the ribbons flashed by on my right! ON MY RIGHT?????? This is probably the first time in my riding career, though certainly not the last, that I remember thinking, "Oh shit, this is gonna hurt!"
The leading riders were returning across the hayfield, mere yards away, aimed directly at me! I could see the grin of the lead rider turn to a grimace as he realized he was playing chicken with a 9 year old with absolutely nothing left to lose, least of all my dignity. He hurled his bike sideways, slamming into the front wheel of his nearest follower as I tried to pull myself up on to the seat enough to roll my right wrist forward and SLOW THIS DAMNED THING DOWN. I leaned hard right, trying to get back on my side of the field as the thundering herd began to gather around me, metal screaming as riders gaped at the mud covered apparition cutting across their bows. Alas, my side of the field was no sanctuary as many of the riders detoured to avoid the growing pile of twisted metal. Motorcycles were flung to the side as riders dove into the dirt and at last I had a clear shot to the end of the field and the skid road.
I roared from the scene of the battle into the coolness of the jackpines, bouncing from kelly hump to kelly hump, juggling my helmet. The little two-stroke screamed as I gave it no mercy, twisting and turning, jumping, not with grace, but shear desperation as I topped the hill and turned downward toward the hayfield. A long straight beaverslide led into the field, allowing me to hit 4th gear and the helmet bounced upward enough so that I could see the speedometer needle twitching spasmodically over the 60. I screamed across the field, catching glimpses of men and machines lying about, as if resting from a day spent bucking hay bales. I downshifted hard as I saw the Ford pickup that was the turn at the end of the field, sliding up toward the tank, blipping the throttle, hitting the brakes hard, preparing to powerslide around and begin my second lap.
I blame the crash on my helmet. I truly believe that if I could have actually seen where I was going that I would have slowed sufficiently to make the turn. I went into that slide a bit hot. Around the back of the Ford I was in good shape, but it began drifting on me. I rolled on the throttle to straighten the bike and pull me out of the slide. I might have used a bit too much throttle. The Yamaha began to scream. So did the spectators.
The first beer cooler exploded in a shower of ice and glass as bottles were hurled into the air. An aluminum lawn chair crumpled as an over-sized lady threw herself backward. The back wheel slid out more and I knew I was going down. I blame the dog for the highside that followed although I can understand his inability to flee. He was blinded by beer; his tail was trapped beneath the fat woman and the lawn chair. The rear wheel struck him, the bike flipped and I flew through the air.
As I sat up amid the moaning aftermath and pushed the helmet up off my eyes, I could see the rope guy glaring at me and hear my father's drawl, "You gave 'em hell, kid".
July 31, 2007
The riders meeting was total chaos with kids chasing dogs, dogs chasing kids, and moms swatting kids, but essentially the rules were simple. Cross the hayfield, hit the old skid trail into the woods, ride the ridge to the top and back down the draw to the hayfield and the finish line. 5 times. The tricky part was staying on the right side of the ribbons across the field so that fast and slow riders were not racing head on. The riders ranged in age from 7 to 70. Just to make it interesting, sporting, or perhaps more deadly, anyone over 16 started in a second row, facing the wrong way with engines off.
There were perhaps 10 of us under 16 and twice that many over 16. So, we young'uns lined up, sort of, behind a rope held by two volunteers who would drop the rope on signal from the starter. Fathers scurried up and down the line, making last minute checks to see if a kids bike was running, dogs darted across the field, I saw the rope twitch and all hell broke loose. Being on the outside of the front row, when I prematurely popped the clutch, the guy holding the rope was yanked into my bike because he had the rope wound around his hand and it was now between my fender and front tire. I fell down, he fell down, the kid beside me fell down, most of the rest tore across the field while the starter yelled "WAIT, WAIT, GODDAMNIT WAIT!!!!!!!".
They managed to get the kids back in line, Dad picked up me and the bike, the rope holder glared at me, Dad put the left side mirror in his pocket and said , "Give 'em hell, kid". I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, teeth clenched in grim determination.
The flag dropped, the rope holder beside me threw his end of the rope and ran backward. Bikes rocketed from the line, I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, mouth open in confusion because the bike wasn't moving. As the first of the senior riders whipped past me, I slammed the bike into first gear. In retrospect, I should have used the clutch, this would have given me a bit more control but with the throttle wide open and no clutch engaged, the Yamaha launched upward like a missile, my death grip on the handlebars giving it a pivot point as it stood up, twirled to my right and chased the rope holder into the crowd of lawn chairs, beer coolers and spectators scrambling for their lives. The rope holder shrieked as he grabbed the handlebars from the opposite side, tripped over a cooler and held on to wrestle the bike to the ground.
I pushed the helmet up off my eyes in time to see Dad put down his beer and lift the bike off the hysterical rope guy. He set the bike upright, pointed it across the hayfield, kicked it into life, stepped off and leaned the bike toward me. "Give 'em hell, kid", he said as I crawled back on. The other riders were disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke as I roared onto the field, clinging to that bike for dear life. Halfway across the field, I speed shifted into 3rd, holding the throttle wide open with my right hand, trying to push the helmet up off my eyes with my left just in time to see a small creek disappear beneath the front wheel. The front wheel cleared the ditch but the rear hit hard, catapulting me over the bars and the bike tumbled backward into the 3 foot deep ditch. I rolled and then scrambled back to my feet, pushing the helmet back, looking for the bike, finally spotting it in the water. I squirted into the creek to find the bike mostly upright, leaning against the bank enough that I could right it and jump on the kickstart. It fired and I popped it into gear, moving down the creek looking for an exit.
The helmet bounced up in time for me to spot a shallow bank and I turned hard right, flogging that engine as hard as a 9 year old could. I felt the front tire loft and then I was in the field, throttle wide open, speed shifting, pushing the helmet up with my left hand, grinning as the ribbons flashed by on my right! ON MY RIGHT?????? This is probably the first time in my riding career, though certainly not the last, that I remember thinking, "Oh shit, this is gonna hurt!"
The leading riders were returning across the hayfield, mere yards away, aimed directly at me! I could see the grin of the lead rider turn to a grimace as he realized he was playing chicken with a 9 year old with absolutely nothing left to lose, least of all my dignity. He hurled his bike sideways, slamming into the front wheel of his nearest follower as I tried to pull myself up on to the seat enough to roll my right wrist forward and SLOW THIS DAMNED THING DOWN. I leaned hard right, trying to get back on my side of the field as the thundering herd began to gather around me, metal screaming as riders gaped at the mud covered apparition cutting across their bows. Alas, my side of the field was no sanctuary as many of the riders detoured to avoid the growing pile of twisted metal. Motorcycles were flung to the side as riders dove into the dirt and at last I had a clear shot to the end of the field and the skid road.
I roared from the scene of the battle into the coolness of the jackpines, bouncing from kelly hump to kelly hump, juggling my helmet. The little two-stroke screamed as I gave it no mercy, twisting and turning, jumping, not with grace, but shear desperation as I topped the hill and turned downward toward the hayfield. A long straight beaverslide led into the field, allowing me to hit 4th gear and the helmet bounced upward enough so that I could see the speedometer needle twitching spasmodically over the 60. I screamed across the field, catching glimpses of men and machines lying about, as if resting from a day spent bucking hay bales. I downshifted hard as I saw the Ford pickup that was the turn at the end of the field, sliding up toward the tank, blipping the throttle, hitting the brakes hard, preparing to powerslide around and begin my second lap.
I blame the crash on my helmet. I truly believe that if I could have actually seen where I was going that I would have slowed sufficiently to make the turn. I went into that slide a bit hot. Around the back of the Ford I was in good shape, but it began drifting on me. I rolled on the throttle to straighten the bike and pull me out of the slide. I might have used a bit too much throttle. The Yamaha began to scream. So did the spectators.
The first beer cooler exploded in a shower of ice and glass as bottles were hurled into the air. An aluminum lawn chair crumpled as an over-sized lady threw herself backward. The back wheel slid out more and I knew I was going down. I blame the dog for the highside that followed although I can understand his inability to flee. He was blinded by beer; his tail was trapped beneath the fat woman and the lawn chair. The rear wheel struck him, the bike flipped and I flew through the air.
As I sat up amid the moaning aftermath and pushed the helmet up off my eyes, I could see the rope guy glaring at me and hear my father's drawl, "You gave 'em hell, kid".
July 31, 2007
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