Last Minute - The Lethbridge Journal

Submitted to the Lethbridge Journal
Bugs in my Teeth
Roaring up to our house on his unregistered,
single-seat dirt bike, the boy handed
me a battered, sweat-stained and smelly
helmet so large it swam about wildly on
my head. Avoiding authorities, we raced
through alleyways back to his family’s
home and motorcycle business near Hardieville,
then further north to what seemed
to me an impossibly steep coulee where
the emerging sport of ‘motorcycle hillclimbing’
events were held. The wild ride
through alleys, watching young riders on
the hill; it was thrilling. . . right up until I
seared the day into both my memory and
my calf by leaning against the hot motorcycle
muffler. I was a foolish young girl
dressed to “be seen,” not safe and had worn
shorts and sandals; never a stellar decision
for any motorcycle rider. The scar remained
for years along with a seed of passion that
had been planted in my mind.
My adolescent endorphins raged when
at age 13 I threw my leg over a motorcycle
seat that first time; a 14-year-old boy
I knew from school asked me to go for a
ride. Imagine, a boy wanted to spend time
with me; I was bursting with anticipation!
Thirty years later, it all became campfire
teasing when Brian and I were camping
with friends in the Kananaskis. My childhood
friend, that 14-year-old boy’s wife of
20-odd years, introduced me to her teenage
children as their dad’s “first ummm. .
. ahhh. . . girlfriend.” In someone’s stories
that single sunny afternoon we spent on
the hill had attained ‘girlfriend’ status but
without knowing, the boy had left a life-long passion for
two wheels, speed and independence in my young mind.
Soon after, Sunday afternoons would find Dad, my
brother and I at the hill watching what I considered
‘Kamikaze’ riders with deep-rooted death wishes. From
standing still they’d rev up their bikes to ear-splitting
levels, then release brake and clutch, spitting roost (dirt
and rocks) nine meters back, five meters high. Digging
deep and fighting gravity to remain straight, they’d battle
up the 60-degree slope hoping to launch over the top, 25
meters distant. Spectators perched like crows on hoods
of vehicles crowded together at the brink. Watching the
big bikes hurtling over the top, I feared riders would lose
control and smash right into us. My brother and I constantly
ignored Dad’s warnings not to fight for coveted
viewing position. Balanced on the center of the truck
hood the winner would tightly grip the hood ornament
between their thighs to avoid sliding off the sharp-sloped
hood as the losers constantly did. Finally attaining my
goal one day, my triumph was short-lived; grabbing me
by both ankles, my brother yanked me right off the hood.
My scream was audible even over the deafening bikes.
Blood streamed from the gash the hood ornament left;
pain was so distracting I couldn’t even enjoy the scathing
tongue lashing Dad rained down on my brother. . .
and hill climbing was off our Sunday calendar. Stupid
brother!
The bike was black, low to the ground, producing bodynumbing
vibration for the entire 40,000 kms we rode on
my ex’s ‘71 Harley Davidson. I rode behind; forced to
crane my neck sideways to see or speak (read YELL) but
also to avoid breaking my nose and teeth on his helmet
as he shifted gears. At the time, windshields on Harleys
were passé; the only economically viable face protectors
were plastic shields that snapped onto helmets, caught
wind gusts and tore at neck muscles. Foul insects, bees
and grasshoppers spread bitter yellow innards as they felt
like rocks exploding on our faces, teeth or helmets. Only
on occasion would they fly into a mouth or even the back
of a throat creating equally distasteful choices. Choice
1 - Cough to dislodge and expel critter, possibly triggering
involuntary chewing (eeeeuuuuwwww). Choice
2 - Attempt to swallow as wind-parched throat chokes
back rising bile, simultaneously attempting to disregard
scrambling feet or wings. Note to self: keep mouth shut.
Getting on the bike was challenging. The narrow, lightly
padded seat ended with two 16-cm tall chrome sissybars
(backrests) that often cut my legs when slinging
them over the sharp bars. Lacking saddlebags, for years
I carried a backpack crammed full of heavy tools and
personal gear. The extra 12 kilo’s together with constant
motor vibration dictated very frequent roadside ‘numbbum’
stops but I tried to look at the bright side. Balancing
weight of the pack against wind resistance
was an all-day sit-down abdominal workout
and you could bounce a basketball off
my belly.
Don’t misunderstand. B-C (before-children)
I loved adventuring through Alberta,
B.C., Washington and Montana whenever
possible. To me few things beat exploring
new pathways till you run out of day, setting
up a tent almost anywhere, then looking for
a restaurant with motorcycles parked out
front where we’d meet other bikers (ages
18 to 80) from across North America and
beyond. Bikers are their own international
nationality. Barring snobbish manufacturer
loyalties spawning verbal jabs, bikers are
extraordinarily non-judgmental. When
need arises, 99 per cent of bikers are quick
to provide mechanical assistance, food or
shelter, offering friendship and camaraderie
without question. Self proclaimed “one
percenters” are easily identifiable jacket
and patch-wearing gang members. Note
to self: be careful who you ask for tent site
advice. Sun-baked hills, much like our coulees,
escort the highway as you enter the
“bustling village” of Cache Creek B.C. Our
bartender hooted with laughter when we
told him where on those hills we’d set up,
on advice from the young man working at
the local gas stop. Choking back giggles he
described the multiple sacks of squirming
rattlesnakes he’d helped remove from that
very same area a day prior. Rather enjoying
our alarm, he calmly handed us keys to
his pick-up truck, calling over a few nearby
bikers who quickly helped us move to a more hospitable
site “before your tent fills up with rattlers,” he snickered.
Eventually purchasing my own BMW, I confirmed
firsthand the intense concentration required to stay alive
on two wheels. Strangely, some ‘cage’ (car) drivers don’t
see motorcycles. Perhaps accustomed to watching for
other four-wheel vehicles, some can have a blind spot
for bikes. I was once totally dumbfounded when a car
driver made direct eye contact with me, then immediately
pulled out to turn left, 12 meters in front of my approaching
motorcycle. Unfortunately bikers must ‘drive’
not only for themselves but for all others on the roads. In
a contest between me, then a 54-kilo rider and a 1,500-
kilo vehicle plus all that unforgiving pavement, I will
lose. . . badly. Even so, when circumstance allows I hope
to replace the motorcycle I enjoyed for years. That seed
of motorcycle passion planted so long ago still simmers
with my desire to explore. From where we live, within
just a few hours you can experience prairie, desert, foothill
and mountain landscapes. Investing a few hours
more, you can reach the west coast to ride incredible
twisting coastal highways with their stunning backdrops.
Today’s comfortable helmets and riding gear provide full
face and body protection and with motorcycle
windshields now both effective and stylish, experiencing
bugs in my teeth is just a fond (!!??!!) memory.
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4 LETHBRIDGE JOURNAL • WEEK OF MAY 11, 2012 • www.lethbridgejournal.ca