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.

Wheels, Pt I

Like a lot of guys, I've been in love with anything on wheels almost as far back as I can recall. Cars, trucks, bikes, skates, you name it.

My first serious wreck was on a trike, towing a Radio Flyer wagon. One of my best friends (and next door neighbor), Clifford Bossie, and I had been playing some intense game with our trikes for hours. All I remember was that it involved going really fast and stopping suddenly. It grew dark as we played. For the thousandth time I stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk but this time Clifford ran into me. I ate the bars on the way down, and broke all my front teeth, seriously repositioning them all along the way. The dental surgeon who pulled them left fragments. It took two more visits to get all the pieces out. The permanent teeth grew in the same screwball way the baby teeth had come out. It took several years of braces in Jr. High & High school to mostly straighten the mess out. I think my parents blamed Clifford, but it was just one of those things; we were always running into each other. We were boys.

My first bike was a bright red, used Murray with a luggage rack on the back sporting a skull and crossbones sticker courtesy of the previous owner. I rode the wheels off it until it was stolen. For some reason I always had problems with bicycles and thieves.

I then got an honest-to-goodness Schwinn, a big hunka steel with 20" wheels and a front basket. When this one got stolen from school my dad and I rode around the neighborhood until we saw a kid on it. We followed him home. Dad confronted his disbelieving parents and we got the bike back. The same kid stole the bike twice more; the last time my Dad made it clear the police would knock on their door the next time. The thefts stopped.

All my first real 2-wheeled wrecks were on this bike, including my first head dive from showing off, and my first run-in with a car.

I remember riding this thing to school in all kinds of weather. In the 6th grade I even did this carrying a trombone by its case's handle looped over one handlebar.

Head dive

One day in the 3rd or 4th grade, Clifford and I were riding our bikes home from school, engaged in typical 9 year old boy type bike-riding activities - showing off, playing combat aircraft, playing cops & robbers, playing cowboys & Indians, trying new things.

After a particularly brutal chase of some sort, during which I'm pretty sure we killed each other at least a dozen times, he started weaving. I wove wilder. He wove insanely. I switched to a high-speed, fast wobble, which got out of control and I ended up doing a headstand at 5 or 10 MPH. Screaming, I jumped back on the bike, raced home, with Clifford trying to keep up with this madman, ran in and denied I had done anything. In fact, Clifford must have cut me off!

I wasn't a habitual liar. But somewhere between panic (blood gushing from my head!), pain, shock, and embarrassment I'd lost it. Mom put me on restriction from playing with "that kid" for life. It was several years before I admitted it had been my fault. Clifford forgave me, figured I had been out of it. I don't think my Mom ever really believed that, and last I knew, she still thought it was Clifford's fault. She did let us play together the last year I was in El Paso. We'd had to play together as outlaws til then. I lost a couple of years of excellent friendship because I couldn't accept responsibility for my own mistakes, and it would have served me right to have lost his friendship forever.

Meet the Truck

One summer when I was 8 or so, I was riding back home from a nearby 7-11 on my shiny, red Schwinn. Once I got away from traffic and onto the quiet street I lived on, I couldn't stand waiting, and started reading the comic I had just bought.

While riding the bike.

People almost never parked their cars on the street; everyone had ample driveways and carports. Unfortunately someone was washing a car and had moved their pickup into the street. Keeping the curb in my peripheral vision, I knew I was doing fine, and just as some new kid in Sgt. Rock's platoon, whom everyone had been ragging on, spotted an enemy in a tree, I ran Smack Dab into a bumper. Blam! Stop. Splat. The guy washing his car almost wet himself laughing.

I jumped on the bike and tore out for home, my face the color of my nice, red bicycle, to read my comic in the privacy of my bedroom.

Are They Real?

Late last night, on the long, dark, empty stretch of Ranch Road 620, I had an eerie experience.

There was this car. It appeared out of nowhere, about 100 yards behind me. I watched it for a while; it stayed the same distance back. (I'm good at judging speed and distance; it's one of the reasons I survived so many years on motorcycles in Atlanta and Austin.) Eventually I took my eyes off it for a couple of seconds. When I looked again, it was maybe 75 yards away.

I watched a while, up hill and down. No change for at least half a minute. I quit watching a few seconds. Fifty yards away. I did a couple more, shorter glances away. It got to within 25 yards. I kept it in at least my peripheral vision for a few minutes until it gave up and turned off, presumably in search of easier prey.

Weeping angel automobiles. They're out there. Keep your eyes open.

This Ain't My First Rodeo

Tonight my wife asked me to do something unusual. Very personal. Something intimate. I happily agreed to do it. I'm going to be bold and tell you about it. But first, let's go back to my hippie days, to explain why I was willing.

I had dropped out of college (and life in general as most of you know it) for a couple of quarters. But I still lived in a dorm and used the university's labs and computers. A couple of friends and I had found ways into various buildings to use terminals that were sitting idle nights and weekends. We programmed, learned, played games and chatted. I learned as much about software on my own as I did in some of my classes.

One of the EE building's glass doors was never locked properly. The bolt at the top would engage, but not fully, and the bottom bolt wouldn't engage at all. A good hard yank would flex the door and it would open.

It was a comfortable, if gray, Sunday afternoon about four o'clock. The only person around was a little, old lady walking her dog. I yanked on the door. It flexed as usual... but didn't open. I yanked again. No dice.

"Miles, maybe you shouldn't..."

"No problem." I yanked a lot harder. The door flexed. The glass got angry. "You won't like me when I'm angry."

The glass shattered. It was right. I didn't like it angry.

A large piece of glass, about 3/8" thick and more than a foot square was falling straight toward my left foot. My arm spazzed and ran interference. The glass deflected, leaving a ragged, two and a half inch gash in my arm. It (the glass) shattered gloriously and beautifully in the dull light, showering my bare toes with shards. Somehow they remained unscathed. But bright red drops fell from my arm.

As silence followed in the wake of the glass explosions, an old woman's voice shrieked a sing song, up and down pattern. "You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!"

"Yes, ma'am, I know." I held out my bleeding arm. "We're going to the doctor, OK?"

"You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!" Her small, beautifully coiffed poodle began barking a furious counterpoint. It was a rather nice polyrhythm but I wasn't properly appreciative at the time.

I shrugged and we began the two or three block trek toward the infirmary, me trying to stop the bleeding, one friend helpfully reminding me they told me not to yank on the door, another talking about the crazy old lady, the third joining in her refrain (possibly quoting the dog as well, but I don't recall). As we turned the corner a block away, the woman was still rooted to her spot, stuck in an infinite loop. Thankfully the sound fading with distance and obstacles.

While I had my old, student ID, I didn't have a currently stamped fee card for some reason I'm sure was unrelated to the fact I wasn't actually in school that quarter. At the infirmary the nurse at the desk explained that they couldn't help me without that card. But another nurse overrode her and let me see the doctor.

He had a lovely, cultured, London accent; he was "doing an across the pond residency exchange". I got two stitches, a roll of gauze, and a pressure bandage. He didn't press for details; I got the impression from things he said he might have some escapades in his past. In any event, he told me to come back after 10 days (or something like that) so he could check the stitches.

I was meticulous about cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic. I went through plenty of gauze and wrapped my arm in the pressure bandage to keep the seam immobile. It healed up nicely. When I went back, only the nurse who'd been overridden was on duty. She refused (properly, which I recognized even then) to let me see the doctor. But the same doctor was on duty, and he overheard. He called from the other room.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"It's the boy who cut his arm. He still doesn't have his fee card. I told him he has to produce one or leave."

"Oh, quite right! We can't have that. But it's too bad, because I'd love to have seen how it healed. But he needs to go to [the local charity hospital]. Or if it looks really good, I'd have told him he could always just take the sutures out himself. If I could see him. But of course, without a fee card, I can't."

I thanked the (somewhat irritated) nurse, said I understood she was just doing her job, and left. As I walked past a window, the doctor waved and smiled.

Back at the dorm, we pooled our resources. We had no hemostats. The only sharp knife we could find was my Bowie knife-- a bit large and unwieldy for the task. We had no scissors. We had needle nose pliers. We had fingernail clippers.

Since the wound was on my forearm, I couldn't wield both pliers and the clippers. My friends, it turned out, were a bit too squeamish to help. If you've ever looked at properly done sutures (these were beautiful) they're small and tight. There's not a lot to work with, and they're snug against the skin. At the same time, they do flex when you push against them... including down into the skin.

It took a half hour, working one handed with only a pair of nail clippers, but I finally got those sutures out! Without tearing the nicely knit skin. Without any new cuts. A little alcohol, a little antibiotic, a little gauze and a pressure bandage, and I was home free. Thank you, British doctor!

...

Fast forward to this evening. My wife had six sutures in her arm. (Her cuts did not involved breaking and entering. She exercised her constitutional right to have a highly trained doctor slice her open and sew her up.)

This time we had tweezers and small, sharp scissors. Only a couple of the sutures offered any real resistance, and I had them all out in well under ten minutes.

I'm still not a pro; I don't get paid for suture removal. (I did get a kiss, but I get those even when I'm not pulling unnatural substances from her epidermis). I'm not even ready for Synchronized Suture Removal at the Olympic games in two weeks. But I do feel all medical and stuff. And I am pretty sure if you need thread cut and pulled from your epidermis that I can accept payment in small quantities of chocolate without triggering a "tax event".

So, for all your suture removal needs, contact me. For the right endorsements-- or sponsorship to the Olympics-- I'll even waive the chocolate.