| << Back 8/14/02 Licking wounds from a bout of mountain motor madness By John Beckman We learn many things in life beginning at an early age that help us to meet our basic needs and promote our own personal comfort and security. We are taught that there are consequences for misbehavior and that it takes effort on our part to do things “right,” to get what we are after. Some things are learned easily the first time, like “don’t put your hand on a hot stove,”“don’t stick a fork in your eye” and other painfully obvious mistakes. Other lessons take a little longer to sink in, and still others apparently have to be repeated before the results have lasting meaning. I recently put myself through a “refresher course” in a lesson I should have learned years ago. I just hope I got the message this time. My college buddy and his two kids came down from the city to our farm on Friday for a mountain vacation and a “back to nature” experience here in Jackson County. They pulled up the gravel drive in a giant SUV bearing New Jersey tags and towing a trailer full of four-wheelers and dirt bikes. Like most small boys, I too had a fascination for anything with a motor that moved its operator around without pedaling. Eyeing go-karts, mini-bikes and even riding lawnmowers and farm tractors caused the octane level in my young bloodstream to rise. I never owned any transportation vehicles as a kid except my red Western Flyer, but I had the chance to putter a few of my friends’ little mini-bikes around the town’s farms and grape vineyards. These occasions usually ended in a wipe out, skinned knees and damaged pride. As a teen I sometimes climbed onto bigger dirt bikes and learned again that unseen rocks, logs and a lack of experience usually resulted in the bike on the ground and blood coming from somewhere — my blood. Seventeen years ago when I first met my wife, I took it upon myself to impress her with a motorcycle ride around Raleigh, since I knew she had spent a good bit of time enjoying riding on motorcycles in college. I borrowed a buddy’s Honda 350, and shortly into the ride we came to a red light which I didn’t slow down enough for, tapping the bumper of the stopped car in front of us. The driver got out to inspect for damage and finding none, he muttered something about lousy bikers as he got in and drove away. So much for making impressions. I don’t think I’ve been on a bike more than twice since then, never with her on the back. Apparently her memory is better than mine. After a tour of the farm, the settling in of my northern guests and a couple of reunion martinis, the kids announced it was time to unload the toys from the trailer and tear around the roads and trails of the farm. We don’t normally allow “two-cycle noisemakers” on the property, but since it was an old pal just in for the weekend we made an exception to the peace and quiet part of our mountain lives. They had brought an extra bike for me to ride around with them, so leaving common sense and previous experience behind, and succumbing to their urging, I climbed on a brand new Yamaha 250 in my shorts and sandals and headed up the road through the loose gravel. The kids were having a ball slinging dust, revving motors and all the things involved with having horsepower at their disposal. I too remembered all the fun of speed and the wind in my face as we rounded corners smiling at each other through the roar of four engines in gasoline-burning harmony. As if predicted, my lack of experience and finesse became obvious once again when we hit the top of the hill at 5 mph and a combination of loose stone and too much throttle sent me in one direction and the bike in another, making everyone laugh at my lack of skill. It didn’t hurt much at the time, and the little raspberry burn on my leg was hardly bleeding, so I picked the bike up and switched with my friend for the four-wheeler he was riding for some more road warrior action. We got back to the bottom with my wounds looking a little worse, so I parked the rig and told the kids I was done for the day. They nodded and peeled off down the road again. It’s been a few weeks since then, and I subsequently found several other previously unknown scrapes: a wrist that stayed sore a few days and a short-lived limp. The raspberry morphed into a lovely 2-inch x 3-inch scab of various colors. Once again the lesson has presented itself in no uncertain way. I hope next time I remember that I really stink on a dirt bike, and I will need only to look at the scars to prove it.
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