The Black Beast
Or
Why I Don't Ride
Motorcycles
by Dave Estep
August, 1977, San Diego
Becky walked into the Microprocessor Lab and stood in front of the wire-wrap
bench staring quietly at me as I check a prototype board for a few seconds
before talking. She breaks the silence by asking me a question, "Do
you know how to ride a motorcycle?" "Sure," I reply.
"Why do you ask?"
"My boyfriend was
arrested last night and someone needs to ride his motorcycle from where he was
arrested to the house. Do you mind?" "No problem.
When do you want to do this," I ask. "During lunch, if it is
okay," she smiles.
"What kind of motorcycle is it," I ask, while twisting the wire
around a pin with the electric wire-wrap machine. "It's a Triumph
650. You know how to ride one of those don't you?" "Sure,
I'll meet you down stairs in the parking lot at lunch," I reply, and return
my attention to the wire-wrap board.
"Thanks a lot, I wasn't sure if anyone would do it," she says, patting
me on the shoulder as she walks out.
Standing in the basement parking lot of Computer Sciences Corporation, I smoked
a cigarette while waiting for Becky. Soon after, she drives up in her
little Subaru pickup thingy and off we go to pick up the motorcycle.
As we arrive in the parking lot of a nearby pool hall, I see a black and chrome
Triumph 650 parked along the side of the small brick building. I climb out
of the Subaru and approach the gleaming black bike, and immediately throw my leg
over it and straighten it upright while straddling it. "Do you have
the keys," I ask, as I familiarize myself with the controls.
I turn the key and immediately it comes alive, rumbling and vibrating. I
blip the throttle a couple of times, as I push the kickstand back. I walk
the bike backwards and pull the clutch control, while finding first with the toe
of my shoe.
I pull away cautiously, finding the clutch twitchy as the bike and I cross the
road and accelerate toward the main intersection. At this time of day, and
during lunchtime, the traffic in this part of San Diego is very dense. The
street has three lanes in both directions, moving at forty-five miles per hour.
I blip the throttle several times for no damn reason, irritating everyone at the
intersection. (This is the first rule of operation, in the owner's manual,
under
motorcycle operating instructions).
Sinister gremlins began their destructive work underneath me. First, the
throttle return spring was broken and secondly the clutch cable was binding,
causing the clutch to engage at different points and making it difficult to
engage.
I was in front of the right lane at the light, when on the fifth or sixth
throttle blip, the throttle stayed wide open and like an idiot, I relaxed my
hand on the clutch, just a little bit, and the clutch dumped.
Within about a half of a second the angry black steed stood on its rear tire,
growling at full throttle while I held onto it. The traffic going east and
west was congested with lunch traffic, as Dave and the 650 breached the six
lanes of traffic on one wheel.
I held onto the bars for
dear life, with my body flapping in the wind like a flag. I went across
that intersection in the middle of that traffic without hitting one car. I
mustered the strength to move against the g-forces to twist the throttle to
idle. The front wheel returned to the pavement, as I fell across the tank
and seat in a prone position.
I applied the brake and came to a stop. I rolled off the bike and stood
looking back at the moving stream of traffic, as I sat it on its
kickstand. During that whole experience, the cross traffic didn't even
slow down. I couldn't believe that no one hit me when I crossed that
street.
"You @%#!, you tried to kill me," I said, looking at the bike as I
walked around it several times, wondering if I should leave it beside the curb
and walk back on foot. I sat on the grass near the curb for a few minutes,
gathering my courage to climb back on and drive another thirty-five miles on
that evil black and chrome death wish. (At least it would be freeway miles).
Not allowing this black
horse to throw me mentally, I climb back on and continue under caution toward
the freeway on-ramp. I arrived about a half an hour later at Becky and
John's house and turned off the beast and dismounted. I stood there, with
the wrinkles in my face pushed behind my head, my hair stood straight back
frozen in position, my skin felt sand blasted and my lips stuck to my dry teeth
in a semi-permanent smile as my body still vibrated several minutes after.
"John said thanks and that you can borrow the bike anytime you want to go
riding," she said smiling. I looked at her like she was crazy and
quietly replied, "I've had about all the motorcycle riding I can
stand."
To this day, I remain a four-wheel kind of guy.
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