I was temporarily living south of Deming, NM, at an RV Park known as LOW-HI Ranch. The LOW stood for LONERS ON WHEELS, a singles organization. You have to be single and living the RV lifestyle to be a member. I was a member. Most everyone at the Park were members but occassionally some married folks would stop in and visit with us for a few days.
One day a large expensive RV pulled into the park. On the back of the rig mounted to the rear bumper was a heavy duty rack designed to haul a very large heavy motorcycle. It seemed funny to us that the bike strapped to that rack was an old and small Honda Trail 90. The rig belonged to a married couple in their mid 40's.
The rigs owner, call him Bill
, said he had to sell his big Honda Goldwing because of health reasons and just didnt feel right without some kind of cycle so had bought the little Trail 90. I had the only other motorcycle in the park, a Yamaha TW200, parked by my rig so he and I got to talking motorcycles. It turns out that he had ridden dirt cycles professionally in his younger days and also participated in the more difficult cross country rides untill his health prevented it. He explained that the main artery from his heart to all of his lower body had been replaced and also some of the artery's in both legs. The result was that he could not stand long without bad pains in his legs and could no longer stand to make long trips on the big Honda Goldwing that he and his wife had enjoyed so much. All he had left of a former lifestyle was a little Trail 90 to play with. You could see the longing in his eyes and hear it in his voice as he told us of his former cycling experiences.
LOW-HI Ranch sits on a 20 acre site. Ten acres were flat and reserved for park purposes, the other 10 acres had been, and still was, a gravel pit. That gravel pit was my playground. Me and my TW200 would get down in that pit doing whing-dings and whoop-e-do's over the huge old piles of sand and the dug out areas. It wasnt too bad for this old 68 year old guy with a bad lower back to handle cause most of the falls I had were in the sandpiles. Its not that Im reckless cause Im not. Most of the chances I take are pretty well calcalated with good chance of success.
My new friend Bill was impressed with my gravel pit playground and his moto-cross eyes immediately setteled on the deepest hole in that gravel pit. That thing was about 30 feet deep with sides allmost vertical on three sides. "You can climb out of that cant you?" "Not me", I replied. He insisted I could and I insisted there was no way. He got all exited, kept looking at the sides of that hole in the ground and insisted that my TW200 would make childs play out climbing those dirt walls. Maybe so, I told him, but not with me on it. He went beserk, yelling that, hell, he could climb out of that little old pit on his Trail 90. When I tried to smooth things out he got madder and said he would go get his bike and just show me. There were some people standing around watching and listening and now a small crowd began to form.
Bill ran the little Trail 90 down into that hole and circled it around and around the flat bottom of it to gain as much speed as he could, the little 90cc engine sounding like a mad bumblebee. Then he threw it at one wall of the pit. I would have bet good money, big money that he could not do it.....but he did. He almost lost it at the top lip of pit but managed to throw the bike forward and clear the pit.
Bill rode over to where I stood and said now it was my turn. I didnt wont to do it. Actually, I was scared stiff. My good buddies in the crowd were egging me on, most of them knowing I didnt have the guts to do it. My good friend and traveling companion was smiling at me and nodding yes. Crazy damn woman!!! Then Bill got right up in my face and sneered, "I double-damn-dare you." Now I had not heard that double damn dare you stuff since I was a kid, like some fifty some odd years ago. I was really shamed that a crippled up guy like him would have to dare me.
So I fired up the TW. Someone in the crowd was yelling encouragement while some one else was mumbling something about a crazy old ba#tard. Bill was yelling for me to circle the bottom for speed, to use second gear in the TW and aim to clear the top about 6 or 7 feet to the right of where he did cause there wasnt any lip there.
I followed Bills directions to a T cause I was too scared to do any thinking on my own. Circled the pit in second gear with the engine sound screaming off the pit walls, aimed it at the designated spot on the wall and let it rip. Nothing to it. The TW leaped up the wall with power to spare and I shoved the front whell over at the top and......was looking at a barbed wire fence. Now I had known that damned fence was there but under all the pressure had forgotten it and Bill didnt think of it when he advised me to exit to the right of where he did. I had to lay me and cycle down. The TW ended up under the fence but I didnt make it that far. Seems like the goat heads had slowed me down. The clothes on my left leg, my butt, my back and my left arm were pinned to my aching and skint body by about a thousand goatheads. There aint no stickers as murderous as goatheads stickers. All jokes aside, I was seriously punctured and skint up by goatheads.
My friend was still picking out goathead stickers hours later when I told her, "You giggle or snicker one more time and Im a-gonna backhand you." Knowing I was lying she busted out laughing...again....showing no respect for the wounded.
One day a large expensive RV pulled into the park. On the back of the rig mounted to the rear bumper was a heavy duty rack designed to haul a very large heavy motorcycle. It seemed funny to us that the bike strapped to that rack was an old and small Honda Trail 90. The rig belonged to a married couple in their mid 40's.
The rigs owner, call him Bill
, said he had to sell his big Honda Goldwing because of health reasons and just didnt feel right without some kind of cycle so had bought the little Trail 90. I had the only other motorcycle in the park, a Yamaha TW200, parked by my rig so he and I got to talking motorcycles. It turns out that he had ridden dirt cycles professionally in his younger days and also participated in the more difficult cross country rides untill his health prevented it. He explained that the main artery from his heart to all of his lower body had been replaced and also some of the artery's in both legs. The result was that he could not stand long without bad pains in his legs and could no longer stand to make long trips on the big Honda Goldwing that he and his wife had enjoyed so much. All he had left of a former lifestyle was a little Trail 90 to play with. You could see the longing in his eyes and hear it in his voice as he told us of his former cycling experiences.LOW-HI Ranch sits on a 20 acre site. Ten acres were flat and reserved for park purposes, the other 10 acres had been, and still was, a gravel pit. That gravel pit was my playground. Me and my TW200 would get down in that pit doing whing-dings and whoop-e-do's over the huge old piles of sand and the dug out areas. It wasnt too bad for this old 68 year old guy with a bad lower back to handle cause most of the falls I had were in the sandpiles. Its not that Im reckless cause Im not. Most of the chances I take are pretty well calcalated with good chance of success.
My new friend Bill was impressed with my gravel pit playground and his moto-cross eyes immediately setteled on the deepest hole in that gravel pit. That thing was about 30 feet deep with sides allmost vertical on three sides. "You can climb out of that cant you?" "Not me", I replied. He insisted I could and I insisted there was no way. He got all exited, kept looking at the sides of that hole in the ground and insisted that my TW200 would make childs play out climbing those dirt walls. Maybe so, I told him, but not with me on it. He went beserk, yelling that, hell, he could climb out of that little old pit on his Trail 90. When I tried to smooth things out he got madder and said he would go get his bike and just show me. There were some people standing around watching and listening and now a small crowd began to form.
Bill ran the little Trail 90 down into that hole and circled it around and around the flat bottom of it to gain as much speed as he could, the little 90cc engine sounding like a mad bumblebee. Then he threw it at one wall of the pit. I would have bet good money, big money that he could not do it.....but he did. He almost lost it at the top lip of pit but managed to throw the bike forward and clear the pit.
Bill rode over to where I stood and said now it was my turn. I didnt wont to do it. Actually, I was scared stiff. My good buddies in the crowd were egging me on, most of them knowing I didnt have the guts to do it. My good friend and traveling companion was smiling at me and nodding yes. Crazy damn woman!!! Then Bill got right up in my face and sneered, "I double-damn-dare you." Now I had not heard that double damn dare you stuff since I was a kid, like some fifty some odd years ago. I was really shamed that a crippled up guy like him would have to dare me.
So I fired up the TW. Someone in the crowd was yelling encouragement while some one else was mumbling something about a crazy old ba#tard. Bill was yelling for me to circle the bottom for speed, to use second gear in the TW and aim to clear the top about 6 or 7 feet to the right of where he did cause there wasnt any lip there.
I followed Bills directions to a T cause I was too scared to do any thinking on my own. Circled the pit in second gear with the engine sound screaming off the pit walls, aimed it at the designated spot on the wall and let it rip. Nothing to it. The TW leaped up the wall with power to spare and I shoved the front whell over at the top and......was looking at a barbed wire fence. Now I had known that damned fence was there but under all the pressure had forgotten it and Bill didnt think of it when he advised me to exit to the right of where he did. I had to lay me and cycle down. The TW ended up under the fence but I didnt make it that far. Seems like the goat heads had slowed me down. The clothes on my left leg, my butt, my back and my left arm were pinned to my aching and skint body by about a thousand goatheads. There aint no stickers as murderous as goatheads stickers. All jokes aside, I was seriously punctured and skint up by goatheads.
My friend was still picking out goathead stickers hours later when I told her, "You giggle or snicker one more time and Im a-gonna backhand you." Knowing I was lying she busted out laughing...again....showing no respect for the wounded.
Great story Jbird....you're always a fun read !
Yeah, they quit making them many years ago and Bill had bought his used from some old guy that had had it stored in his garage for years. If I had not seen him climb that wall on that little bike with my own eyeballs I would never have believed it. Check out the "Big" scooters now!! Full fledged full sized step through cycles up to 650cc, fully faired in, auto-transmissions. I had a Suzuki Bergman 400 but sold it last year, just wasnt riding it enough. Im down now to a little 50cc Yamaha scooter. Ive got a six mile loop of curvy and up and down roads behind my house that makes for fun riding even on a little shetland pony sized scooter. Some of the best and most popular motorcycle roads in Texas are just south of where I live. At Medina, Texas, 17 miles south of my house has a restaurant with a hitching rail out front marked for Harley Hawgs. Cycle riders park there and sit on the restaurant front porch and talk cycles. The road from my house to Medina is a twisty, curvy, little mountain road. One of the highlights of my life recently was to crawl on my trusty little 50cc steed (top speed 40mph on a flat stretch) on a weekend when the roads are filled with cyclists and go blasting down to Medina. I was hanging right in there with them on the curves but they lost me on the straight-a-ways. They were all friendly and waved but my big moment was to pull up and park at that Harley Hawg hitching rail. Some of them old Harley boys aint got no sense of humor.