by Liam Kloef

Created on: January 08, 2009

Many, many years ago, when I was young and foolish, I took what became my only spin on a motorcycle. It was one of those high-powered dirt bikes or trail bikes that were popular 30-plus years ago.

I had the occasion to travel to California and in fact went there during the week I should have been attending my college graduation ceremonies. Fortunately, I grew up in a family that disenthused me for ceremonies of any kind, and no one was shocked or hurt when I took off with some acquaintances for the West Coast.

One of my friends and I traveled to San Jose to visit her sister-in-law andher estranged husband! As far as I knew, she and hubby were amiable enough, although you may conclude otherwise. Sister-in-law's family had these trail bikes, and hubby suggested we go riding. Sounds like the makings of a D-grade horror movie, doesn't it?

Those were the days before helmets and indeed any other kind of protective gear were lawful necessity, and after I got some perfunctory instruction on acceleration and braking, off we went, into a valley and an orchard. There is a recurring image of tree branches brushing my arms as I zipped between the orchard rows: the speedometer read 45 mph, and I was only in third gear on a four-speed bike.

Out of the orchard we flew, up and over a hill, where a boulder poking out of the ground flipped the bike and me. I remember the sizzle of the rear tire between my legs as I went airborne and came down with the thump on that same boulder. Estranged hubby stood there grinning while I babbled on, to avoid passing out.

After the green, shimmering hue around everything vanished, I picked up the bike; hopped back on; gunned her; and, without any encouragement, repeated the same event: including landing on the same boulder and babbling the same nonsense through that same greenish hue. (All this is the by-product of a family trait called "just plain stubborn.") Evidently, estranged hubby concluded that if I weren't dead yet, I never would be, and we chugged safely back to his sister's.

I was long gone from California by the time the aches, pains, and severely bruised groin faded, and through no real effort on my part that was the last time I was on a cycle. It's not fear, dread, or moral suasion that's kept me off bikes: I've just never met any more estranged husbands that have offered me rides, the yardstick by which I learned to measure my desire for foolishness and mad riding against the wind.

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