Terror on Two Wheels

I WONDER IF Evel Knievel ever stops to consider how many deaths he's caused over the years. Or how many millions of bikes he's wrecked.

My parents learned early on that I should never be given a new bike. Once they saw what I did to my tricycle (I would pedal around the driveway to build up speed before slamming the trike into the garage door; I often spent entire afternoons doing this), I was only allowed hand-me-downs.

So I went through four trikes passed along by various neighbors before moving on to my first two-wheeler, which had previously belonged to my sister.

At first I thought it was a pretty cool bike, until the other kids on the block let me know in no uncertain terms that it was a "girl's bike," complete with banana seat and that deadly nutcrusher frame.

It didn't matter to me. Let them mock. Like millions of other kids across the country who were smitten with Knievel's antics in the 70s, my bike was used for stunts, not for anything so banal as "riding around." But I wasn't any better at the stunts than I was at simply keeping the thing balanced on two wheels.

My dad helped me construct a makeshift ramp out of a sheet of plywood and some bricks, and the results were disastrous, both to me and the bike. I never really got the hang of wheelies, no matter how much I practiced—the best I could do was either to blip the front tire off the ground for a second, or pull too hard and flip the whole thing over backward. I even made the terrible mistake once of offering to perform some of my death-defying bike stunts in front of all my fourth-grade classmates.

The teacher wanted everyone to perform in front of the class in some way. Some told jokes or did magic tricks. Some put on little skits. I chose to do my Arte Johnson impression, by falling off my bike repeatedly as they all stared. The teacher finally made me stop.

After a few short months of this sort of treatment, the bike was a scraped, dented, clanging wreck. But it still worked, and there were no other hand-me-downs available, so I didn't get a replacement.

In an odd way, though, despite my clear incompetence, my dad continued to encourage me. On Saturday afternoons, he'd drive me out to the Harley-Davidson dealership just outside of town. There I would wander wide-eyed around the showroom, coveting most everything—especially the Harley minibike. It was a perfect miniature of the larger models, but just the right size for a 10-year-old. I knew, though, the idea of owning it was out of the question.

I initially figured my dad said no because he knew I'd kill myself on the damn thing. But one day I came home from school to find another mini bike waiting for me.

When he wheeled it out of the garage, my heart sank. It wasn't a Harley—it was one of those cheap Indian bikes—a "do-it-yourself" kit with wheelbarrow tires and a lawnmower engine that my dad had screwed together in the garage.

My initial disappointment faded quickly, though, once I yanked the cord and the engine belched and puttered to life. Fuck it if it was a tiny, ugly machine—it worked. None of the neighborhood kids made fun of it the way that they made fun of my girl's bike, either. They knew if they did, they wouldn't get to ride it.

The only thing that did cause a few problems was the fact that my dad, while insisting that I wear a helmet, wouldn't buy me one. He told me I already had a perfectly good helmet in my closet. As a result, I had to wear my Chicago Bears' football helmet whenever I rode my new minibike. That always got me in trouble, usually with strangers who were much older and larger than I was.

There were plenty of places to ride near us—dirt trails, woods, even a big open field behind the house (I'm sure the neighbors were thrilled with that). I would take it out as often as I could and ride for hours, either until I ran out of gas, or the engine had burned my legs too badly.

As with the bicycle, I had more than my share of accidents—running into trees or attempting some awful stunt. I remember one summer afternoon speeding over a bump in our backyard, flying off the back of the minibike, then lying in the grass on my back, watching in horror as the bike continued to careen across the lawn straight toward the picnic table and the grill where a dozen people had gathered for a cookout.

Such scenes aside, it remained in pretty good shape and continued to run like a smelly, smoking dream until I finally grew too large to ride it without looking like I was part of some circus act.

I do have to wonder if my dad was trying to get me killed sometimes, however, because when I was a junior in high school, he gave me his old motor scooter.

It was a fluorescent-orange machine of dubious make. (My dad had a thing about orange at the time—orange jackets, an orange helmet, orange scooter. I'm not sure why.) After giving me a quick operational rundown, he let me go. And even though it was something I'd be taking out into traffic, he forgot all about the "helmet" business he'd been so adamant about with the mini bike.

I rode it to work, to the store, to friends' houses. It made things much easier on everyone. Basically I think it was given to me because they'd given my sister a car when she was in high school, and I knew full well they dared not give me one. There was only so much damage I could do with a scooter.

Since there was (obviously) no stereo, in proper dork fashion I strapped a tape player to the back of the scooter with a couple bungee cords and blasted Wagner as I rode around town. Nobody ever thought that was quite as funny as I did.

People in cars would scream "faggot" as they passed, but that happened when I was walking, too. A couple of them threw beer cans at me. For the most part though, I remained accident-free until one late spring night when I was 17.

I was driving home from my friend Steve's place at about 11. The night blindness had pretty well taken hold by this time, but it was a three-mile straightaway from his house to mine, with very little traffic. I figured if I focused on the streetlights in the distance, I'd be just fine.

About a third of the way home, I heard a car coming up behind me, so I moved a little to the right and slowed a touch to let them pass.

As they passed me, though, I heard a woman's voice yelling something.

"What?" I yelled back.

"Your papers!" she shouted. "You're losing your papers!"

I knew immediately what she meant—jammed into the scooter's rear baskets were several folders filled with schoolwork.

Two things happened simultaneously. First, I suddenly realized that I was in the middle of a construction site, surrounded by sawhorses, heavy machinery and torn-up asphalt. Second, I automatically turned my head back to look at my fast-disappearing homework.

Moments later, I once again found myself lying on my back, watching as my motorbike continued to roll. Except this time, instead of careening toward a picnic, it was slowly rolling straight toward me. There was nothing I could do.

Fortunately, it clattered over on its side a few inches shy of my head.

The people who'd been yelling at me stopped to see if I was okay, and a quick inventory revealed I was, more or less. My clothes were torn, my knees had been ripped open, my back hurt and I was a little dazed, but apart from that, yeah, I'd seen worse. And the scooter was still running.

I thanked them and watched them drive away, took another look behind me for any more oncoming cars, then climbed back on my orange scooter and slowly limped home.

That was the last vehicle I would ever call my own. o