April 22nd and for the second day in a row I have awakened to the sight of snow on the ground. I despise the sight.
It’s a cruel twist of fate. Now that I have entered the realm of retirement, I must continue to submit to the whims of nature. Living in the North East, as well as other points in the continental U.S., one must plan life’s events around the weather. Six months of winters cruelty followed by six months of summers fickle blessings.
The road calls to me, teasing me, tempting me with her freedom. She is my Sirens song, and I am her Odysseus. Although, unlike Odysseus, I am more often than not, submitting to her call. She is my calm and my escape. She is my mistress in whose arms I feel secure. She calls me in many ways, and I remember a time when her call was too strong to resist.
It was the dawn of my two-wheeled awaking, a time some forty-seven years past. A movie had debut about the joys of two wheeled adventure. A movie called “On Any Sunday”.
That movie was a documentary of sorts. Though it mostly told of the racing aspect of motorcycles, it portrayed the joys and excitement of ridding. It showed the natural progression from peddle power to two-wheeled horsepower. That movie, and the theaters that showed it, were the Mecca of all young biker wanna’ be’s. If you were to be any type of biker, this movie was mandatory.
As I recall, I had just got my driver’s license some time previous and had graduated from my “Cinderella” license (so called because the licensee had to be off the road by midnight) to my adult status of driving.
I was sitting at home looking for any excuse to borrow the family car when I came across the showings at the local movie theaters in the newspaper. There it was! The movie all young bikers must see. The Sermon on the Mount. “On Any Sunday” was playing at the drive-in that Saturday evening! I must go. I was called to go.
I was hyperventilating as I tried to explain to my Dad the importance of my attendance to this sermon and the need to borrow the car to attend the holy event.
After promising to put the amount of gas used back into the car and to come home right after the movie was over, I got a hesitant “OK, But I don’t want a bunch of kids in the car!” I told Dad it would be just myself and my buddy Wizard.
I was having a hard time breathing and heart palpitations as I dialed Wiz’s number. After he answered my call, I told him of the holy event about to take place that night.
“All right!” he exclaimed as he blew out my ear drum on the other end of the line. “But how are we going to get there?” I told him I had the car, and I would be down to pick him up. “Bring some money for gas “‘cause we gott’a put back in the car what we use.”
(At the time, Dad had a 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass S with a 350 cubic inch engine and a four-barrel carburetor that would make an appetizer out of a gallon of gas. The car was a two door with each of the doors about half the length of the car itself and each weighing at least 500 pounds. The car was also equipped with the government mandated five mile an hour bumpers the protruded from the front and back a good six inches or more. It was a boat on four wheels, and it was Dad’s baby. But oh, that boat would go. (Please don’t ask me how I know.) I have a feeling Dad was a latent motorhead and this car would be his last hurrah as he was the same age as I am now, and would I give a car like that to a sixteen-year-old kid?)
I arrived at Wiz’s house about fifteen minutes later and parked at the Post Office parking lot across the street and got out to roust him about lest we be late.
Together we scraped up about five or six bucks or so. It was just enough to get us into the drive-in and a couple of gallons of gas at fifty cents per gallon. There was no money left for snacks, but who could eat anything at a spiritual gathering such as this?
I told Wiz to wait at the sidewalk while I back the car out of the parking lot, and I would pick him up.
In my excited state of mind, I failed to look long enough both ways as I was backing out of the Post Office parking lot. The lot was full, and my visibility was obscured. I felt a hard “thud” and I heard metal screeching. I had backed into an on-coming car. But it was just not any car. It was another Oldsmobile. A Vista Cruiser! It was the clash of the titans! If Dad’s car was a boat, this car was a yacht. A Vista Cruiser was a station wagon and probably the largest production car on the road to that date and I took that car on the biggest part of that giant, the rear quarter panel.
(For those too young to know what a station wagon was, think of it as the SUV of the day except without the high ground clearance.)
I was sick, scared, and shaking as I got out of Dad’s car to examine the damages and exchange information.
The jousting match between the two behemoths resulted in the smaller competitor suffering the least damage to which I was, at least somewhat, relieved. A broken taillight and some minor paint damage to the rear protruding bumper was all Dad’s car suffered. The colossal competitor of my opponent however was the looser of the joust. The entire rear quarter panel was caved in and the woodgrain and chrome trim laid on the road in silent surrender. I was done. I had wrecked Dad’s car.
The other driver turned out to be a friend of my Dad’s and was understanding and kind enough to follow me home and helped to explain to Dad that the parking lot was full at the time and my visibility was blocked.
It was some time before I could drive Dad’s car again and another thirty some years before I ever saw the movie “On Any Sunday”. It was on late one night on TV.
I now have that movie on DVD and I watch it from time to time and remember that day, the crash, and my departed friend. Though now far outdated in the types and style of motorcycles, it still holds true to the joy and excitement two wheeled adventure can bring.
Long Lonesome Highway 