This is an excerpt from my book Motorcycle Stories - Finding forgiveness on the open road. It takes place soon after I saved up the money to purchase my first motorcycle.
“Scott, my minibike’s on fire!”
It was the fall of 1971 and I was fourteen years old. It had been five years since I saw a motorcycle for sale on an after church drive and saved a little over one-hundred and seventy-five dollars for the purchase of a ratty faded red 1965 80cc Suzuki.
About a month after this purchase, my brother Randy got a mini-bike. Most mini-bikes of that time were little more than a frame with a lawnmower engine, small wheels and handlebars. This was different. It was a scaled down motorcycle with a true motorcycle engine and transmission. It was perfect for a ten-year-old kid and would teach Randy how to ride a real motorcycle.
As we were riding on a trail one Saturday morning, I glanced at my watch and remembered that Spiderman was going to start in fifteen minutes. It was my favorite Saturday morning cartoon, and I didn’t want to miss it. I pulled up next to Randy, perched on his little bike.
“I’m going to watch Spiderman,” I told him.
Smiling, he said, “Okay, see you later,” and rode away, up the trail in a cloud of dust.
I was in our basement family room, sitting cross-legged one foot away from the TV. Flying into the sky, the Vulture released his grip on Spiderman.
As Spiderman fell, he said, “It’s not the fall that bothers me, it’s the sudden stop I don’t care for.”
That was when Randy burst into the room in tears.
I turned and looked at him, “On fire, what the hell happened?”
Randy and I ran into the front room of our basement. I noticed a bucket next to an aquarium. I grabbed it, shoved it in the washbasin, and turned on the water.
“Hurry!” Randy shouted.
Like a watched pot, it took forever to fill. At the halfway point, I turned off the water and grabbed the bucket.
“Enough!” I yelled.
Randy and I ran out the door. I could see the minibike on its side with a flicker of yellow flame and a plume of smoke. I approached it and paused. There was a gallon of gas in the tank just above the fire. I dumped the water on the minibike. Besides the water, blue and red gravel from the aquarium landed on my target. There was a sizzling sound and white smoke. The fire was out!
The next day, we brought the minibike to a repair shop. The only damage was the fuel line from the gas tank to the carburetor that had melted. Turns out, the carburetor was mis-adjusted, it was spitting gas into a small recess in the engine case and the heat from the engine caused it to ignite. It cost five dollars for the repair.
This was the beginning of many adventures I had with motorcycles. They helped me cope with my mother, who was addicted to prescription drugs. My motorcycles and the trips I took up and down the eastern mountain roads of the US were a welcome release for this troubled relationship.
I hope you enjoyed reading Minibike Fire. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.
You can read more about my book here and see links to other scenes as well. Also, please consider subscribing to my Substack. I tell unusual stories about growing up in a small town, the great outdoors, hiking, camping, and motorcycles.
I love your book,Scott. Such a beautiful balance between open road adventure and major family drama. Thanks for putting this chapter up! Two comments:
1. One of the best opening likes, ever.
2. A five dollar motor cycle repair! ha ha ha ha What year was that? Probably the same year you could drive your VW into a gas station and say, "Give me a buck's worth." And get three gallons.