Growing Up Miles, Pt 3 : And I Think I Can Fly

Did you ever think you could fly? Most of us have wanted to fly at some point in our lives. I've pretty much always wanted to fly. I spent a lot of time as a kid looking up, dreaming about flying-- as a bird, as a pilot, as an astronaut.... But did you ever think you could fly?

I grew up when the US was unstoppable, when we owned outer space, when we were well along the arc to interplanetary (maybe interstellar!) travel, when science fiction seemed less like fiction with every passing day. With the odd dollop of magic or fantasy thrown in (to transform into a bird or pterodactyl), I had the skies covered. We would lay in the grass or in the driveway and dream of flying. I might be a buzzard or an eagle, or I might be piloting anything from a high winged Cessna to one of the B-52 Stratofortresses that constantly flew over El Paso in the early and mid 1960s.

Or I might be on my way to other planets, other star systems, other galaxies, other universes, or just wandering the infinite depths of outer space, between any of those.

I might be an inter-dimensional being that flitted from one reality to another, walking, swimming or flying as desired or needed. I might fly straight through gas giants, or even dense planets. Maybe even suns. But not black holes. Nothing could fly through a black hole. The weird gravity would probably rip the wings right off a trans-dimensional being!

I wanted to soar through that clear, blue, infinite, Texas sky, on cloudless days, and when the wisps floated high above like too many contrails, and when the cumulus clouds stacked up like God's own bag of cotton balls, and when the rare thunderheads moved in. I wanted to fly before the dust storm, before the flash floods, and right through them. I wanted to soar on the edge of gale force winds, then turn and fly back the other way just to show them who was boss.

Some days, out of the blue (so to speak), I would be hit with a nearly overwhelming conviction that I could fly if only I tried right then and there. This might happen once every few months, or once a year. It stopped, finally, during college. One of my most vivid memories of 9th grade is sitting in band rehearsal, 3/4 of the way to the back of the room, up several levels of risers. My trombone resting on the floor, I stared at the music while Mr. McClintock berated some other section for the sort of heinous musical crime band directors berate sections for. Suddenly I knew, I knew! that if I tried immediately, I would fly. Not just could. Would.

I watched it unfold in my mind's eye. It was so graceful. I carefully placed the brass on the floor, stood on my chair, extended my arms. Heads turned. Mr McClintock quit swatting the music stand with his baton. I raised my arms. He looked angry, thinking I was mocking him. I flapped my arms once, twice, leaned forward and leapt. I soared over the shocked heads, some ducking, of my band mates, landed next to the director, then took off back to my seat, doing a tight loop along the way. I picked up my trombone, and awaited instruction...

Thankfully, I caught myself before I finished putting the trombone down. But it was a massive struggle to not attempt what part of my mind just knew was the first step-- and possibly my last chance at that step-- into a glorious life filled with flight. I agonized for a day or two over whether I had blown it. Did I mention this was in the 9th grade?

I don't recall ever giving in to these bouts; I'm sure I would have remembered the subsequent doctor's visit and the mockery at school. (I never got this urge on flat ground without witnesses nearby.)

Did anyone else ever go through this?

Or is this just part of the freakishness of being Miles?[1]

 

This afternoon I couldn't help staring at the beauty of the sky, at the mixture of clear, rain-washed blue and clouds both white and gray. P.O.D.'s "Alive" started playing in my head, and I was soaring near those clouds on the wings of a bird of prey, lord of of all I surveyed, drinking in the glory and beauty of creation from a few thousand feet up.

It was, of course, all in my head. But until the day I can really and truly fly, I can live with that.

NOTES

[1] Thanks to Whitney Fagala and Kelsey Jones for latching on to that phrase when I spoke it today. I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise!

Wheels, Pt 1.75 - I (Still) Want to Ride My Bicycle...

The summer after 10th grade I took on a paper route. The guy who had it before me took me along on the back of his Honda Cub 50 scooter[1] a few times, and I fell in love with it. I really wanted to buy one, but my parents weren't ready for that. I needed something heavy duty, something with serious carrying capacity. I ended up with another red Schwinn, a heavy duty 26" single speed with a giant front basket and two rear baskets.

Dad was primarily interested in this bike holding up. I was more interested in multiple speeds; Augusta had some serious hills! On the plus side, I developed good leg muscles.

The truck delivered the papers to the Texaco at Monte Sano and Central (no longer there). We were supposed to be there around 2PM to start folding, rubber banding and packing the papers (and wrapping them if it might rain). By 3 we had typically started the route. One of my best friends, John Steiner, also had a route (he started first and found mine for me) (he started first and found mine for me). We'd work together to get ready, and some days we'd ride part of each other's routes together. Other friends-- Joe beck, Claude Thompson, and Matt West would usually meet to hang out while we got the papers ready, and sometimes ride with us.

I took on a second route. It doubled my money, but quadrupled the hills. On the plus side, John and I would race down about a mile of 15 degree to 20 degree slope on Central Avenue. That was a blast, other than the day John hit a parked car (I was elsewhere) and flipped over the top, destroying the front end of his bicycle. I doubt mine would have fared better.

During this time, we also were sneaking out of our houses early in the morning. Our "gang" would roam around the city, avoiding headlights, hanging out in friends' yards, and generally just enjoying our freedom. A couple of the guys got picked up twice by the cops. Both times they simply took them home and didn't wake their parents up.

That summer I also rode my cousin Simms' minibike around Fairfax, SC, especially on a neighboring farm. I got sideways trying to jump it and crashed, cracking the crankcase. It refused to run. I felt horrible and offered to pay for it. Simms told me to keep quiet. Dad kept pushing me to get a repair estimate but Simms wasn't having it; he was bugging his parents to let him have the hand me down car from his older brothers. That eventually worked and he sold the minibike. I got off Scot free.

The "gang" got into trouble near the end of the summer. Since afternoon paper routes included the Sunday morning paper, I'd been using that as an excuse to get out even earlier Sunday morning. One of those Sunday mornings we got caught somewhere we shouldn't have been and my parents made me quit my job.

Some time during the school year, that bike was stolen off our front porch. We never even had a clue who took it. That week, Martin Goodale decided to sell his 10 speed Schwinn racing bike (he road raced a lot) to help fund a new, better race bike. He had put about a thousand dollars into the Schwinn but sold it to me for $125. I was in love.

About the only thing I didn't use that bike for was going to school; Westside was too far away, with too much traffic on Washington Road. I rode it everywhere else. It stayed in Augusta the next summer when I bought the Yamaha 80 and worked in Atlanta, but I rode it a good bit my senior year.

After we graduated high school Martin O'Rourke and I put at least a couple of thousand miles on our bikes. We went all sorts of places within a 50 mile radius. We spent several hours on July 4th in an empty, six story parking garage at a downtown bank. We'd ride up and race down, ride up and race down. After a couple of hours we sometimes took the elevator up. Once we carried the bikes up a stairwell, just because. Sometimes we'd hear a car coming, move aside as someone raced up then raced back down and roared off. We wished we'd thought to bring skates.

There's nothing quite like drifting a 10 speed on racing tires across sealed concrete, huge cement beams inches away, avoiding oil spots, dirt and leaves, and the occasional, candy apple red, Plymouth Roadrunner.

Later that summer Phil Sacco, Dan Croft and I were at a service station across from Daniel Field airport, putting air in the tires before a road trip. Phil emptied his back tire, adjusted it slightly on the rim, and hooked it up to the compressor (it had a low airflow setting), and started talking with the mechanic. A minute later, we noticed that Phil's tire had grown about an 8" bubble on one side. About then the tire exploded, sounding like a .45 caliber pistol under the metal awning. We all jumped at least a foot. Two of us rode while Phil walked about a mile to the nearest place we could buy him a new tube and tire.

After that we stuck with hand pumps.

I took the Schwinn with me to Georgia Tech. It served me well in Atlanta (even hillier than Augusta), both on and off campus. One afternoon that first September in college I rode about 10.5 miles each way up North Ave and Northside Drive, out past West Paces Ferry to Mr Hale's house. During Rush Hour. I was going about 40MPH in 45-50MPH traffic. Cross streets were hairy; at least twice someone pulled out in front of me and I swear my clothes brushed their bumper as I passed. I rode home just before dark; traffic wasn't nearly as bad. The uphills were still brutal, the downhills exhilarating.

One night the following quarter I came back to the dorm really late from a party. I was exhausted and rather drunk. I'd walked the bike home as much to help stay upright as anything. I couldn't get the lock to engage, so I just wrapped the chain around the bike and the park bench in front of the dorm, thinking it looked locked.

Needless to say, it was gone the next morning.

This is called a stupid tax. I recommend not paying this one.

[1] Tag line: "You meet the nicest people on a Honda!"

Wheels, Pt 1.5 - More of the Pre-Motorized Days

Remember that big, red Schwinn? That was the norm back then. One speed. Some form of basket. Bikes had to be practical as well as fun. Most students didn't carry a backpack or book bag so baskets were necessary for carrying school books and lunch, as well as comics, snacks, and whatever else you bought at the store (such as cigarettes for your parents or model glue for your models, provided you had a signed note and the store clerk or manager knew your parents).

Some people, mainly rich people or people we thought were off in their own, little worlds, had bikes with more than one speed. Three speeds were for old people or girls. Being boys in the early 60s, my friends and I prided ourselves on being able to keep up with any old three speed on our one speeds. I was convinced I could go 30; my Dad clocked me in his car one day. I went as fast as I could. My feet were a blur, my open jacket flapped like Superman's cape in the wind. I easily went 30, maybe 50! Dad's speedometer said 18.

I was shocked. No, I was devastated. Outwardly I accepted Dad's verdict (after a bit of arguing), but in my heart I knew the truth; his speedometer was broken. For months I half expected every cop we saw to pull Dad over for speeding. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to give you a ticket. Have a nice day. And get that speedometer fixed, sir."

There's never a cop around when you need one.

Every once in a while we'd see a ten speed. We called them English Racers-- I have no idea why. Nobody around seemed to actually race. We assumed the French and others rode them and raced them as well. Perhaps the English invented them?

My friends an I knew some day we would own English Racers. Even if we weren't rich. We'd be cool, off in our own, little worlds (weren't we always?) With ten whole speeds, there was no limit to how fast we could go, hunched over those beautiful, down-turned handlebars. With hand brakes instead of coaster brakes!

When I started playing trombone in the 6th grade, I carried my trombone in its case to school on days we had band. Some days I walked. When I rode, I hung the case by its handle on the bars. It was awkward but it was the only choice for riding so I did it, and it worked.

There I was, riding a tank of a bike, books and a lunch box in the basket, a huge, heavy, brown thing slung under my handlebars and bonking my knee on a regular basis. Having a blast. Driving my tank, firing that big, brown cannon. Flying my plane, launching that big brown missile or shooting that big, brown machine gun. We saved the day often, my bike and I.

I've glossed over a few other conveyances. At some point, probably at five or six, I had a (red, what else?) scooter. They were heavier back then, made of steel. Like my first bike, it came to me used. I couldn't have cared less. I rode it constantly, but have no idea what happened to it. Probably stolen.

Around 7 or 8 I got roller skates. I loved skating but there was only so far you could go on the sidewalk. Still, I skated until I couldn't stand it. Some days I rode my bike with my skates on (this was before in-lines). One of my favorite things was to get going as fast as I could (18MPH, hah!) and drop down onto my skates, astraddle the bar, riding my skates and bike together.

The bar. The bar~ The bane of every boy's existence at some point. I always thought it was unfair that girls had bikes much more suited to doing crazy stuff without hurting the private parts. Mom explained to me that girls were more delicate and sensitive there. I told her that was impossible or they would die from the pain. I don't think I got through to her. I would never have admitted it, but I was somewhat jealous of a boy up the street with the padded bar. It was years later I found out how little that helped when you slipped off the seat.

November 11, 1966, a day that lives in infamy, we moved to Augusta, Georgia, 39 days before my 11th birthday. I believe it was some point in that year when I finally got a big bike, a 26", probably a Schwinn, and definitely red. Instead of a basket on the front, it had two baskets on the back. Saddle baskets. Just like a cowboy. Having left my beloved Texas for some silly state with too many trees and too little sky, I needed those baskets, a link (however tenuous) to Texas. A cowboy's bike.

My sisters ended up with purple Spyder style bikes-- banana seats and high bars. I was jealous. These were about the coolest bikes around! I wasn't allowed to ride them much; I might have broken them. My parents especially mistrusted the chain's ability to take abuse; it was about half the size of any bicycle chain we had ever seen. In fact the whole bike was fairly small. a marvel of compact, graceful design. I occasionally managed to ride one around the yard; they were just made for doing stunts. My sisters, girls to the core, simply rode them. I was happy for them, but it just seemed wrong.

My cousin (let's call him Ben) came to stay with us a couple of summers later while he went to the local college. Ben tended to do what Ben wanted to do. And one day what Ben wanted to do was ride one of the Spyder bikes. I rode my bike despite Ben's pressure to ride the other Spyder. We took off up Henry Street. At the far end of Henry Street we got to Ben's destination: The Hill. It was 1,000 feet long, at an angle between 30 and 40 degrees. We all loved to race down The Hill on bikes (or on crazy days, skates). Near the bottom we would lock up the brakes, skidding sideways through the terminal intersection to a halt just before, or just at, the far curb. End of the line. The trick was to stop as close to the curb as possible, ideally hitting it without falling over. Back up The Hill and do it again!

Ben stopped at the top of the hill as we sometimes did, and grinned. Then he took off down the Hill, pedaling as fast as he could, screaming for joy like the wild football player he'd been in high school. As he neared the bottom of The Hill, he stood up on the bike, pedaled backward hard to slam on the coaster brake and... froze as the chain snapped and the bike zoomed the last twenty five feet down the hill, through the cross street, up the packed dirt and leaves acting like a ramp at the curb, flew teen feet or more through the air, skidded through the muddy grass into the bushes and WHAM into the brick wall of the local synagogue.

Ben sustained only minor injuries, a few scratches. His head was harder than mine (and that's hard!), so he hardly bled (we all suspected he broke a brick or two). The bike, though... besides the broken chain the bars were bent, the tire popped, and several spokes were bent or broken. When Ben came out of his daze (whether medical or emotional I couldn't say) he tried to get me to walk the bike home while he rode mine. I wasn't having it. I wasn't touching that bike! I'd tried to talk him out of riding it and he hadn't listened. My fingerprints were not going on that bike. That rebelliously ridden bike. That banned bike. I had a hard time standing up to Ben, but fear is a powerful motivator.

My parents responded as expected. They'd trusted him, given him a second chance at college, and this was how he repaid them? Practically stealing and destroying my sister's bike and involving me? They tag teamed him for a good fifteen minutes. They made him pay to fix the bike and do what work he could (most of it) himself. He even had to touch up scratches, some of which probably weren't even from the bushes.

Sadly, I don't think he learned much from the experience.

Perhaps even more sadly, I don't think I did, either. But that's another story line.

Wheels, Pt 3 - Flogging my Yamaha 80 to Death

My Yamaha 80 was a pretty low maintenance bike, but I worked on it all the time, partly to learn, partly to keep it at peak performance, and partly for the sheer joy of it. During the summer in Atlanta, I also discovered more limits. For instance, 80 inch pounds of torque was what the book called for on the head bolts. I didn't really know how much that was, but I found out how much too much over 80 was when one of the head bolts snapped on a lunch break at work.

Mac, the supervisor, let me take the afternoon off to go to the Yamaha shop again. Miraculously, they had a bolt / nut washer combination in stock, and a head gasket, which I needed by the time I got there. I will never forget the ping! sounds that came from the base of my poor bike's cylinder head as I rode the 15 miles (over 20 counting wrong turns on unfamiliar highways). I cringed every time I heard one. The more throttle, the more pings. And by the time I arrived back at work they were almost constant. One of the mechanics I assisted helped me estimate 7 foot pounds as I put it back together. I'd been waay over. A quick ride to make sure it was OK, and back to work I went, out two hours wages plus the cost of the parts and gas and oil.

I found where the carburetor hid, where the air path was, and applied silicone sealant to make sure it was as waterproof as possible. Many was the time I rode in water up over the engine, steam bubbling away from the head and exhaust.

As the year wore on, the bike would occasionally splutter and die in the rain. After a few minutes of drying out it would start and run fine again. Years later I heard of deteriorating spark plug wires or caps causing this, but at the time I had no clue.

I don't recall how much oil it burned, but the gas tank held 1.9 gallons, and I got anywhere from 50MPG to close to 100, depending on how I rode it. Top speed was 50, though Yamaha claimed 55 (I had several people clock me). It would beat anything around off the line up to about 30, was still quick to 35, OK to 40, worked to hit 45, and only went 50 if I laid down on the tank.

Gas was cheap; I vividly recall the first time I spent $1 to fill up with 1.8 gallons.

Mr. Hale's neighborhood in Atlanta was the perfect place to learn to ride. It had wide, windy roads with short straight sections; it was very low traffic; the huge houses were set back from the road amidst trees so the sound didn't bother anyone. I read a lot and rode a lot. I honed my craft.

Later, back in Augusta, I would spend all the time I could on the dirt roads near the river, learning to accelerate and brake on slippery sand and mud, how to slide on purpose while accelerating or slowing, how to work berms, how to handle bumps, holes, and washboards, how to ride through almost anything. This came in handy both on the street (especially in rain or gravel) and in the woods.

I loved riding in the woods! There were several places within a few miles of my house to ride. To this day I have no idea who owned these areas, but there were trails used by hikers, bicyclists and motorcyclists, and no signs. I learned how to deal with long, steep hills (going down terrified me, but if you go up, you have to go down!). I dropped the bike crossing a stream and spent 15 minutes fighting to get it out.

I got between railroad tracks and followed them for a mile before deciding to get off, and getting stuck with a wheel on each side of the track. I finally managed to get it free about one minute before a train showed up. (Yes, this is recurring theme.)

I got my first ticket on this bike. A motorcycle cop pulled me over on King St in Augusta for going 45 in a 35 zone, up a 20 degree hill. He claimed he had been following me for at least a mile; if so, he was so far back there's no way he could have known how fast I was going. I explained to the judge that there was no way this bike could have been going 45 up that hill (40 would have been a legit ticket). He stared in disbelief. "It's a motorcycle, isn't it? You were probably going faster than that!" The cop just stood there and leered. I later found out he was the police chief's son, and most of the judges just went along with whatever tickets he wrote.

I learned to jump with it, first on small ramps in my back yard, later between the yard at Langford Junior High and the elementary school next door. There was a short, steep hill between Langford's football field and the other school's playground, varying from two to eight feet and 30 degrees to 75 degrees. I would race across the football field and hit the hill, going anywhere from 5 to 15 or 20 feet in the air. Once I came down front wheel first, and went about 10 feet on that wheel, wobbling the whole way, just missing a large, concrete block. Again, a lesson learned the scary but easy way.

I played around with stoppies (a term I would not hear for years). I wasn't that great at them, but they were fun.

My friends and I had always spent lots of time walking and riding bicycles together, even after we had our licenses. Now Martin O'Rourke and I sometimes went places on this bike and his ten speed, swapping who rode what. One day we were practicing jumps in my back yard. He decided to see what would happen if he started from a dead stop at the bottom of the low ramp (three feet long, 8 inches high). He gave it the gas, and ended up chasing the bike, wheelied over a bit backwards, until he finally managed to turn the throttle back to off. The bike stopped fast, the tail light caught him in the crotch, and they both fell over, Martin in pain, the bike buzzing happily. I fell over, too, laughing too hard to do more, even though I knew how much that had to hurt.

Joe Beck decided he wanted top learn to ride. Joe was a close friend, but he wasn't super coordinated. He was also afraid of the bike, which he didn't realize until he took off across my yard on it, white knuckled, white eyed, frozen in terror. He ran into bushes and a tree, finally being knocked down. He had bloody knuckles; the bike had a broken clutch handle mount. Again.

I gave several friends, including Fran Martin, their first motorcycle rides. I was a little nervous taking Fran to a football game on the bike because her boyfriend was the biggest guy on the team. But he was apparently cool with it. I gave my girlfriend, Becky, a brief ride, but she had hated bikes since a close friend had died on one.

As college approached, I got nervous that everyone would laugh at a college guy on an 80cc bike. My Dad assured me this was not the case, but I refused to listen. By then the bike had 4m000 mile son it, many of them high RPM dirt miles. It smoked, ran poorly, had a horribly bent rim from riding home with a nail in the tire, and the rear tire was almost bald. I sold my baby for $125 (helmet included), and took only my ten speed to college.

Two of the coolest guys in my dorm shared a 50cc bike.

Wheels, Pt 2

The summer after 11th grade in Augusta, my parents decided I needed a change of scenery. They asked Mema to look for jobs in Atlanta. For some years, she had been nannying for divorced millionaires. Her current boss, finding her looking at the want ads, literally fell to his knees and asked what he had done wrong, and hoe he could convince her not to leave. When she explained she was looking for a job for her grandson he offered me a job as a mechanic's assistant for the company he and his brother owned, on the spot. I had only met him once for five minutes a year before this. I got offered decent wages and a room in his mansion for the summer.

Clearly I would need wheels.

I talked my Dad into letting me use most of my meager savings to buy a motorcycle. We went down to the Yamaha dealer. I still vividly recall the colors, the way the metal gleamed, the smell of runner and vinyl, of gasoline and polish. The largest bike I could afford was a blue and white, gleaming, screaming, 100cc twin cylinder roadster, but it would reputedly go 65 or 70, so Dad limited me to the 80cc single "enduro" bike (street legal with a high pipe, and street tries that could handle some dirt). It was a bright green. The salesman grabbed another bike, explained the basics, and led me on a ride for a few blocks. I was sold. With a gold metal-flake helmet for only a little more, so was the bike. I was the proud owner of a G7S.

I rode it around Augusta the next few days, getting the feel of it. Then we borrowed the Beck's pickup truck, loaded my baby up, and took off for Atlanta. I rode in the back the two hour trip to make sure the bike didn't fall over. I spent my time going over every square centimeter (this was my first brush with metric nuts and bolts) of my ride, fiddling with this, playing with that.

Like everything but the XS-650 this bike was a two stroke. I knew the theory but had no experience with these. I couldn't find the carburetor; it was hidden away in a compartment by the crankcase. I found a metal knob like a screw with a rubber cover. I played with it, and put it back more or less where it started. or so I thought.

When we arrived at Mr. Hale's home, I started the bike to ride it down the ramp. Instead of its usual, happily burbling idle, it shrieked to maximum RPMs. "Something must have gotten stuck bouncing around in this truck. I'll ride it around and I'm sure it'll fix itself." Dad wasn't so sure, but knew how hard headed I was. They visited a while and headed back to Augusta.

I drove off to learn the area and "shake the problem out". Mr. Hale lived in the rich part of north Atlanta, all gigantic lots, huge trees, and meandering roads. Riding a motorcycle wasn't that different from riding a bicycle other than acceleration and speed, and a lot more thrilling. I'd gotten really comfortable with the bike and was happily racing from turn to turn, easily staying at the 35MPH limit despite the curves.

Suddenly a sign loomed in front of me: sharp curve ahead, 15MPH. My week of training in Augusta kicked in, and I let off the gas to engine brake. It shrieked on full bore toward the corner a second or two before I remembered that it now idled at full speed!

Somewhat panicked, I grabbed both brakes as I started into the turn. The lovely, grippy tires did their thing. The bike stood up straight. Bikes only turn when they are leaning. The road went left. We went straight, my baby and I. It had rained recently, and the tires plowed into the ground rather nicely. When we hit the tree root, they were almost dug in to the axles. The bike flipped up, poised for an instant perfectly vertical. Then we fell on forward into a driveway, head first, Miles on his back, still astride an upside down motorcycle, buzzing away like a billion angry hornets.

I was, of course, now facing back the direction I had come. I could see the shocked face of the driver of the car that had been behind me. He recovered just in time not to follow in my tracks and run me over. Screeching to a stop in the middle of the curve, he jumped out and ran over must as my motor spluttered to a stop (the gas was running out of the top of the tank rather than the bottom, and this motor was gravity fed).

"Can I help you?"

"Yes! Get this thing off of me!"

He helped. I thanked him. I twisted the forks back roughly into alignment. The headlight and rear view mirror were broken, along with the clutch handle mount, but that went back into place, and the clutch worked so long as I was careful. I rode off. He followed, much farther back.

When I got to Mr. Hale's house, I took off the helmet. That's when I realized it had a big scrape. I knew my head was hard, but it wasn't that hard. I was sold on helmets for life.

Inside, I ran into Mema in the kitchen. I hugged her. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You seem stiff."

"Oh, nothing. I had a little accident, no big deal." I walked on past and she screamed. My tee shirt was torn and bloody on the back. I hadn't really felt anything with all the adrenalin pumping. Until now. She doctored me up, and the shirt became my first shop rag.

Then she made me call my parents and tell them. At least she was on an extension, reassuring them. Especially Mom. Moms really don't like to hear things like that.

The next morning she followed me to the nearest Yamaha shop. They had to order parts, and it was a week before the bike was ready. It cost me $39 and change, most of a week's wages.

"Oh, and we reset the idle. Did you mess with that?"

"I don't think so. How do you do that?"

"This little screw knob under this rubber cap."

"Oh."

"So you did mess with it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't mess with things you don't understand. You could have died, or at least blown up your engine."

Oops.

Another lesson learned. Idle hands and all that.