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.