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Part I
After my high school reunion last August Barb and I drove to Nebraska to attend a family reunion at her Uncle Dean's ranch in the Sandhills. Dean's ranch sits next to the North Loop River looking out over a meadow which, in August, is filled with big rolled hay bales. Behind the house, to the west, is the wind break, a respectable grove of gnarled old trees that Dean planted himself. Dean is 80 and has gotten a little gnarled himself. The house is the last inhabited sod house in the U.S. It's stuccoed over and you'd never know it was a soddie except the walls are three feet thick. During the summers Dean lives there with his wife Ethelyn. His sister, Verna, lives in a little converted school house across the yard from the soddie. It's a beautiful place, part of Barb's family's history, and they are very lucky to have it.Dean had a fishing pond put it some years back. It's about half a mile to the east of the house. The Sandhills sit on the Ogallala aquifer so water is never very far down, and there by the river all he had to do was have a hole dug and it filled itself. The first full day we were there I went down fishing with Barb and her brother Gary. The black bass were biting like crazy but they were little things so we were throwing them back.
I gave up on it after I caught acouple and got my book out and settled down on top of one of the hay bales. About that time Kevin, Barb's nephew, came roaring up on the little Honda trail bike that Dan, Dean's son, keeps up there for the kids. It came to me that I'd never ridden a motorcycle before and it was about time that I did. Kevin gave me some abbreviated instructions and I was off around the meadow. On this bike there was a pedal you used to shift. You tapped the front of the pedal to shift up, and the back of the pedal to shift down and to put it into neutral. The throttle was in the handle grip and, of course, you pulled back on it to put on the gas. There was also a brake pedal and hand brakes. I was a little worried about making sure I gave it enough gas because it had been stalling on the kids.
Off I went, west and parallel to the river. I made a tight turn to the north and the exhileration of the ride came over me. But I didn't want to push it too far my first time so I started heading back toward Kevin, who was back by the pond, watching the fishermen. I hit the pedal to downshift. I wanted to get it into neutral so I could stop it without stalling it. It didn't seem to shift. I looked down at my foot, trying again. I looked up. I was closing in on the pond and I was still in gear. I tensed up. Tensed up and pulled back on the throttle. Yes, I was headed straight for the pond and I put on more gas. Brakes? I didn't have time to think about brakes. I tried to explain later that if I could have just gotten up a little more speed I would have cleared the pond. Kevin is the only one who saw the whole glorious thing. "Oh shit!" I cried, and into the water I went.
For those of you who worry about the stupid things you have done in this life, consider the story of Gregg and the Trail Bike. You'll feel much better for it.
Part II
After the pond you'd think I'd had enough of Honda trailbikes. You'd think I'd do the sensible thing and give it up. Give up? Do the sensible thing? Not this boy. I had enough water on the brain to deal with a dozen trail bikes. Lucky for me we only had one, and it wasn't running. Amazing what a little water can do to an engine and gearbox. My luck, however, was short lived. We had a budding mechanic, an 18 year old wonder named Brad in our midst, who worked miracles with that bike. Got all of the water out of it. The next afternoon that bike was chugging away as good as ever. He should have emptied the water on my brain. As events proved it was sloshing around up there like toilet tank water in an earthquake.I decided I wan't going to let any trail bike beat me, not Gregg, aka Scarecrow, aka bottle dancer. I'd never been a klutz in my life. I was out to prove that the trip into the pond was a fluke. Once you fall off you've got to get right back on and try again. Right? Who made up that stupid saying anyway?
The bike and I met in the front yard. Showdown. Oilcans at twenty paces would have been safer, but I had to go and sit down on the thing. Brad gave me instructions. Once again I revved it up. Still worried about stalling it. How little one learns. I popped it into gear. The wheel spun madly, digging a hole into the lawn. I immediately recognized that it would have been a much better choice to start with the bike pointed straight somewhere other than the front of the house. I made a hard left turn, missing the house, but found myself closing in rapidly on a row of cars parked on the lawn. I turned as hard as I could. My panicked responce once again resulted in my pulling back on the throttle, putting on more gas. I screamed by the front of the cars, almost , but not quite missing them. I clipped the bumper of Dean's car, the meat of my thigh taking the impact, crushed between the bike and the bumper. I bounced off the bumper and careened wildly toward a flagpole in the middle of the yard. That's when I dumped the bike. In a brief moment of sanity I dumped the bike. My leg hurt like hell, my thigh had a bruise the size of a dinner plate, my jeans were ripped and my knee was cut, but the damage didn't appear to be major. It is a credit to Barb's family that my stock with them didn't seem to take a precipitous tumble after these disasters. I guess I did, after all, add another good story to their Sandhill ranch lore.
I did have another try at the bike. This time Brad took me out to the meadow, wide, open, flat, and with no obstructions. He took it around for a preliminary spin to show me how it was done. He stopped in front of me then put it in gear to go again. "Klunk!" went the gearbox. It was dead. It wouldn't go. Man outlasts machine. I have met the trail bike, and it is mine.
Gregg Writes
| 1989 | Besieged | Claire de Lune |
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| 1992 | Flood --- Riot --- Earthquake! |
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| 1993 | * Gregg and the Trail Bike * | A Stabbing | |
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| Under a Full Moon | Burt Rutan | I Meet a Bear | |
| 1994 | * 7.2! * | A Star Is Born | * My Car Is Stolen * |
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| 1995 | This Year I Flew Like A Bird |
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