The Motorcycle Ride

After one year of teaching, my friend Janel and I visited a motorcycle dealer in Indianapolis...just looking. After looking and talking I decided I would buy a KZ400. Never mind that I had just ridden dirt bikes maybe twice in my life...Janel assured me she knew what she was doing (first red flag). Of course, I had no credit card and not enough money in my checking account so the helpful and kind salesman allowed me to use their phone to call my parents. My mother answered, we spoke briefly then I asked her if she could do me a favor. Sure, my mom replied, what do you need? Oh, just a cashier's check from my savings account for $2000, nothing much, I replied. There was silence on the other end, then my mother said, why don't you talk to your father... My father wanted a clarification and I repeated my request. And this cashier's check should be made out to whom, my Dad asked. Now the hesitation was on my end. Keystone Kawasaki I meekly replied. I think we will talk about this when you get home was my Dad's answer. We hung up and my motorcycle dreams drifted away. Then the helpful and kind salesman said that if I would write a check for $50 I could take the bike and send the rest when I got to Fort Wayne and accessed my account. What a deal! Would that even happen today? I wrote the check and was now the proud owner of a bright red Kawasaki that I had little clue how to ride.
Janel got on the bike and I followed in her car, in rush hour traffic on a Friday as we drove from north central Indy to the south side of the city. When we got to her house, we went to a little traveled street and she began her lesson, showing me the clutch, brakes and how to shift. After absorbing the lesson and observing her from the back of the bike, I gave it my first try. I let the clutch too quickly and promptly stalled the bike. I repeated this three more times and yelled "I'm taking this damn bike back". Janel, ever the patient teacher, explained and showed me again how to slooooowly let out the clutch. On my next attempt, I did so and began to glide down the street. OK, maybe I didn't glide but I was moving. I repeated this a few more times and as I got more confident I decided to ride down her street. I passed her house and there was her father. I honked and waved as he stared at me with his mouth open, speechless.
The next morning, I drove to Fort Wayne to play in a softball tournament and my parents were due to meet me there to watch the tournament. When I met them in the parking lot, they asked where Janel was and I told them she would be arriving later in my car. When they asked how I had arrived I pointed to the nearby motorcycle. Though not happy, they managed to remain calm and stay and watch the softball game.
Later that summer my mother expressed interest in going for a ride. We were at my parents house and I gave my mom a helmet and she got on the back and I took her for a ride through the neighborhood. When we returned to the house, my mother said "let me try it". I looked warily at Janel and hesitantly said OK, let me show you how. I suggested that I get on the back with her but she hopped on and said "I can go by myself". I started it and put it in gear as I showed her the clutch and explained the gears. I was still explaining important things like braking when she eased out the clutch and began to move down the street. (Unlike me she seemed to have mastered this on her first try!) I ran along side the bike and tried to continue my instructions when she accelerated faster than I could run and left me behind and disappeared around the corner. I looked at Janel and she shook her head and said "your mother..." which seemed to say it all. We laughed and anxiously waited and hoped for her return. Had I gotten to the part about the brake? A couple of minutes later, we heard the bike coming from the opposite direction, the engine revving at high RPM...still in first gear. She had ridden around the block in first gear the entire way and as she approached, we doubted she had any idea how to brake. As I braced myself to run along side the bike to stop it, she angled toward the yard, went up the curb and dumped the bike into the grass. Thankfully the helpful and kind salesman had suggested a leg guard be installed and the guard at that moment protected my mother from the weight of the bike. So not in any danger, my mother had a firm grip on the throttle and the back tire was spinning furiously. I had visions of the bike catching and doing a "motorcycle break dance" with my mother at the center. I rushed to the bike and hit the kill switch. Janel, my mother and I then all collapsed in the grass laughing uncontrollably as we imagined what her ride had been like and enjoyed the relief that the outcome was only a bump or bruise.
My mother was probably 51 years old at the time. She never asked to ride the motorcycle again, but her only ride was another testament to her spirit and sense of adventure.

Remembering Mother

My mother was no one special. She was intelligent with a keen inquisitive nature. She graduated from Franklin College with a degree in biology and took a job at Eli Lilly in the lab. She quit that job for the full time career of raising four children and a husband. I am not sure which of the two took more effort. She had a great sense of adventure and loved to travel to new places. She took a trip to Antarctica with a college friend when she was seventy years old. She was not witty or a great joke teller but she had a special knack for coming up with a funny, memorable comment at just the right time. My mother died five years ago and my friends and family still tell amusing stories about her. With every passing year, I realize just how adventurous, smart, funny and, well, special she was.

I include one memorable story here and hope to add others. I hope that friends and family will comment with other stories and memories.

Growing up we always had a sandbox in our backyard. It was a simple structure, a square of two-by-sixes set into the ground by my father. The start of each summer was marked by the arrival of a dump truck with a new load of sand. This was quickly followed by kids of all ages from all over our neighborhood. By the end of every summer the sand was flattened, having been kicked, thrown, eaten, rubbed onto heads and made into pies by the neighborhood. One summer weekend, we were playing in the sandbox. The adults were in the next yard relaxing in lawn chairs. Some of us began running and trying to clear the six foot span of the box. As one of the older kids, maybe seven or eight at the time, it was fairly easy for me. After several minutes of broad jumping, my mother got up from her lawn chair and joined the line of kids awaiting their turn to jump. I imagine someone mentioned that they used to be able to do that, my mother countered that she still could, someone expressed doubt that she could and game on! Did I mention that beer drinking was involved? Anyway, my mother's turn came and all activity stopped as kids and adults alike watched. She sprinted toward the sandbox, launched herself into the air, landed on both feet on the other side of the sandbox, lost her balance and was propelled forward hands outstretched as if sliding headfirst and skidded on our sidewalk. She got up, brushed herself off, looked at her scraped palms and declared "told you I could still do it". At that moment I was the proudest kid in the neighborhood.