I Have the Money

It was fall of 1971. It had been five years since I saw that motorcycle on our after church drive. I continued to hear Mom moan at night, but I put it out of mind for the most part.

Each day after school, I pedaled my bicycle three miles to the Bar-W-Ranch. Even though my job working with the horses was back-breaking, I enjoyed it. Between the money I made at the ranch and my allowance, I finally saved enough to buy a motorcycle.

We were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing dinner. I handed Dad my bank deposit book. “Look, Dad. I’ve saved $175.67.”

He flipped through the small deposit booklet. “Scott, I’m impressed that you’ve saved so much.”

He wasn’t getting the point. “Dad! I can buy my motorcycle now.”

Mom looked up. “What?”

“Dad said I could get a motorcycle if I saved for it. Well, I did.”

“Scott, that was over five years ago!”

“So?”

“You’re fourteen years old. What are you going to do with a motorcycle?” Mom asked.

“Trails are everywhere. I won’t ride it on the road!”

Dad smiled. “Joanne, I said he could buy a motorcycle if he saved for it. I never thought he would, but he did.”

“Hub, this is crazy. He can’t have a motorcycle.”

I was mad at Mom for giving me a hard time. She knew I wanted a motorcycle, and that I was saving for it. I tried a few points to make my case, I’ll take care of it, I’ll pay for the gas, I’ll take Randy for rides, no luck.

Thinking back, Mom’s reaction was really not that surprising. She stopped going on our after church drives and was not there when I first saw that motorcycle. But that day I was pissed and entered full defensive mode.

“This isn’t fair! You said I could have a motorcycle if I saved. I saved my whole allowance and busted my ass working at the horse farm. You should see the wheelbarrows of horse shit I had to haul away!”

“Scott, watch your mouth.”

After a pause he said. “Let me talk to your mother.”

My stomach was in knots, all of my work wasted and my dreams lost. I stomped into my room, slammed the door, and lay face down on my bed.

After a bit, Dad walked in. “Okay, I’m not sure we can even get something for that price. We’ll go to Link’s and see.”

Thrilled, I turned around to a sitting position and looked at my father as he spoke.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“If we get it, no riding on the road.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s illegal. You have to be sixteen to drive in Pennsylvania.”

Dad put his arm around me. “I’m really proud of you, Scott.”

---

Dad, Randy, and I walked into Link’s Cycle Center. A man walked up and said, “My name’s Pete. How can I help you, folks?”

“We’re looking for a small motorcycle for my son, Scott. He’s fourteen, so he’ll only be riding it off-road on trails around our house,” Dad said.

Pete thought for a few seconds. “I’d recommend a Scrambler because it has a high mounted exhaust. This is an 80cc Yamaha.”

The motorcycle had a white gas tank and a green frame. The chrome fenders glistened in the sunlight. “Can I sit on it?”

“Sure can.”

I threw my leg over the seat and grabbed hold of the handlebars. I wasn’t sure what all the controls did. I pulled in what I later learned was the front brake and clutch. This was really going to happen. All those years working at the horse farm shoveling shit was paying off.

“Dad, this is great!”

Smiling, Dad said, “How much?”

“It lists for three hundred dollars, I can let it go for two seventy-five. It comes with a twelve-month warranty.”

Disappointment washed over me.

“All we’ve got is one seventy-five, that’s our limit,” Dad said.

Pete took a small notepad from his pocket and flipped through a few pages. He smiled. “I think I have something perfect. It’s not new, but it’s in good shape. Follow me.”

We walked over to the used section. “This is a 1967 80cc Suzuki street bike. It’s not a Scrambler, but should be okay as long as you stick to simple trails.”

The Suzuki was not as modern as the Yamaha. The paint was red and faded with low exhaust and fenders that weren't chrome. I sat on the bike. “Can we get this one, Dad?”

Dad wanted to take it for a test ride. Pete pushed the bike into the parking lot. Motorcycles at the time had two-stroke engines that produced a high-pitched exhaust note and lots of smoke.  

Pete explained to Dad where the clutch, shifter, throttle, and brakes were. A lever on the side of the motorcycle next to the foot-pegs known as a kick-starter was used to start the bike. Dad stood on one leg, pulled in the clutch, and jumped on the kick-starter. He twisted the throttle and after a few tries, the engine came to life in a wing-ding-ding sound and a cloud of smoke that had an oily smell.

Dad rode the bike around the parking lot a few times. He pulled up to us and turned off the engine. He had a broad smile on his face. “It seems to run well. How much?”

“One hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

Dad’s face got serious. “One fifty plus, two helmets, and you have a deal.”

He was an expert negotiator. It came so naturally to him. I always admired this skill he had.

Pete held out his hand. “Deal.” Turning to me, he said. “Young man, you just bought yourself a motorcycle.”

---

We loaded the bike into our station wagon and headed for home. I couldn’t wait to get there. I was thinking about all the trails I could ride on and how exciting my life would now be. It seemed to take forever. We finally arrived and unloaded my new motorcycle. Our driveway was about three football fields in length and paved, which gave me an ideal place to learn to ride.

I sat on my new bike wearing my helmet. Dad stood next to me and pointed out all the controls. I pulled in the clutch, got up on one leg, and jumped on the kick starter. The bike clattered to a smoky start. I knew the basics of a manual transmission because of the farm tractor we had. As I sat on the idling motorcycle, he said, “Go ahead, give it a try.”

I pulled in the clutch, clicked the shifter into first gear, twisted the throttle, and attempted to pull away. It lurched and stalled.

“Try again,” Dad said.

This time, I was successful. I rode up the driveway and shifted into second gear, then third. The sound of the engine rose and fell as I shifted. The acceleration pulled me back in the seat and my arms straightened out as I felt a rush of blood in my head. I came to the end of the driveway, stopped, and took a deep breath. It was better than I imagined. For the first time in my life, I felt this was something I could do well. I turned around and rode back to the house. Dad was standing in the driveway, grinning.

---

This is a scene from my upcoming book Motorcycle Stories - Finding forgiveness on the open road. It is the story of Scott, a young timid boy saving up and buying a motorcycle that becomes his lifelong love. He and his best friend Ross take motorcycle trips around the northeastern U. S. where Scott faces his fears and comes to grips with his drug addicted and abusive mother. For more about the book, please see https://www.scottocamb.com/ and subscribe to my Substack to stay informed about the book’s launch this fall.