LDO
26th January 2006, 03:25
I shared this story with my wife not too long ago. It is something that I have kept inside for many years. Not for any specific reason, just my thing. I think by sharing it with her, it allowed her to understand my passion for motorcycles and where it came from. At least now, she doesn’t think I’m just plain nuts, not about this anyways. She really appreciated the fact that I shared it with her and thought it was a special story so I thought I’d pass it along to you folks. Unfortunately, by the time I was done putting it down on paper, I realized that this 'Never ending Story' deal is for fiction where my story is true. SORRY. I'm not a writer of any kind and I don't consider myself 'talented' in that regard so here goes...
Growing up, I lived in a pretty quiet neighborhood. Nothing much happened and all the kids were usually inside by the time the streetlights started coming on. There was an old couple that lived at the corner house that no one really knew much about. The man didn’t go out much and the woman usually spent her afternoons tending her garden. She would occasionally wave to me as I rode by on my bicycle. One Friday, while riding by, I noticed a motorcycle in the driveway. It had seen better days and it was obvious that whoever was riding this thing and been doing some serious miles on it from the looks of the paint job and the bedroll still strapped to the handlebars.
Being the curious 10yr old that I was, I rode up the driveway and began my inspection of the bike. I could hear the front door open in the background but I just couldn’t take my eyes off the bike wondering what adventures this bike had seen and how many roads it had traveled. I turn around and in front of me stands this guy wearing denim and black leather. He had various patches sewn onto his vest, which I don’t recall now what they were or signified but I do remember him now as what most would consider a ‘worldly biker’ or ‘seriously old school’ now. When I saw him standing there looking at me, I thought for sure I was a gonner. Even at 10, I knew that ‘bikers’ don’t care for folks messin’ with their bikes; a trait I’ve come to embrace myself.
He comes up to me leaving his old mother at the doorway and asks without barely moving his lips, “ya like it?” To which I responded, “sure!” Then he asks the unthinkable, “wanna go for a ride?” I hopped on before he finished his sentence. “Whoa little man, let me get her started and over to the road”. He begins to kick at this beast until it comes to life spewing the smell of gas and oil into the air; a smell to this day I remember every time I start my own steed. The noise was unimaginable. Every neighbor and pet within the entire street knew this machine was running! He gets it over by the side of the road and instructs me on how to get on. Once settled, we’re off. The smells, the wind, just everything! It was like sensory overload and I was enjoying them all. The freedom I felt that day was pure. Well, I don’t have to explain it to any of you, you understand.
That weekend, I went on several short rides that probably didn’t amount to more than 2 or 3 miles round trip but for me was the greatest. Of course, my parents would have taken a look at this guy and judged him by his rough appearance. And of course, they would never allow me on a motorcycle. My father rode in his younger days and had many friends die on the roads while riding. Later on that Sunday I rode by the house for my daily ride and noticed the bike wasn’t in the driveway anymore. I knocked on the door and the old woman told me “oh, he’s gone honey”. No clues as to where he was going or when he’d be back, but that’s how he was and that’s how it is. I rode off disappointed but grateful and secretly, I knew my future would include riding motorcycles.
I visited the old couple regularly and she spoke often of her son. We’d sit in the yard drinking lemonade and talk. Sometimes she would mention a call she got from some town somewhere or a postcard she got in the mail from her son. I never saw him again and the old couple eventually moved away, but I’ll never forget my first ride on a motorcycle. It was during one of my visits with her that I was able to get some background information about her son. It seems he had been in the ARMY during the war in Vietnam. Like many of the vets from that war, when he got out, he couldn’t focus much. Jobs, family and relationships were hard for him to deal with so he got on his bike and just rode. He was there on one of his usual visits to his mom since dad didn’t want much to do with him because of all the things he had done in ‘THAT WAR’.
After a few years had gone by, my parents eased up a little and I got my own bike, which I rode to work during my high school years before joining the Marine Corps. During my time in, I’ve ridden several different types of bikes with varying degrees of power but I still remember that old Harley and the guy who rode it.
I respect this guy on many levels. First and foremost, he introduced me to riding motorcycles and the ‘brotherhood of the road’ lifestyle and for that I will be forever grateful. Secondly, he was a brother in arms and a veteran of the War in Vietnam and like so many others, was treated poorly by a public that didn’t understand any of the things that happened during that time or how it affected America’s sons and daughters. Finally, he taught me to forget about stereotypes and physical appearances. Judge the man by his actions and character no matter what he looks like.
The other day I walked into my garage and found my 5yr old son Jake sitting near my bike closely admiring the chrome wheels. I could see his mind working. I walked up to him and said, “ya like it?” He responded “yes daddy”, “wanna go for a ride?”
To be continued.....
Growing up, I lived in a pretty quiet neighborhood. Nothing much happened and all the kids were usually inside by the time the streetlights started coming on. There was an old couple that lived at the corner house that no one really knew much about. The man didn’t go out much and the woman usually spent her afternoons tending her garden. She would occasionally wave to me as I rode by on my bicycle. One Friday, while riding by, I noticed a motorcycle in the driveway. It had seen better days and it was obvious that whoever was riding this thing and been doing some serious miles on it from the looks of the paint job and the bedroll still strapped to the handlebars.
Being the curious 10yr old that I was, I rode up the driveway and began my inspection of the bike. I could hear the front door open in the background but I just couldn’t take my eyes off the bike wondering what adventures this bike had seen and how many roads it had traveled. I turn around and in front of me stands this guy wearing denim and black leather. He had various patches sewn onto his vest, which I don’t recall now what they were or signified but I do remember him now as what most would consider a ‘worldly biker’ or ‘seriously old school’ now. When I saw him standing there looking at me, I thought for sure I was a gonner. Even at 10, I knew that ‘bikers’ don’t care for folks messin’ with their bikes; a trait I’ve come to embrace myself.
He comes up to me leaving his old mother at the doorway and asks without barely moving his lips, “ya like it?” To which I responded, “sure!” Then he asks the unthinkable, “wanna go for a ride?” I hopped on before he finished his sentence. “Whoa little man, let me get her started and over to the road”. He begins to kick at this beast until it comes to life spewing the smell of gas and oil into the air; a smell to this day I remember every time I start my own steed. The noise was unimaginable. Every neighbor and pet within the entire street knew this machine was running! He gets it over by the side of the road and instructs me on how to get on. Once settled, we’re off. The smells, the wind, just everything! It was like sensory overload and I was enjoying them all. The freedom I felt that day was pure. Well, I don’t have to explain it to any of you, you understand.
That weekend, I went on several short rides that probably didn’t amount to more than 2 or 3 miles round trip but for me was the greatest. Of course, my parents would have taken a look at this guy and judged him by his rough appearance. And of course, they would never allow me on a motorcycle. My father rode in his younger days and had many friends die on the roads while riding. Later on that Sunday I rode by the house for my daily ride and noticed the bike wasn’t in the driveway anymore. I knocked on the door and the old woman told me “oh, he’s gone honey”. No clues as to where he was going or when he’d be back, but that’s how he was and that’s how it is. I rode off disappointed but grateful and secretly, I knew my future would include riding motorcycles.
I visited the old couple regularly and she spoke often of her son. We’d sit in the yard drinking lemonade and talk. Sometimes she would mention a call she got from some town somewhere or a postcard she got in the mail from her son. I never saw him again and the old couple eventually moved away, but I’ll never forget my first ride on a motorcycle. It was during one of my visits with her that I was able to get some background information about her son. It seems he had been in the ARMY during the war in Vietnam. Like many of the vets from that war, when he got out, he couldn’t focus much. Jobs, family and relationships were hard for him to deal with so he got on his bike and just rode. He was there on one of his usual visits to his mom since dad didn’t want much to do with him because of all the things he had done in ‘THAT WAR’.
After a few years had gone by, my parents eased up a little and I got my own bike, which I rode to work during my high school years before joining the Marine Corps. During my time in, I’ve ridden several different types of bikes with varying degrees of power but I still remember that old Harley and the guy who rode it.
I respect this guy on many levels. First and foremost, he introduced me to riding motorcycles and the ‘brotherhood of the road’ lifestyle and for that I will be forever grateful. Secondly, he was a brother in arms and a veteran of the War in Vietnam and like so many others, was treated poorly by a public that didn’t understand any of the things that happened during that time or how it affected America’s sons and daughters. Finally, he taught me to forget about stereotypes and physical appearances. Judge the man by his actions and character no matter what he looks like.
The other day I walked into my garage and found my 5yr old son Jake sitting near my bike closely admiring the chrome wheels. I could see his mind working. I walked up to him and said, “ya like it?” He responded “yes daddy”, “wanna go for a ride?”
To be continued.....